I've been trying to put my finger on why I enjoy so much, spiritually speaking, the prison bible class I lead and the worship over at Freedom Fellowship.

Talking with Jana the other day I think I figured it out. I said to her, "I like to be in places where the gospel matters."

I don't want to be harsh or judgmental, but sometimes I get the sense that the gospel just doesn't matter that much to a lot middle-class and upper-class Christians.

Two example of this.

When the gospel doesn't matter Christians tend to default to the dominant language of the American culture: consumerism. That is, people think about church in relation to their likes and dislikes. They like this and they don't like that. They prefer this and they don't prefer that.

In my circles you hear a lot of this in relation to the worship service and the preaching. Basically expressing likes and dislikes about what happens on Sunday morning.

I've grown tired of this sort of thing. Not sick and tired. Not angry tired. Just weary tired. To be sure there are things I like and dislike about our church. There are things, if I were in charge, that I'd change. But I've grown weary of using this filter for church and the spiritual life. I'm tired of thinking about the Kingdom through the prism of my preferences.

The other indication that the gospel doesn't matter is over-intellectualizing. I'm a college professor. It's my job to over-intellectualize. And I'm pretty damn good at it. I'm one of the best at our church in making biblical topics "interesting." That talent for finding the "interesting" angle is what gives this blog the variety and freshness it has.

But I'm getting weary of being interesting. (Don't worry, I'm not talking about this blog. I'm talking about church life.) The opposite of interesting is boring. I'm growing tired of putting that filter over my spiritual life and church life, sorting what bores me from what interests me.

These filters--preferences and boredom--fall away when I'm in the prison or speaking at Freedom. These audiences are simply trying to survive. They have a different agenda in listening for the Word of God. They don't don't use the language of liking or not liking. It's not a filter they use. They also don't come to hear something interesting, intellectually speaking.

In the prison and at Freedom the gospel isn't a hobby, or a book club, or a form of entertainment. 

For them, the gospel matters.

...

(Picture note. A few weeks ago a strong storm blew into town on a Monday night with winds getting up near 70 miles per hour. Herb and I were in the middle of our study at the prison. With the possibility of the facility losing power we had to stop and the men had to get back to their cellblocks. The storm and wind were so bad Herb and I waited in the guardhouse until it blew over. I waited patiently and read the latest edition of The Catholic Worker which one of the chaplains subscribes to. When the storm passed we walked out to our cars under sunlight and a huge rainbow. I snapped a shot of it with my phone. Incidentally, as you can see, it was a huge--horizon to horizon--double rainbow. Yes, I did film it with the phone but, sad to say, I didn't go all "double rainbow" on it.

I've given the picture the title "Double Rainbow over Barbed Wire.")

I wanted to make you aware of Amy Frykholm's review of Unclean for The Christian Century. Amy's review opens with this provocative and autobiographical story:

The man stumbled into the Sunday morning service drunk. He was bleeding heavily from his hand and left bloody handprints on the door and then on the pew. Just as he arrived, we were gathering at the altar for the Eucharist. Before anyone had time to react, he was standing with us at the altar to receive the sacrament...

One of the more difficult passages in the gospels is Jesus's exchange with the Syro-Phoenician woman. Specifically, many have puzzled over Jesus's calling the Gentiles "dogs." The story from Mark:

Mark 7.24-30
Jesus left that place and went to the vicinity of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know it; yet he could not keep his presence secret. In fact, as soon as she heard about him, a woman whose little daughter was possessed by an impure spirit came and fell at his feet. The woman was a Greek, born in Syrian Phoenicia. She begged Jesus to drive the demon out of her daughter.

“First let the children eat all they want,” he told her, “for it is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.”

“Lord,” she replied, “even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

Then he told her, “For such a reply, you may go; the demon has left your daughter.”

She went home and found her child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.

There is little doubt that Jesus privileges his mission to Israel. Jesus is, after all, the Messiah of Israel, the culmination of the story of Israel for the sake of the world. However, throughout Jesus's ministry we see him bring the Kingdom into the lives of Gentiles, a sign of Jesus's vision of the universal vocation of the Messiah.

What grates in the story of the Syro-Phoenician woman isn't any of this but the racial epithet "dogs." Did Jesus consider the Gentiles "dogs"?

There have been a variety of responses to this query. Some point to Jesus's use of the diminutive for dogs--"little dogs" or "puppies." That softens things a bit. Which leads to perhaps the most common interpretation, that Jesus was being ironic or playful with the woman to test her and the assumptions of the onlooking disciples.

I'm okay with that interpretation, but I was struck the other day reading a different interpretation in Ched Myers's commentary on Mark Binding the Strong Man.

Myers first points to the social location of the woman. As a Gentile and a woman she's pretty far down on the power structure, the bottom really. Because of this the woman's insistence and pushing on Jesus is socially transgressive. She's not being polite or staying in her place. Even when Jesus tries to put her in her place. 

But here's the remarkable thing. This Gentile woman--this outcast of society--is the only person in human history who ever bested Jesus in an argument. Jesus, we know, was a darn good debater and wins every exchange recounted in the gospels. Except one. Jesus loses once.

This fact is highlighted when we note that the woman's request--healing for her daughter--is granted not on the basis of faith but on the basis of her argument. Jesus says, "For such a reply..."

What's going on with all this? Why does Mark show us Jesus losing an argument to a Gentile women when we've seen Jesus best the best theological minds in Israel (from the time he was twelve no less)?

Here's Myers's take: "This drama represents another example of status-equalization. Jesus allows himself to be "shamed" (becoming "least") in order to include this pagan woman in the new community of the kingdom." Myers sees in this a foreshadowing of the "shaming" of Israel when the Gentiles are brought into the Kingdom: "[S]o too Judaism will have to suffer the indignity of redefining its group boundaries (collective honor) in order to realize that gentiles are now welcomed as equals."

Although we could go too far with all this, I find this line of thinking very interesting. Jesus allows the Messiah to be shamed by the "least of these." And not because of their faith, but because of a forthright argument about fairness and equality. The Messiah is convinced and "shamed" by this argument and responds by opening up the Kingdom to all.

No doubt many readers right now are getting Christologically nervous. The idea of Jesus being "shamed" or losing an argument is just too much for their imaginations. For the anxious amongst us, I'm not going to force this interpretation upon you. Take a deep breath. We're in midrash mode here.

And my midrash is this.

If Jesus is willing to be shamed by an argument--not faith!--for simple fairness coming from the margins, is the church willing to undergo a similar shaming for the sake of expanding the Kingdom?

Jana and I were walking to the Dairy Queen near our house the other evening and we had a talk about works based righteousness and our efforts as self-justification.

Jana started by talking about the propensity we have to name drop. I'm sure you've been around this sort of behavior. People sharing, in a seemingly casual but transparently calculated way, how they know so-and-so or how they spent time with so-and-so. And these so-and-sos aren't bums on the street. Doesn't work that way. These so-and-sos are luminaries, celebrities, and big shots. Names. Big names. And the bigger the name the better. 

Commenting on this, I noted how this sort of behavior functions as a form of self-justification, a form of works based righteousness. That is, by attaching my name to a bigger name some of the glow of celebrity rubs off on me leading to a heightened sense of self-esteem, the feeling that I somehow matter more compared to others. My existence is somehow justified by establishing this connection with a bigger name. If I know someone the culture deems significant then I must be a bit more significant if I know such people. So we name drop.

There's a biblical term for this sort of behavior. Idolatry. Idolatry is grasping at significance by attaching your life's meaning to another created thing--something that, despite its luster, is as subject to death as you are. Saint Paul would describe name dropping as "worshiping the creature instead of the Creator."

Jana and I went on to talk about an acquaintance of ours who had recently lost a high-status position (though not their job). We were talking about the existential vertigo and vacuum this person was experiencing. Who are we in the eyes of others if they cannot see us through this high-status role/title/position? Such roles, positions and titles give our life meaning and significance. These things seem to justify our existence.

It's the same thing, Jana and I noted, with the name dropping. Attaching your life's significance to a created thing--a position, a title. Again, it's a form of self-justification and works based righteousness. I matter because of the stuff that I do, the stuff that I accomplish, or the people who I know.

I think this is the deep issue the Apostle Paul was speaking to in his letters. We tend to think of works based righteousness in moral terms. That we could be "good enough" to earn our way into heaven. No doubt moral performance can be a part of this. But few of us feel that we are saints enough to make such a claim. Despite what the "faith alone" preachers say, moral forms of works based righteousness aren't all that common, if they exist at all. I've never encountered a soul who felt they were good enough to merit heaven.

But we do name drop. We do attach ourselves to titles and positions. And in each of these cases we are trying to justify our existence, to prove that we matter, to give evidence that we are significant. This is the sickness I think Paul was really after.

Philippians 3.4b-8
If someone else thinks they have reasons to put confidence in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; in regard to the law, a Pharisee; as for zeal, persecuting the church; as for righteousness based on the law, faultless.

But whatever were gains to me I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ...

We tend to read Paul's list through a moral lens. But I think that is missing the point. True, Paul was proud of being moral. But his morality wasn't really about morality. It was about feeling superior to fellow Jews who weren't as righteous and zealous as he was. Let alone how he morally compared to debauched Gentiles. Being a Jew and a Pharisee was a status symbol, a way to feel significant, a way to matter, a way to feel good about oneself in relation to others. Paul could name drop with the best of us.

But he came to consider it all garbage. Paul exited the self-justification game. He gave up giving reasons as to why his life mattered. It became okay for Paul for you to think him a loser. Paul no longer had to name drop. Or feel ashamed in the face of a job demotion.

Where did this freedom come from? How did Paul leave the neurotic rat race behind?

Paul gave up trying to justify himself. Paul only claimed Christ.

That is justification enough.

Do you want to be a saint?

How you answer that question is probably a pretty good indication about what Christian tradition you hail from.

If you are a Protestant the question makes no sense. Do I want to be a saint? I'm already a saint! All Christians are saints, right?

But if you are a Catholic then the question makes a lot of sense. Not every Catholic is a saint. Sainthood is aspirational in Catholicism, something attained after a lifetime of spiritual excellence.

To be sure, if you want to be a saint in Catholicism we might wonder about why that might be the case. Such aspirations might not be healthy and good. Sainthood probably shouldn't be a behavioral goal. God should be the goal, sainthood should be a by-product, even an afterthought.

Regardless, there is a difference between Protestantism and Catholicism in this regard. In Protestantism everybody is a saint. In Catholicism sainthood it is something the church might aspire to.

The reason I'm bringing this up is that I wonder if Protestantism doesn't suffer from its democratization of sainthood. Because if everyone is a saint then no one is a saint, at least as Catholics see it. No one steps forward or is put forward as a moral and spiritual exemplar that we might emulate.

More, Protestants don't see holiness as an aspirational goal. Few, if any, Protestants strive to be more holy. But Catholics think like this. Not all Catholics of course, but striving after holiness is a part of the Catholic experience. By contrast, as a Protestant I don't think I've ever woke up wondering how I might become more holy. And if I asked people at my church if they were trying to be more holy I figure I'd get a lot of odd looks.

At the end of the Theology and Peace conference the Plenary speakers (btw, what does "plenary" mean anyway?) offered some reflections on the conference.

Chris Haw, co-author of Jesus for President and a recent convert to Catholicism, raised some points about closed versus open communion. (I had a blast talking with Chris about Catholicism. He made some very powerful arguments that I'm still chewing on.)

As I've written about before, I'm a proponent of open communion. Chris, coming from his Catholic perspective, is a proponent of closed communion. In the closing session Chris made the comment that if we offered the Eucharist to everyone we'd be implicitly sacralizing and endorsing violence as the body and blood of Jesus would be being given to murderers, rapists, domestic abusers, etc. Chris said, citing William Cavanaugh, that the Eucharist must be used to draw a boundary.

I definitely see Chris's point. My response, however, is this:

The body and blood of Jesus has already been given to murderers, rapists, and domestic abusers.

It's no good trying to protect the body and blood of Jesus from being wasted in this way. Jesus has already wasted it. Jesus offered up his body and blood for the whole world while we were yet sinners. That ship has already sailed. Thus, it makes no sense, in my mind, for the church to protect behind a wall something that Jesus has already given away in a crazy, irrational and wasteful act of self-giving.

And nothing changes if you think, like Catholics do, that in the Eucharist the actual (if mystical) blood and body of Christ are present. Because the actual body and blood of Jesus was given away on Golgotha, with no church drawing a boundary and monitoring access. The actual body and blood of Jesus--then and now--will always be wasted.

This is why closed communion makes no sense to me. What are we protecting? What fantasy has gripped the church to make her think that she could prevent the blood and body of Jesus from being wasted on sinners?

Well folks, I'm sorry, it's too late for those illusions. Jesus pulled the trigger on that a long time ago, foolishly wasting himself on the world.

And the church, try as she might, can't stop that from happening.

...

I wrote this post two weeks ago. Waking up this morning and reading it I'm feeling uncomfortable with it. Particularly given the conversation in the comment thread from yesterday about domestic abuse.

To clarify some, I hope no one would think I'm arguing that because Jesus died for sinners like "murderers, rapists, and domestic abusers" that those actions can be passed over lightly. And there is a powerful criticism, the one Chris made, that says if you are welcoming such people to the table you are tacitly endorsing their sin and violence, giving them a free pass. And I definitely see that point.

My argument here is less about welcoming perpetrators to the table than dwelling on this notion of waste, the feeling I often get from some that the church's duty in the Eucharist is to prevent the body and blood of Jesus from being wasted on the undeserving. But as I argue above, if Jesus died for us while we were yet sinners the body and blood of Jesus has already been wasted in the most extreme way imaginable. True, we might do different things in closed and open communion to address the violence and evil in our midst, but I don't think an argument about waste can be the leading edge of those discussions as God has already, in Jesus, been wasted upon us.

During dinner on the first day of the Theology and Peace conference my table was having a conversation about how victims tend to create more victims. I talked a bit about this in my post on Monday when I pointed to James Hunter's analysis regarding narratives of injury in American political discourse, how everyone is rushing to claim the position of victim in order to use moral leverage against opponents. In short, victims create more victims.

This is the argument made by social psychologist Ray Baumeister in his book Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty. In this book Baumeister takes on what he calls "the myth of pure evil." According to Baumeister we tend to think that evil is produced by sociopathic sadists. But if you really look at the violence in the world you quickly realize that very little of it is caused by purely evil people. The vast majority of violence comes from normal people like you and I. Consequently, if we stay fascinated by the myth of pure evil, and Hollywood helps greatly with this, we'll never come to grips with where violence comes from.

So where does violence come from?

Well, one of the places violence comes from is from victims. Again, victims create more victims.

Take, as the paradigmatic case, Nazi Germany. No doubt Hitler was a sadist. But Hitler couldn't kill six million people all by himself. Hitler needed the cooperation of his Christian nation. How'd he get that cooperation? Well, he got it because Germany felt victimized in the aftermath of World War I. That narrative of injury, to apply James Hunter's term, allowed for the rise of the National Socialist Party.

Take, as a second example, the Rwandan genocide. The majority Hutu had a longstanding grievance of injury toward the Tusi who had ruled Rwanda for many centuries (backed, in the modern era, by Germany and Belgium). That narrative of injury drove many to the Hutu Power ideology that fueled the genocide.

And the examples can get more local. Take, as a third and final example, the research Baumeister cites in regard to domestic abusers. Why do these men beat their wives or girlfriends? Shockingly, these men tell narratives of injury. They, and not the one they abused, are the real victims. Think about that: abusers think they are the real victims. How so? The stories vary. Maybe she was flirting with a guy. Maybe she disrespected or demeaned him. The point is, even if we see all this as self-serving and ridiculous, the guy sees himself as having a reason, a reason that comes from a sense of perceived injury.

In sum, a great deal of evil in the world comes from feeling victimized. And these narratives of injury allow us to aggress against others in a way that feels right, moral and justified.

And if that's the case, how are we escape this cycle of violence? That is what we were talking about over dinner.

During this discussion Michael Hardin made a comment about the Lord's Prayer that really grabbed my attention. Specifically, he said this: The only way we can stop this cycle of violence, a cycle driven by our experience of being a victim, is to first recognize that we are perpetrators. As it says in the Lord's Prayer, "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors."

The first move is to recognize my own violence. The first move is to see how I victimize others. The first thing I confess in the Lord's Prayer is my own sin.

And in making this confession in the Lord's Prayer, in facing our own violence before anything else, we step away from narratives of injury and the cycles of violence they perpetuate.

One of the struggles people have with Girardian or other non-violent readings of Scripture is how you deal with the violence in the bible. Particularly the violence in the Old Testament.

As I've described in reviewing Mark Heim's book Saved from Sacrifice a Girardian reading of the Old Testament is developmental in nature. Specifically, the OT is a story that begins in a pagan and sacrificial mode (where YHWH is tribal war god) that increasingly introduces an ambivalent note about the nature of sacrifice and divinely-sanctioned scapegoating violence. Early in the OT sacrifice is ubiquitous. But by the end with the prophets the claim is increasingly made that YHWH doesn't want sacrifice and blood. YHWH desires "mercy and not sacrifice." In this we see how the bible is critiquing its own narrative with the prophets questioning the logic of the Levitical/priestly tradition.

For Christians this developmental trajectory--disentangling God from violence--is completed in the life of Jesus. When God becomes finally and fully revealed in Jesus of Nazareth YHWH is revealed to be non-violent and enemy-love is found to be at the heart of the Kingdom ethic. Jesus completes the critique of sacrifice started by the prophets.

At the start of the Theology and Peace conference Michael Hardin introduced a handy way of sorting through all this, all the disparate voices in Scripture speaking to violence and victimage. How to sort it all out? Michael suggests that there are three types of victims in Scripture and discriminating between them helps the reading I describe above come through more clearly. The following diagram illustrates Michael's recommended hermeneutic:

In Michael's scheme there are three voices of victims within the biblical narrative. The first two voices are voices still within the cycle of sacralized violence, the sacrifice at the root of all religion. The first of these two victims Michael labels "the victim of myth" in reference to Girard's work linking sacred victimage to ancient pagan religions. This is a voice that buys into the cycles of violence in the word, a victim mentality that sees the violence as deserved. We still hear this voice in the world, for example in the voices of those who suffer abuse and have internalized the blame feeling that the abuse is justified and deserved. This voice isn't heard much in Scripture though Michael locates it in psalms where the psalmist sees the punishment received from God or others as deserved and justified. I'd also argue that the voices of victims of myth are simply not heard from in the bible. These voice are rarely heard, in the bible or in the world. These are the voices of those killed by the Israelites in their holy wars or people like the concubine in Judges 19.

The other voice within the scope of sacrificial violence Michael calls "the victim in travail." This is the voice of victims calling out for revenge and retribution. We hear this voice most clearly in the imprecatory psalms. We also see it in the blood of Abel. This victim represents a moral development as the biblical reader is asked to identify with the victim and this perspective-taking allows us to see the violence as wrong, evil, and undeserved. This is progress. However, this voice doesn't allow us to escape the cycle of violence as it is accompanied by the call for revenge. The logic of lex talionis--"eye for eye and tooth for tooth"-- here perpetuates the cycles of sacralized violence. As Jesus says, the one who lives by the sword dies by the sword.

In sum, there are two sorts of victims that stand within the cycle of violence. The first victim is the sacrificial victim, the scapegoat. These victims, being scapegoats, are often silent. But when they do speak they agree with their punishment. The second victim is the victim in travail, the victim who knows their punishment is undeserved but who continues the cycle of violence by seeking retribution. In both cases God is used to justify violence, against the self or against others.

In contrast to these victims is a victim who stands outside of the dynamics of sacralized violence. Michael calls this "the gospel victim." The gospel victim is the forgiving victim. Jesus is the prototype here, the victim we killed but who returns to us with forgiveness in the resurrection-event. This action of the gospel victim allows us to stop the cycle of violence. Beyond Jesus we see examples of gospel victims in Joseph and Stephen.

The hermeneutical tool here is to sort out, among all the victims in the bible, the voice of sacrificial religion versus the voice of God's revelation. That is, there is a lot of violence in the bible, much of it attributed to God. How to make sense of it? In this Girardian reading the voice of God, the voice of God's revelation to us, is found in the voice of the gospel victim, in the revelation of Jesus. Michael's "three voice" hermeneutic, then, is at root a Christological hermeneutic. We read the violence of the bible through the lens of Jesus--the gospel victim. Where the voice of the text aligns with the voice of the gospel victim we have a case of God's revealed truth. When, however, the violence in the text doesn't align with the voice of the gospel victim we have an example of sacrificial religion. And while there are many texts of this nature, the key is not to equate those passages as instances of God's revealed truth, which we know to be clearly and decisively revealed in Jesus. These instances of sacrificial violence in the bible exist as the necessary backdrop that allowed Israel and the early Christians to untangle God from pagan and violent origins.

Beyond hermeneutics, Michael's model is also a nice way to describe the cycles of violence in the world and how, in the ethic of Jesus, we are called to "come out" from that violence. The call is to not be sacrificial victims or victims seeking retribution, buying into or perpetuating more violence in the world. The call is to be like Jesus, to be the gospel victim offering love, grace, forgiveness, peace and reconciliation to the world.

You can connect with more of Michael's work at Preaching Peace or his book The Jesus Driven Life.

Before the Theology and Peace conference got started on Monday afternoon there was a morning session devoted to giving an introduction to the thought and work of René Girard for those new to the conference.

As a part of this session Lisa Hadler made a contrast that I found really interesting. Specifically, she made a contrast between Satan and the Holy Spirit.

As we know, the word Satan means "accuser." We see this function of the Satan in the book of Job but we also see it other places like Zechariah 3:

Zechariah 3.1-5
Then he showed me Joshua the high priest standing before the angel of the Lord, and Satan standing at his right side to accuse him. The Lord said to Satan, “The Lord rebuke you, Satan! The Lord, who has chosen Jerusalem, rebuke you! Is not this man a burning stick snatched from the fire?”

Now Joshua was dressed in filthy clothes as he stood before the angel. 4 The angel said to those who were standing before him, “Take off his filthy clothes.”

Then he said to Joshua, “See, I have taken away your sin, and I will put fine garments on you.”

Then I said, “Put a clean turban on his head.” So they put a clean turban on his head and clothed him, while the angel of the Lord stood by. 

 We also see this accusation at work in the New Testament:

Revelation 12.9-10
The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.

Then I heard a loud voice in heaven say:

“Now have come the salvation and the power
and the kingdom of our God,
and the authority of his Messiah.
For the accuser of our brothers and sisters,
who accuses them before our God day and night,
has been hurled down..."

So Satan is the voice of accusation. What about the Holy Spirit? According to Jesus the Holy Spirit is the exact opposite of Satan. Where the Satan is a voice of accusation the Holy Spirit is a voice of advocacy. Where the Satan is a prosecuting attorney the Holy Spirit is a defense attorney.

John 14.16-17a, 26; 15.26; 16.7
And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another advocate to help you and be with you forever—the Spirit of truth.

But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you.

When the Advocate comes, whom I will send to you from the Father —the Spirit of truth who goes out from the Father—he will testify about me.

But very truly I tell you, it is for your good that I am going away. Unless I go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you.

The Holy Spirit displaces the voice of the Satan in the world. The voice and spirit of Jesus in the world is the voice of this Advocate--the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of Truth.

What struck me in Lisa's description of all this is how she framed the contrast--Satan versus the Holy Spirit, accusation versus advocacy--as a choice we make every second of every day. In every interaction I can be the voice of Jesus in the world--the voice of the Holy Spirit, the voice of advocacy--or I can be the voice of Satan in the world, the voice of accusation. One voice leads toward peace, the other voice leads toward violence.

That's the choice in my life. Accusation or advocacy?

Will I be the voice of the Spirit in the world or the voice of the Satan?

I had a blast at the recent Theology and Peace conference. I thought I'd devote the week to posts about stuff I said, learned, or thought about at the conference.

Let's start with my Plenary talk. Toward the end of my talk I compared Axe Body Spray to scapegoating.

That comparison might need some unpacking.

As I wrote about a few weeks ago, René Girard has argued that prior to the gospels religious myth--the sacred--obscured the scapegoating mechanism. That is, rather than seeing victims being murdered the ancients saw sacralized violence, violence backed by the decree, plan, and will of the gods. According to Girard, the gospels desacralized violence, exposing scapegoating for what it is: murder. As Mark Heim describes it, the gospels function as an anti-myth. The gospels accomplish this by reading the scapegoating story from the inside out, from the perspective of the victim. As readers follow Jesus through the Passion narrative they see that he is innocent. And yet, Jesus is killed so that powerful constituencies can maintain their status quo. The mechanism has been unmasked.

So telling the story from the victim's perspective desacralizes violence, it exposes the powerplays and violence at work when we scapegoat. And because the gospels do this, because they provide us with an anti-myth, we've come to see scapegoating as a bad thing.

And yet we continue to engage in scapegoating. Even though we know it's wrong.

Why?

Well, because scapegoating is like Axe body spray.

How so?

You're familiar with Axe body spray, right? Axe body spray is famous because it is the product behind one of the most successful marketing campaigns in advertisement history. Its commercials are both iconic and infamous. The basic plotline is always the same. A geeky and skinny guy sprays Axe on and the scent becomes a pheromone for hot women who begin to aggressively and lustful throw themselves at the guy.

Because of the success of the campaign Axe quickly became the top selling male antiperspirant/deodorant brand. Axe outsold its closest rival by tens of millions.

And then it all began to go wrong.

I'll let Martin Lindstrom tell what happened:

[T]he brand's early success soon began to backfire. The problem was, the ads had worked too well in persuading the Insecure Novices and Enthusiastic Novices to buy the product. Geeks and dorks everywhere were now buying Axe by the caseload, and it was hurting the brand's image. Eventually (in the United States, at least), to most high-school and college-age males, Axe had essentially become the brand for pathetic losers and, not surprisingly, sales took a huge hit.

The Axe marketing campaign worked too well. It targeted a certain demographic--insecure men--and moved a lot of product. But Axe became too closely associated with the target demographic causing many other men to avoid the product. Only dorks and pimply kids were believed to use Axe.

Axe was hurt by its own success. The point I argued at the Theology and Peace conference was that something similar has happened to the unmasking of scapegoating.

Specifically, once scapegoating became widely recognized as a bad thing, once we started to place the moral power on the side of the victim, it soon became natural to identify oneself as the scapegoat. Everyone, it seems, now wants to be the victim. Everyone wants to be the scapegoat.

Why? Because in the wake of the gospels we see a moral power residing with the scapegoat, we want to side with the victim and the underdog. Thus, if you can be identified as the victim you can win people to your cause. It's like what happened with Axe spray. The gospels so thoroughly unmasked scapegoating that everyone now wants to be the victim. Everyone wants to be at the center of the story as the innocent martyr. Nowadays being the scapegoat is the quickest way to demonize your enemies.

This is the argument made by James Davison Hunter in his book To Change the World: The Irony, Tragedy, & Possibility of Christianity in the Late Modern World. According to Hunter political discourse in American today is characterized by "narratives of injury" where people on both the Left and the Right rush to characterize themselves as victims. Each group feels harmed by the other. And the great irony here is that this sense of injury creates the justification to scapegoat the other group.

The psychological reversal here is quite startling: Claiming to be the scapegoat so that you can scapegoat others: Claiming to be harmed so that you can harm others: Claiming to be injured so that you can injure others: Claiming to be the victim of violence so that you can inflict violence upon others.

Here is Hunter describing all this, the psychology of victimhood that now describes American political discourse:

The sense of injury is the key. Over time, the perceived injustice becomes central to the person's and the group's identity. Understanding themselves to be victimized is not a passive acknowledgement but a belief that can be cultivated. Accounts of atrocity become a crucial subplot of the narrative, evidence that reinforces the sense that they have been or will be wronged or victimized. Cultivating the fear of further injury becomes a strategy for generating solidarity within the group and mobilizing the group to action. It is often useful at such times to exaggerate or magnify the threat. The injury or threat thereof is so central to the identity and dynamics of the group that to give it up is to give up a critical part of whom they understand themselves to be. Thus, instead of letting go, the sense of injury continues to get deeper.

In this logic, it is only natural that wrongs need to be righted. And so it is, then, that the injury--real or perceived--leads the aggrieved to accuse, blame, vilify, and then seek revenge on those whom they see as responsible. The adversary has to be shown for who they are, exposed for their corruption, and put in their place. [This] ressentiment, then, is expressed as a discourse of negation; the condemnation and denigration of enemies in the effort to subjugate and dominate those who are culpable.

And that's why the unmasking of scapegoating is like Axe body spray. Scapegoating has been so successfully exposed that everyone now wants to be the scapegoat to justify their efforts to injure and harm others.

Jesus said to look out for wolves in sheep's clothing.

He was right. In more ways than one.

I can be pretty hard on Calvinism. I grew up in an Arminian tradition and I still recall Sunday school lessons as a boy where we taught that doctrines such as Original Sin and predestination were wrong and unbiblical.

But I'd like to say something nice about Calvinism today. Less about Calvinism as a doctrinal stance than about its emotional appeal. Particularly when we confront pain and suffering the the world.

My observation in brief: When we face suffering some people like to go high and some people like to go low.

A few years ago I was helping lead a study of the Psalms in our adult bible class at church. We were using the categories of Walter Brueggemann grouping the Psalms under the headings psalms of orientation and psalms of disorientation. Psalms of orientation are the psalms of unmitigated praise. YHWH reigns supreme in these psalms and the world is well-ordered. By contrast, the psalms of disorientation are the psalms of protest and lament where YHWH has gone missing and the world seems to be falling apart.

As a Winter Christian (for more about "Sick Souls, Winter Christians and Saints of Darkness" see Chapter 6 in The Authenticity of Faith) I gravitate toward the psalms of disorientation. And I had assumed, going into the study on the Psalms, that anyone facing suffering or difficulties would also gravitate toward these psalms. When you are in distress you'd go to psalms that articulated that distress, right? That's what I do, so I just assumed everyone would do this.

But I was wrong. What I discovered was that many people go to the psalms of orientation--psalms of praise which declare God's control and sovereignty over a well-ordered creation--for comfort and solace in times of trouble. That struck me as strange. Why, when your world is falling apart, would you sing songs of a well-ordered and well-governed world?

The answer, as I listened to people talk about this, how they used various psalms during times of trouble, was that some people want to take in the big picture, the view of heaven, in the face of suffering. That is, they want to see far down the road to see that all will be well in the end. That, despite appearances today, God is ultimately in control. And you get this view best in the psalms of orientation. To be sure, you sing these psalms with tears in your eyes. You weep them out. You offer them up as hope. But this long view, the view from heaven, helps you get through the day.

Like I said, some people like to go high.

But many others like to go low. That is, they like to stick close to the suffering on earth, to the painful human experience. The psalms of lament do this. They take the perspective of earth looking up to a blank and silent heaven. These psalms shake their fists at the sky. For many people, these are the psalms that best articulate the experience of their suffering. These words best fit their tears.

So some people like to go high and some people like to go low. Some people in the face of suffering want to climb into heaven and look down from God's sovereign vantage-point. Others want to stay close to the pain and scream at an empty sky.

Is one way better than the other? Is one way more honest or truthful?

I used to judge those who went high in the face of suffering. I felt that their appeals to God sovereignty were a form of denial, fantasy, and escapism. A too-easy move toward "God is in control and all is for the good." To be sure, I think this is often the case. I wrote a whole book in The Authenticity of Faith about how and why this happens. But over the years I've grown more understanding when people go high.

To be clear, I don't like it when others go high on behalf of those who are suffering. You don't say in trying to comfort the one in pain, "God willed this and it's for the best." You don't use the psalms of orientation as existential band-aids to patch people up. That's obscene. You don't go high for other people. If they want to climb into heaven to take in the view, great, but don't you do it for them.

What I'm talking about here is when those who are suffering go to the psalms of orientation on their own. When people do this I don't think they are being naive or escapist. Because, like I said above, I've seen how these psalms of praise are sung through tears. How they express hopes and longings as much as certainty and conviction. I've seen how these psalms, when paired with tears, are a sort of lament, a deep longing and cry for a place and time when pain shall be no more. A way of expressing the hope, in the words of Julian of Norwich, that "all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

The final installment of my conversation with Raborn Johnson at the Beyond the Box podcast is now up. This is Part 3 of 3 in a conversation summarizing my recent series The Slavery of Death.

Again, much of the discussion, if you'd like to participate, will be at the Beyond the Box site on Facebook.

Links to the entire series:

Part 1: The Sting of Death is Sin
Part 2: The Denial of Death
Part 3: Perfect Love Casts Out Fear

This year I'll be presenting, for the first time in my life, at a non-psychological conference. And I'm dreading it.

Why?

Did you know that people in disciplines like theology and biblical studies actually read papers to each other. Yes, you read that right. They stand up, pull out a manuscript, and then read it to you. Often never lifting their eyes from the paper. They just stand there. And read to you.

It's insane and madding. Why not just hand the damn paper to me so I can read it over a beer at the bar? Or in my room? Or at home?

You might not know this, but in the sciences and social sciences we actually don't read or present papers at our conferences. We speak extemporaneously. Without notes. There is no paper.

Historically, our talks have been built around visual displays of data and results. Before there was PowerPoint the talks were driven by slides. We took slides and overheads to conferences and showed data. That was the presentation. A title slide, some literature view slides, slides of methodology and the heart of the presentation, the results slides showing statistical analyses.

But there was no paper.

So now I've been invited to conferences like SBL and AAR. And I think they expect me to show up with a paper and read it to the audience. They don't understand that they've invited a social scientist.

We don't read papers to each other.

Before I start reviewing books as a part of The William Stringfellow Project I think it might be helpful to provide a brief summary of Stringfellow's theology. Such a summary could serve as a reading guide, allowing us to gather quotes from Stringfellow's books under some thematic headings.

As I see it, we can summarize William Stringfellow's theology under four theological themes: Resurrection, Incarnation, Word and Sacrament.

Resurrection
Death is the great theme of Stringfellow's writing. Phrased positively, resurrection is his principle focus. However, for Stringfellow resurrection is not about the immortality of the soul or life in the hereafter. Stringfellow tends to bracket those issues. For Stringfellow resurrection is about the experience of life--a victory over death and death's works--right here and right now.

More, for Stringfellow the great drama of life and history isn't the victory of good over evil. In fact, such a struggle tends to only create more evil. For Stringfellow the great drama and struggle is the victory of life over death. Life in Christ is less about being good than about experiencing life in the midst of the Fall.

The great sign and symptom of death's rule in the world is the estrangement we experience in the Fall. Estrangement between people and God, between a person and their own self, between people with other people, between people and institutions, and between the institutions themselves. For Stringfellow the biblical language of "idolatry" and "the principalities and powers" names the estrangement between people and institutions and between the institutions themselves. Again, for Stringfellow the powers are not evil. They are fallen. That is, their proper relationship toward God and the human beings working for them is disordered, oriented around death, around the survival of the institution. Thus, to serve a power--to work for the survival of the institution in the face of competing powers--is to engage in a form of idolatry, service rendered to the power of death in the world (incarnated in the survival/"success" of the institution/idol).

Still, as fallen rather than evil, there are times when the powers are more or less oriented toward life and God. Working for the powers isn't evil and really can't be avoided. The issue is one of idolatry. Thus living with the powers and working within them requires discernment and moral vigilance.

Finally, if the sign of death is estrangement the sign of life and resurrection is reconciliation in Christ. Reconciled with God, ourselves, others, and the powers.

Incarnation
The second great theme of Stringfellow's theology is his consistent rejection of the division between the sacred and the secular, between the spiritual and the political. Stringfellow invokes the doctrine of the Incarnation to make this point, the fusion of the human and the divine, the mixing of heaven and earth, the participation of God in the day to day affairs of life--from the home to the marketplace to the neighborhood to the political arena. The Christian is to be a full participant in the affairs of the world.

For Stringfellow this means that the spiritual is inherently political. Life in Christ has real-world implications for how we negotiate our relationships with every other human being. More, because we live in the Fall--during the reign of death--we "live at the expense of others." This means that every decision in life is an inherently moral and spiritual decision. Everything we do affects other people, often for the worse. For example, if I work hard at my job at McDonalds I'm affecting the livelihood of those working at Burger King. We live and work at each other's expense. Everything we do is affected by this reality--from being an American citizen to punching the time clock to buying food to turning on the electricity to having a savings account to casting a vote. Thus, everything we do must be informed by Christ. There is no separation between life in the world and the confessions of the faith on Sunday morning.

Word
When Stringfellow talks about the reconciling activity of God in the world he often speaks of the Word of God active and militant in the world. For Stringfellow the phrase "Word of God" is synonymous with God but he uses the phrase to resist idolatrous notions of God. That is, rather than allowing the word "God" to be a cipher we can fill in with our own self-serving preconceptions the phrase "Word of God" suggests that the initiative sits with God. We must listen. The Word is always coming to us. We don't speak about God. God is speaking to us. "Word of God" is meant to capture this reversal.

More, for Stringfellow "Word of God" captures the way God has spoken in the bible. Reading and listening to the Bible comes up over and over in Stringfellow's writings. This is perhaps surprising given that Stringfellow was a liberal Episcopalian. But Stringfellow was not a Biblical literalist or fundamentalist.  For Stringfellow the Word of God cannot be reduced to the Bible, these are not equivalent. In fact, to equate the Word of God with the Bible would be idolatrous in Stringfellow's eyes. However, the Word of God is often mediated through the biblical text. Bible study for Stringfellow was simply listening for the Word of God in the reading of Scripture.

Beyond the bible "Word of God" is also intended to capture the Logos, the Word of God definitively revealed in Jesus.

And finally, beyond the bible and Jesus, the phrase "Word of God" functions as Stringfellow's pneumatology, how he describes the activity of the Holy Spirit in the world. The task of the Christian is to discern and listen to the Word of God in every circumstance of life. Whenever and wherever life is encountered and enjoyed in the midst of death's works the Word of God is present and active.

Sacrament
The fourth great theme of Stringfellow's theology is that the witness of the Christian in the world, and of the church, is sacramental rather than moralistic or programmatic. The goal of the Christian life isn't to be good, pious, moral or righteous. The goal is to "live humanely in the Fall." When we live humanely in the Fall we become sacraments, signs of life in the midst of death's works. And as a sign we call others to participate in and enjoy this life. More, as the Christian is set free from the power of death the Christian is able to live for the sake of others, to give their life away in love. The power of death has been defeated in the life of the Christian. And that defeat is a sign to others. A sacrament.

This sacramental call is privileged over programmatic attempts at "good works." Stringfellow is all for social programs to aid the poor and disadvantaged. Again, the Christian's involvement in the world in inherently political. However, the Christian witness should not be reduced to these good works and social programs. More than anything else, the Christian should simply live with and among the marginalized of society as a sign of life and grace, as a sacrament of God's reconciling love in Christ. It is vital to feed the hungry, but bread alone doesn't address the estrangement of death in the lives of the poor and the rich. Only the gospel can address this estrangement.

The practical upshot is that the local Christian community reaching out to the poor doesn't have to alleviate world hunger, as if they could. More, that community cannot fully escape the Fall. Like everyone else they will exist, to some degree, at the expense of others. That is, the faith community can't escape its own complicity in various systemic evils (though it should always strive to be less rather than more complicit).

In light of all this, in light of meager successes and its own complicity, the loving community and the individual Christian is simply called to be a sacrament, a sign of life in a neighborhood and world surrounded by death.

That's the essential witness: Be a sign of life in the midst of death's works. Wherever you are, be a sacrament of life.

I'm looking for some insight.

A few weeks ago I wrote about my increasing engagement with Freedom Fellowship, a faith community planted by and affiliated with my church. As I noted in that post many of those who attend Freedom are homeless or very poor.

Here's an issue the leaders of the church are currently wrestling with. How to address (if at all) the sexual behaviors of the congregation?

Among the homeless and very poor marriage isn't a common or stable institution. More, even if you wanted to get married there are hoops to clear that are incidental to middle class folks but significant obstacles to the homeless. For instance, paying for the marriage license. Even getting to and from City Hall is an ordeal--in effort and time--when you have to walk.

So what we have, in essence, is a church encouraging people living on the streets or tents to abstain from sex until they are married. But given the obstacles to marriage the homeless face along with the fact that the marriage would be built upon a very insecure foundation there hasn't been much response from the congregation. It seems that, even among the homeless, marriage should wait until life is stable. A good job and a place to live need to be in hand. But for many, these aren't happening anytime soon. So is celibacy required or realistic in the meantime?

A part of me thinks all this is just middle class hand-wringing on the part of the church. What do you expect two adults are going to do living in a tent together with a lot of time on their hands and little by way of entertainment? Sex with a person you care about is free and it alleviates some of the loneliness and burden of life on the streets. Is God in His High Heaven is looking to throw thunderbolts at these people?

So on the one hand my sense is that this focus on "getting married" is trying to get the homeless and very poor to participate in middle class institutions. This, from what I understand, is a common temptation among churches working with the poor, the effort to make the poor look like us, to live a middle class life.

But on the other hand, I do understand the concern of the church about speaking to sexuality in light of the Kingdom. Given the situation, my concerns are more about pregnancy and STDs than marriage, but I do appreciate the moral concern of the leaders of the church.

So what to do?

I'm new to all this. I don't have a lot of experience working among the homeless and poor. I'm a rookie. So I was curious to bounce this issue off you to get your take, particularly if you have more experience in these areas.

As I've pondered this, three "approaches" have come to mind:

1. Stay with pushing for pre-marital chastity and encourage marriage. But we do more than just verbally encourage. We get couples living together in classes or counseling sessions where the basic responsibilities of marriage are discussed. Support sessions or groups continue after marriage. We also help with overcoming the infrastructure obstacles: Help with the application, the fees, transportation to and from City Hall. Finally, we help them secure wedding rings and throw a wedding.

2. Set marriage aside as too ambitious a goal. Focus more on the medical and safety issues. For example, help provide access to birth control and condoms and provide education about safer sexual practices.

3. Consecrate marriages. Why insist that marriage means going through Uncle Sam? Why not let the church consecrate marriages on her own? True, these consecrated marriages might not have the legal teeth of a state-sanctioned union, but that's boo on the church. Still, point well taken. My idea here is this. Yes, consecrating marriages outside of the state might make divorce "easier," but the issue here has more to do with communal accountability. That is, if a marriage is consecrated in the faith community then that union has some accountability to the church. Given the promises made before the faith community those two people are married and should be held to that standard. If they don't meet that standard (e.g., infidelity, abuse) then the faith community has permission to meddle. That's the right you gave them for wanting the marriage consecrated by the church. You've given the faith community permission to hold you to certain standards. That's what baptismal and marriage vows are all about.

To be sure, I don't really want the church overly involved in monitoring all this and doling out consequences. Regular readers know me. The prospect of moral policing makes me queasy. What I'm kicking around here is how sexual unions could be recognized as holy--marriages--in a way that is less beholden to Uncle Sam and middle class institutions but that gets at the major issue: a degree of accountability within the faith community. 

Again, given how new I am to all of this much of what I've just written could be foolish. I simply share some thoughts looking for some feedback.

In 2006 when I started this blog I picked the title "Experimental Theology." Six years later and I think the title still fits.

As it says on the sidebar, I picked the title "experimental theology" for two reasons. First, I want to write in a provisional voice. I wanted a place to think out loud and float ideas.

I also wanted to create a place where I could bring psychology into conversation with theology. Along these lines, I was pondering some of the research I've been mentoring with some students over these last few weeks. As I've mentioned before, during the summer term at ACU I work with students in conducting original empirical research with the aim of presenting that research at a professional psychological conference. Over the years we've look at attachment to God, the psychology of PostSecret, the psychology of blasphemy, the religious correlates of torture endorsement, the experience of the demonic, and iPhone/Facebook "addiction."

This summer I have two teams doing two different projects. Leslie, Kyle and Stephen are looking at the relationship between anxiety and end of the world beliefs. For example, they are examining the correlations between variables such as trait neuroticism and the belief that the end of the world will happen in our lifetime, that we are living in the "end times."

Gabe, Maddy, Chandler and Nathan are looking at how attitudes toward authority figures affect one's experience with God. Specifically, if you have dim views of authority figures are you more dismissing of God (who is sort of the ultimate as far as authority figures go)?

Both groups have run their analyses and have found significant associations between these variables. Anxiety seems associated with eschatology. And problems with authority figures seem to leak into our experience of the Divine.

In all this, I continue to be fascinated with the connections between psychology and theology, the way psychology affects things like our experience of God and why we might hold particular theological beliefs. Like the timing of Armageddon!

Six years and counting and I'm still fascinated by experimental theology.

In Unclean I discuss how the rituals of the Hebrew Day of Atonement as described in Leviticus 16 precisely following the logic of disgust psychology. This makes sense as the Day of Atonement is a purification ritual and disgust psychology is how we intuitively reason about issues related to cleanliness and uncleanliness.

Specifically, the Day of Atonement ritual revolves around the notions of boundary-monitoring and expulsion, the very psychological dynamics guiding the disgust response. Disgust monitors the boundary of the body--inside versus outside--and pushes away or expels (e.g., vomiting) contaminating substances.

In the Day of Atonement rituals you see something similar. First, there is the boundary-monitoring symbolized by the boundary of the camp. Next are the acts of expulsion symbolized by the sin-laden goats being taken or forced out of the camp.

To review, there were two goats used in the ritual. One goat for a blood offering and the other as the scapegoat offering. In the scapegoat offering the sins of the people were laid upon the goat which was then expelled from the camp into the wilderness:

Leviticus 16.20-22
When Aaron has finished making atonement for the Most Holy Place, the tent of meeting and the altar, he shall bring forward the live goat. He is to lay both hands on the head of the live goat and confess over it all the wickedness and rebellion of the Israelites—all their sins—and put them on the goat’s head. He shall send the goat away into the wilderness in the care of someone appointed for the task. The goat will carry on itself all their sins to a remote place; and the man shall release it in the wilderness.

The other goat, the goat for the sin offering, was killed and its blood and fat used in the Tabernacle rituals. Afterwards the remains of the goat (along with the carcass of a bull that the High Priest used to cleanse himself) were taken outside the camp and burned:

Leviticus 16.27-28
The bull and the goat for the sin offerings, whose blood was brought into the Most Holy Place to make atonement, must be taken outside the camp; their hides, flesh and intestines are to be burned up. The man who burns them must wash his clothes and bathe himself with water; afterward he may come into the camp.

With both goats we see boundary-monitoring and expulsion at work. That which is contaminating, unclean, and polluting are taken outside of the camp. This expulsion and purging leaves the inside of the camp clean and pure. That which is unclean is now exterior, on the outside.

As we know the early Christians viewed the crucifixion of Jesus through the lens of the Day of Atonement rituals. This comparison is most clearly seen in the NT book of Hebrews. Just about any Christian can articulate the metaphor: the shed blood of Jesus on the cross is like the Day of Atonement sacrifices cleansing us from sin.

However, what I'd like to point out is how the book of Hebrews ends on a note that radically deconstructs how Christians should view the death of Jesus as a purification ritual. Specifically, the book of Hebrews inverts the directionality of the Day of Atonement ritual. As noted above, the Day of Atonement ritual expels the uncleanliness from the camp leaving the inside pure. That, as I've said, is how the logic of purity works, psychologically speaking. The goal in the Day of Atonement ritual is to be on the inside of the camp where purity resides. Uncleanliness is being found on the outside of the camp.

Hebrews completely undermines all this.

Hebrews 13.11-14
The high priest carries the blood of animals into the Most Holy Place as a sin offering, but the bodies are burned outside the camp. And so Jesus also suffered outside the city gate to make the people holy through his own blood. Let us, then, go to him outside the camp, bearing the disgrace he bore. For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.

Noting the fact that Jesus was crucified outside of the gates of Jerusalem the writer of Hebrews suggests that purification is now found--in a reversal of the Day of Atonement--on the outside of the camp. We don't expel the uncleanliness leaving the inside purified. Rather, we are purified by leaving the camp, going out to where, in the imagination of Leviticus 16, where the wickedness resides. And when we do this we bear the disgrace of Jesus who was, in the words of Isaiah, stricken by God and numbered among the transgressors. Such a reading sits very well with the entire ministry of Jesus who, throughout his life, left the camp to embrace the unclean those who had been expelled into the wildness of Jewish social and religious life. Thus, to be clean in this vision we invert the Day of Atonement: We leave the camp to stand with those who have been excluded.

To be sure, I'm not entirely confident that the writer of Hebrews had this exact understanding in mind (though this reading does precisely fit Jesus in the gospels). A less radical reading has "the city" in the final line of the passage above as Babylon. The idea, then, is one similar to what we find in Revelation where the people of God are to "come out" from Babylon. This coming out of Babylon is what sets us apart as holy, purified people. This reading is supported by the final line of the passage above where two cities are contrasted. In Revelation these two cities are Babylon and the New Jerusalem.

But even if we go with this less radical reading we still have something counterintuitive and note-worthy. Specifically, even in the less radical reading purity isn't achieved by an act of expulsion. Well, it sort of is, only we are expelling ourselves by "coming out" of Babylon, leaving the city and joining Jesus outside the camp.

This might, on first blush, sound like a warrant to avoid or withdraw from the sinners of the world. I think that's a misreading. We aren't leaving people behind. We are leaving a city behind--a way of being, a lifestyle, a culture, a value system, a way of doing business. What will be diagnostic here is how when we "come out" we are disgraced, just as Jesus was disgraced. This "coming out" isn't a power play, a refusal to hang out with sinners. To make that move is to throw the entire life of Jesus under the bus. To make that move is to do the exact opposite of what Jesus did. So let's rule that move out right here. No, bearing the disgrace of being "outside the camp" has to be the same sort of disgrace that Jesus bore in his own life and death. It is the disgrace of hanging out with losers. Of being, along with Jesus on the cross, a loser yourself. The disgrace of being outside the camp, to use the words of Robert Capon, is the disgrace of leastness, lastness, littleness and lostness.

This is the disgrace of being outside the camp. The disgrace of being a loser and standing with losers.

But when we go outside the camp to stand with the losers there we find the body and blood of Jesus, the sacrifice that makes us pure, holy and clean.

As a part of Rachel Held Evan's Week of Mutuality I wanted to offer a meditation on a common argument that patriarchalists often make in response to egalitarian marriages.  I'm sure you've heard this argument before:

"Somebody has to make the final decision. Somebody has to break the tie."

I don't know how many times I've heard this argument (or something very much like it) in discussions about gender relations in marriage. It is the argument that someone has to be the "tie-breaker" in a marriage for the marriage to "work." And, given that egalitarians don't have a tie-breaker, they are believed to fail on pragmatic grounds--egalitarian marriages can't "work."

True, it is argued, day in and day out husbands and wives don't have to function via power relations. No one has to be "in charge" or be "the leader" in getting the marriage or family through the day. Couples simply coordinate, jump in where needed, and get done what is needed to get done. And if the marriage is working well this partnership feels balanced and equal and there is a mutual feeling of gratitude.

So day in and day out, it is argued, the partnership is less about power than mutuality. Still, the defender of patriarchy insists, a power relation has to exist in the background. Though this power structure is generally latent there are times when it must be brought out into the open and used. The moment for this is when the couple is deadlocked about some decision to be made going forward. There is a disagreement about what to do next. And in the face of that disagreement, the argument continues, someone needs to be in charge. Someone needs to make the decision. Someone needs to break the tie.

And God gave that job to the man. So marriages can work.

A part of the persuasiveness of the "somebody has to decide" argument is that it is willing to admit that powerplays aren't the day to day working reality of patriarchal marriages. This puts a softer face on patriarchy and suggests that 99% of the time patriarchal marriages function just like egalitarian marriages. The implication this sets up is clear: Why this fuss over egalitarianism? It's much ado about nothing. Patriarchy, it is insisted, isn't a day to day reality, it is something called upon as a last resort, when the relationship is stuck and we need to make a decision going forward.

Patriarchy, in this view, is simply a way of getting a relationship out of a jam. Sort of like calling a tow-truck.

Patriarchy, in this argument, is about pragmatics, about fixing a problem.

In this there is an implicit criticism being leveled. Specifically, the vision of the deadlocked couple is held up as a rebuttal of egalitarianism. This vision is intended to show how egalitarianism is unworkable. If somebody isn't in charge how is the couple going to get unstuck? Patriarchy, in this instance, is a gift--a gift God gave us to get marriages unstuck. Somebody has to get the relationship unstuck and God, in God's wisdom, picked the guys for this job. To be clear, the argument goes, guys aren't better than woman for inheriting this job. God's interests and the man's interests are strictly about pragmatics, about getting a job done, often a thankless and dirty job.

In short, patriarchy is about pragmatics, not power.

Is that true?

I don't think it's true. And if it's not true--and this is an empirical rather than a theological issue--then patriarchy is stripped of its pragmatic guise to be revealed as the powerplay it always was.

I say this is an empirical question rather than a theological issue because the "somebody has to decide" argument is making (implicitly) an empirical claim: Egalitarian marriages don't work, they get suck. That's not a theological claim. It's a claim about empirical reality that can be tested: Are egalitarian marriages regularly stuck in this way, ways that patriarchal marriages have "fixed"?

While I know I'm working with a very small data set Jana and I have never been stuck in the way the patriarchalist argues we should be getting stuck. But maybe we've just been lucky. Maybe egalitarian couples all around us are getting stuck, unable to move forward without having someone in the "decider" role, without a divinely-appointed tie-breaker. I doubt it. I have no doubt that egalitarian marriages might take longer to reach a decision and that the process might look "messier." But I feel certain that these couples are willing to pay that price in order to avoid powerplays and to remain in submission to each other. Regardless, I don't think these couples are getting stuck.

And if that's the case, if egalitarian marriages work, even when decisions get hard and there is conflict, then what happens to the argument that patriarchy is about pragmatics rather than power?

If marriages don't need "deciders" to work then there is no problem to be fixed. And if that's the case, if patriarchal marriages don't work any better, then the only reason to opt for patriarchy is the allure of power itself. If you don't need patriarchy, pragmatically speaking, why resort to the use of power when it's not necessary?

Let's put a fine point on this: If there is no problem to fix, if patriarchy has no pragmatic function, if patriarchy is not useful, if patriarchy is an end in itself and not a means, then the exercise of power is exposed for what it truly is. Without anything to fix the powerplay is simply a powerplay, one person exercising power over another for no other reason than the desire to exercise power.

If you don't need to wield power then why are you using it?

And with that question we get to the rub of the matter, why the "somebody has to decide" argument has been so critical in the patriarchal worldview. This argument has made patriarchy seem useful. It is an argument that has been used to hide the powerplay by dressing it up in pragmatic clothing. Power isn't about power, it is argued, it's about making marriages work better.

But what if egalitarian marriages work just fine? What then?

Without the pragmatic dress we see patriarchy for what is truly is.

An emperor with no clothes.

Just to let you know Part 2 of 3 of my conversation with Raborn Johnson at the Beyond the Box podcast is now up. Again, the conversation is focused on my recent series The Slavery of Death.

Part 1 was entitled The Sting of Death is Sin Part 2 is entitled The Denial of Death.

Much of the discussion, if you'd like to participate, will be at the Beyond the Box site on Facebook.

If you are a regular reader of this blog you will know that William Stringfellow, since my discovery of him a few years ago, has had an enormous impact upon my theological development. Outside of George MacDonald no one has had as much influence upon my thinking as William Stringfellow.

What grabbed me about Stringfellow? A couple things.

First, I sympathize with Stringfellow's biography. Stringfellow was a lawyer who wrote about theology. I'm a psychologist who writes about theology. We're both lay theologians. Outsiders to the profession.

But more importantly, what struck me about Stringfellow was how all this theology focuses on the predicament of death. Death is Stringfellow's great subject. It pervades all of this books and thinking.

This is important to me because death is the great subject of my own spiritual life and struggle. Ever since college death has been the topic I've wrestled with more than any other. And few if any of the theologians I'd read to that point had this same particular and intense focus. Then I found Stringfellow. Before reading Stringfellow I'd yet to find a theologian who saw the world the way I saw the world. I think a lot of us are looking for something like this. A theological soul mate. Stringfellow has become that for me.

Relatedly, Stringfellow has become the bridge that has allowed me to connect psychology with theology. As many of you know, my work has been greatly influenced by the thought of Ernest Becker. For years I struggled with how to connect Becker with Christian belief and practice. Stringfellow, because of his focus on death, helped me break through. I sit Becker and Stringfellow side by side and I have my bridge.

Given how important Stringfellow is to me I recently set myself the goal to read through all of his books in chronological order. And with a twist.

The twist--and if you are lover of books you'll get this--is to read all of Stringfellow's books in their first editions. I wanted to read Stringfellow's books as they came out of the crate when he first saw them. I can't explain this in any way other than wanting to make a connection with Stringfellow through space and time.

And so I set about looking for and buying first edition copies of all of Stringfellow's books. First printing and first edition if I could find it. And in this I was very successful. I now have first edition copies of all of Stringfellow's books and all but one are first printings.

More, during the search I found two copies that were autographed by Stringfellow. The prize of the bunch is a first edition, first printing, autographed copy of My People is the Enemy, Stringfellow's reflections on his years living in Harlem working as a lawyer.

(This all might sound really indulgent, expense-wise. But no one--other than nerds like me--cares that much about old Stringfellow books, even if they are first editions. Most of these books I got for $3-$5 each. The autographed ones were only about $20.)

A part of the fun in working with books from the '60s and '70s is getting a look at the dust jackets. Good Heavens, are some of these funky. I'm looking forward to sharing these with you.

So let me get to it.

I hate making big declarations on the blog about a series I'm going to do. Because sometimes I get bored and just stop and not finish. (I got through, what, one chapter of Walden?) So be warned, that might happen again. But I've read enough of these books already to believe that this series has a chance of being completed. And with that let me introduce you to The William Stringfellow Project.

The William Stringfellow Project is me reading through and blogging about Stringfellow's books in chronological order. More, I'll be reading the first editions and will share anything interesting from those editions. Things like pictures of the dust jacket, interesting endorsements on the back of the book, and curious things from the inside flaps.

Here is the reading list:

• Public and Private Faith (1962, Eerdmans Publishing Co.)
• Instead of Death (1962, Seabury Press). 
• My People Is the Enemy (1964, Holt, Rinehart and Winston)
• Free in Obedience (1964, Seabury Press)
• Dissenter in a Great Society (1966, Holt, Rinehart and Winston)
• Count It All Joy (1967, Eerdmans Publishing Co.)
• Imposters of God: Inquiries into Favorite Idols (1969, Witness Books)
• A Second Birthday (1970, Doubleday)
• Suspect Tenderness: The Ethics of the Berrigan Witness (1971, Rinehart and Winston)
• An Ethic for Christians and Other Aliens in a Strange Land (1973, Word)
• Instead of Death, Second Edition (1976, Seabury Press)
• Conscience and Obedience (1977, Word)
• A Simplicity of Faith: My Experience in Mourning (1982, Abingdon)
• The Politics of Spirituality (1984, Westminster Press)

Not on this list are two books Stringfellow wrote with his partner Anthony Towne about Bishop James Pike (The Bishop Pike Affair and The Death and Life of Bishop Pike). I have both books but I'm on the fence about adding them to the list. If I do read them I'm going to do so at the end as a sort of appendix to the series.

So that's the plan. I have no calender in mind, so these posts will appear irregularly. I also don't have a plan for what a particular post will look like. The idea is to do a sort of book review for each title.

So look forward to the William Stringfellow Project. Here are all the first editions of his books:

The First Editions of William Stringfellow