In my Psychology and Christianity class we were in a unit discussing faith and mental health. I was sharing insights from The Shape of Joy. I described our cosmic mattering, our existential significance, as an "ontic fact." Our value and worth simply is, as factually "there" as rainbows and raccoons. 

Pushing further, I went on to say that our feelings of insecurity and insignificance are, therefore, "demonic delusions." Shame is a diabolical hallucination tricking us from seeing something that is ontologically staring us in the face, the ontic factualness of our value and significance. "Satan is," I reminded the class, "the Father of Lies." 

Sometimes the things I say aloud in class surprise me. Something swims into view I had not put into words before. Describing shame as a demonic delusion and a diabolical hallucination made me ponder how the power of Satan is described in Scripture as primarily that of deception and misperception. 

As I shared with my class, in John 8 Jesus describes Satan this way: "He does not stand in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks according to his own nature, for he is a liar and the father of lies." 

2 Corinthians 11:14 highlights Satan's deception and disguise: “Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light." Revelation 12:9 echos this:  “The great dragon…that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world.” 

Beyond deception, there is also blinding. 2 Corinthians 4:4:  “The god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ.” 

2 Thessalonians 2:9–11 describes the Man of Lawlessness. A power of this diabolical agent is one of mass delusion: “The coming of the lawless one is by the activity of Satan with all power and false signs and wonders…and for this reason God sends them a strong delusion, so that they may believe what is false.” In the book of Revelation the Beasts are also described as having the power of creating mass deception: “It performs great signs, even making fire come down from heaven to earth in front of people, and by the signs that it is allowed to work...it deceives those who dwell on earth.” (Rev. 13:13–14).

Summarizing, Satan's power is perceptual and epistemic. Disguises. Lies. Delusions. Blindness. Deceptions.

This is interesting because I think we mostly we think of Satan's power as that of desire and lustful enticement. But James 1:14-18 connects desire to deception: 

But each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death. 

Don’t be deceived, my dear brothers and sisters. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. He chose to give us birth through the word of truth...

Desire, in this view, is like shifting shadows. Desire is misperception. Desire is not seeing clearly. 

And so, the imperative is clear: 

Do not be deceived.

As Jonathan Pennington describes in The Sermon on the Mount and Human Flourishing: A Theological Commentary, if we translate makarios in the Beatitudes as “flourishing,” we must face the paradoxical nature of Jesus’ claims. As Pennington observes,

[W]hat Jesus proclaims as being a state of flourishing includes many things that humanity naturally and even vehemently seeks to avoid—poverty of spirit, mourning, humility, hunger and thirst, mercifulness, and peacemaking (things that are only required toward those who have wronged us), and especially suffering through persecution... [T]he overall and overwhelming sense of the Beatitudes is that Jesus is authoritatively yet perplexingly commending states of being in the world that are the opposite of flourishing.

Pennington argues that the solution to this paradox concerns how the protasis and apodosis of each Beatitude are related to each other. The words “protasis” and “apodosis” come from Greek grammar and logic and describe the two parts of a conditional sentence, an “if–then” statement. The protasis is the “if,” the proposed condition, and the apodosis is the “then,” the proposed result.

Most translations link the protasis and apodosis of each Beatitude with the vague “for.” For example: “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” As we’ve seen in Pennington’s translation, he uses “because” to link the protasis with the apodosis: “Flourishing are the humble because they will inherit the earth.” Here’s Pennington defending that translation and how it addresses the paradoxical nature of Jesus’ vision of flourishing:

“Because” shows that the apodosis provides the essential explanation or causal grounds for the radical paradox being claimed in the protasis. The unexpected claim of flourishing found in each protasis needs an explanation or else it makes no sense. The apodosis of each Beatitude explains why the paradoxical protasis is true and not meaningless.

The reason Jesus can boldly claim that the poor in spirit are truly flourishing is because, despite appearances, these lowly ones are actually possessors and citizens of God’s heavenly kingdom. “Poor in spirit” may seem like a positive Christian virtue, but in an ancient Near Eastern and Greco-Roman setting of honor and shame, the poor in spirit are in low places in society, and are not identified as possessors of God’s kingdom. So too, the humble are flourishing—despite appearances in society and the world—because they are the true inheritors of the world...

And so on, through each of the Beatitudes. Linking the protasis and apodosis of each Beatitude with “because” makes clear that Jesus is setting forth a vision of flourishing that, while puzzling on its face, is rooted in a deeper reality. On the surface, mourning or being persecuted is not pleasant or desirable. But those who mourn and who are persecuted truly are flourishing because of how they stand in relation to God’s kingdom and promises.

I would suggest that the Beatitudes are presenting an apocalyptic vision of human flourishing. True flourishing, Jesus is saying, is hidden. The Beatitudes function to bring that hidden flourishing into the light. This explains their paradoxical presentation. The Beatitudes are not commands we obey in order to secure a blessing. Rather, Jesus looks upon those already mourning or poor in spirit and declares that, despite appearances, these are the ones who are truly living “the good life.” Why? Because of how they stand in relation to God’s kingdom, both now and in the age to come.

As Pennington highlights the eschatological aspect of the Beatitudes:

The Beatitudes “are invitations to a way of being in the world that will result in flourishing, while understanding that Jesus is redefining flourishing as suffering while awaiting the eschaton...What is radical and unique about Jesus’s [Beatitudes] is the unexpected eschatological twist that human flourishing is now found amid suffering in the time of waiting for God to bring his just reign from heaven to earth...”

There is, as mentioned in the last post, an eschatological aspect to the Beatitudes. But this future orientation is not set before us as an “entrance requirement” for the kingdom. Rather, the Beatitudes describe a present state of being in the world that, despite appearances, is already happy, blessed, and flourishing because of an eschatological hope.

Having made his argument for translating makarios as "flourishing" in the Beatitudes, Jonathan Pennington goes on in The Sermon on the Mount and Human Flourishing: A Theological Commentary to describe how his translation choice contrasts with traditional interpretations of the Beatitudes.

At issue here is how most of the Beatitudes don’t look very much like flourishing. Meekness. Mourning. Poor in spirit. Hungering and thirsting for righteousness. Persecution. Doesn’t look a whole lot like your best life now! And yet, if Pennington is right, Jesus describes these states as flourishing.

So, stepping back, how have the Beatitudes been traditionally interpreted?

Pennington describes three approaches:

1. God’s favor

2. Eschatological reversal blessings

3. Wisdom and virtue-ethics reading

The first view of the Beatitudes—that they are statements regarding God’s favor—Pennington rejects on the grounds of his analysis we’ve surveyed over the last two posts. How makarios is related to asre rather than brk. That is to say, the Beatitudes are descriptions of a flourishing/blessed/happy state of being rather than statements about divine conferral. As Pennington goes on to point out, this contrast helps to negate legalistic and mechanistic "if/then" applications of the Beatitudes, in which, if we do X, God will bless us with Y. For example, if we were to read "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" in this manner, I would assume that I need to go out there and make myself sad in order to secure God’s blessing or favor.

The more common interpretation of the Beatitudes is that they are "eschatological reversal blessings." In this reading, the sad aspect of the Beatitude is embraced—the mourning, the meekness, the poverty of spirit, the hungering and thirsting, the persecution—but it proclaims a future, eschatological reversal. The sadness, poverty, and pain will be overcome. The Beatitudes are expressions of encouragement, consolation, and hope. "In this world you will have trouble," Jesus said, "but take heart, for I have overcome the world."

Obviously, there is some friction between this reading of the Beatitudes and Pennington’s choice to translate makarios as "flourishing." Simply put, according to the eschatological reversal interpretation, the present state of existence is not going well. Our "flourishing" is a future hope, not a lived and present reality. We will circle back to this issue in a moment.

The third way of reading the Beatitudes, Pennington continues, is to approach them through the perspective of the Old Testament Wisdom tradition and the lens of virtue ethics. Recall, Pennington has made the case that makarios corresponds to the Hebrew vision of asre, which is primarily found in the Wisdom literature of the Old Testament. In the Beatitudes Jesus is describing a vision of human thriving, happiness, and flourishing. Jesus is presenting in the Beatitudes a picture of eudaimonia, the good life. Accordingly, the Beatitudes describe virtues that help us achieve a life well lived. This view, obviously, resonates with Pennington’s choice to translate makarios as "flourishing." As Pennington puts it, in the Beatitudes Jesus, as a teacher of Wisdom, gives his "answer to the great human question of happiness."

Trouble is, as should be obvious, Jesus’ vision of happiness doesn’t look very happy—at least not on the surface. Jesus’ description of the good life is paradoxical and provocative. To resolve this, Pennington argues that the best way to read the Beatitudes is to combine the second and third approaches: eschatological blessings combined with a vision of human flourishing. According to Pennington, Jesus really is describing a vision of asre in the Beatitudes, a vision of human happiness. And yet, this vision of happiness is eschatologically inflected. There is a "now" and a "not yet" quality to this vision of flourishing. This is important for Pennington because eschatological interpretations tend to lean into the "not yet" and come to ignore Jesus’ provocative teaching about our flourishing "now." Phrased differently, the eschatological reading of the Beatitudes turns Jesus into an apocalyptic prophet at the expense of seeing him as a rabbinic teacher and sage. Jesus isn’t just foretelling a cataclysmic reversal of fortunes. Jesus is sharing a vision of the flourishing and happy human life, which Pennington thinks is too often missed.

As confirmation of this reading, Pennington points to the end of the Sermon on the Mount with the contrast between the wise and foolish builders. That contrast—Wisdom and Folly—goes right to the heart of Scripture’s Wisdom tradition. And it links the start of the Sermon—a wisdom-inspired meditation upon asre, makarios, and flourishing—with its conclusion. The Beatitudes really are about happiness and flourishing here and now.

“viper’s venom is under their lips”

Psalm 140 blends many of the themes found throughout the Psalms.

First, there is a plea for protection:

Rescue me, Lord, from evil men.
Keep me safe from violent men
who plan evil in their hearts.
They stir up wars all day long.
They make their tongues
as sharp as a snake’s bite;
viper’s venom is under their lips. Selah

Protect me, Lord,
from the power of the wicked.
Keep me safe from violent men
who plan to make me stumble.
The proud hide a trap with ropes for me;
they spread a net along the path
and set snares for me. Selah

I say to the Lord, “You are my God.”
Listen, Lord, to my cry for help.
Lord, my Lord, my strong Savior,
you shield my head on the day of battle.

This is followed by imprecations:

Lord, do not grant the desires of the wicked;
do not let them achieve their goals.
Otherwise, they will become proud. Selah

When those who surround me rise up,
may the trouble their lips cause overwhelm them.
Let hot coals fall on them.
Let them be thrown into the fire,
into the abyss, never again to rise.
Do not let a slanderer stay in the land.
Let evil relentlessly hunt down a violent man.

And at the end of the song, a turn toward praise:

I know that the Lord upholds
the just cause of the poor,
justice for the needy.
Surely the righteous will praise your name;
the upright will live in your presence.

That's the whole song. 

We are here with Psalm 140, so I’ve written a lot already about all of these themes — petitions for protection, imprecation, and the Lord’s concern for the poor and needy. What strikes me today is the turmoil and conflict of the psalmist’s world. The song is attributed to David, and his life was downright Shakespearean in its drama, much of it tragic. I wonder what it’s like to be surrounded by people who have viper’s venom under their lips. It sounds like an episode of Game of Thrones.

The church fathers and desert contemplatives spiritualized these songs. Demons assault the soul with deception. Satan, as the Father of Lies, speaks with viper’s venom under his lips.

Either way, we find ourselves embattled. That’s one of the vivid images the Psalms leave us with. The soul besieged. The conflict. The storm. Feeling pursued and hunted. Sensing yourself drowning. Being surrounded by poisonous snakes.

In the last post we described Jonathan Pennington's argument from The Sermon on the Mount and Human Flourishing: A Theological Commentary that the Greek word makarios corresponds with the Hebrew word asre, which describes a holistic vision of human flourishing. This is part of Pennington's argument for translating makarios in the Beatitudes as "flourishing" rather than the traditional "blessed."

An additional argument that Pennington's uses in defense of his translation of makarios as "flourishing" concerns the contrast between asre and brk, another Hebrew word translated as "blessed" in the Old Testament.

As Pennington points out, the Hebrew rook brk occurs 327 times in the Old Testament as a verb. An additional 71 times brk occurs as noun. This tilt toward the verb is significant. Just as significant is how brk shows up heavily in the Torah, Genesis and Deuteronomy especially. 

Why are these contrasts significant? Recall how asre was a descriptive of a flourishing life. Brk, by contrast, is an action, generally an action of God's. Also, recall how asre was concentrated in the Wisdom tradition. Brk, by contrast, is strongly associated with the Torah, the stories that focus upon God's covenantal relationship with Israel and the patriarchs. 

All this leads Pennington to conclude that while both asre and brk are translated as "blessed" they have fundamentally different connotations. Specifically, brk refers to a blessing/reward conferred by God upon a faithful person. Asre, as described in the last post, speaks to something more intrinsic and integral, the state of flourishing of one who has been "blessed." Here's Pennington making the contrast: 

[T]here is a basic and significant distinction maintained between the (verb) "blessing," which is an active word and whose subject is typically God, and the state of those who receive this blessing or flourishing, described as the asre person. The one who pronounces an asherism (or macarism), such as Psalm 1 ("How happy is the one...") is not "blessing" others in the brk sense of initiating, effecting, or inaugurating favor. Rather, asre is an exclamatory description of the state of happiness, privilege, or fortune that is upon someone as observed by someone else, a bystander, not the one providing or initiating the blessing. Asherims/marcarisms are not "words of power" or statements about God actively favoring someone; they do not occur in ritual settings, and one never prays for a macarism/asherism nor refers to oneself as asre.

Can you see the distinction? I can "bless" you. That action, blessing you, is brk. I can also look upon people who are flourishing and thriving and describe them as "blessed." That's asre. The contrast is that brk is an act of conferral whereas asre is a description of a flourishing state of existence. Biblically, of course, the two are intimately related. Receiving God's blessing (brk) creates a state of blessedness (asre). 

This contrast is critical to Pennington's choice to translate makarios in the Beatitudes as "flourishing." The traditional translation of makarios as "blessed" obscures the contrast between asre and brk. Specifically, is Jesus conferring a blessing (brk) upon the meek and the pure in heart? Or, is Jesus describing meekness and purity of heart as a state of human flourishing (asre)? As we learned in the last post, makarios describes asre rather than brk. Thus, concludes Pennington, the Beatitudes are describing states of human flourishing and well-being. 

As introduced in the last post, Jonathan Pennington argues in his book The Sermon on the Mount and Human Flourishing: A Theological Commentary that the best English translation we have for the Greek word makarios in the Beatitudes is "flourishing." This is, obviously, a contrast with the more traditional translation of "blessed." 

So, how does Pennington justify this choice?

A critical piece of Pennington's argument concerns how makarios maps onto the Old Testament.

To appreciate this argument, a quick historical recap is in order. As you know, the Old Testament was written in Hebrew. However, around 250–200 BC, a few centuries before Jesus, Jewish scholars translated the Old Testament into Greek. This translation was called the Septuagint. And the Septuagint was the Bible of the apostles and early Christians. 

As a Greek translation of the Old Testament, the Septuagint allows scholars to correlate Greek words in New Testament with Hebrew words in the Old Testament. The process is simple. For a given Greek word in the New Testament we can observe where that same Greek word shows up in the Septuagint. We then examine the Hebrew words associated with the Septuagint's translation. This method helps correlate Old Testament meanings with New Testament words. 

Okay, so where do we find the Greek word makarios used in the Septuagint? What Hebrew words are associated with it?

To start, Pennington notes that it's rare to find in the Septuagint a strict one to one correspondence between a Greek word and an associated Hebrew word. That is to say, we don't often find Greek/Hebrew synonyms. Mostly what we find in the Septuagint is a variety of Hebrew words associated with a single Greek word. But against that general trend, we do find an exception with the Greek word makarios. As Pennington observes, the Hebrew word asre in the Old Testament is always translated as makarios in the Septuagint. This suggests a tight correspondence between the Hebrew asre and the Greek makarios.

So, what does asre mean in the Old Testament?

To start, while there is some debate here, the word asre come from Semitic and Egyptian roots meaning "prosperity, good luck, and happiness." Crucially, asre is mainly found in the Wisdom tradition of the Old Testament, mostly Psalms and Proverbs. Of the forty-five occurrences of asre in the Old Testament, twenty-six are from the Psalms. 

This connection with the Wisdom tradition is important for Pennington. The Wisdom tradition is less invested in the "if/then" contingencies of the Deuteronomic covenant, especially how those relate to the cultic practices of Israel. The Wisdom texts are more interested in a life well-lived than in adherence to Levitical prohibitions. As Pennington summarizes, "Asre describes the happy state of the one who lives wisely. In this sense it is closely related to salom [shalom]." Pennington continues:

Thus, asre refers to true happiness and flourishing within the gracious covenant God has given. Like the prophetic literature, the Psalms offer the promise of flourishing and happiness (fertility, prosperity, security) through faithfulness to the Lord...There is a struggle in Israel about which way to live, and the Psalms play an important part in creating the vision of the only path to true flourishing...

The other place asre regularly occurs is Proverbs, which also makes an appeal to find full human flourishing through wise living. In Proverbs the asre one is primarily the person who finds wisdom and lives wisely...This person is naturally extolled as "happy" and "flourishing."

We can observe this holistic view of flourishing in how asre regulates the vision of Psalm 1:

Blessed [Hebrew: asre; Septuagint: makarios] is the man
who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,
nor stands in the way of sinners,
nor sits in the seat of scoffers;

but his delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law he meditates day and night.

He is like a tree
planted by streams of water
that yields its fruit in its season,
and its leaf does not wither.
In all that he does, he prospers.

Notice what we have here in Psalm 1. A picture of human human flourishing. The one who is makarios is nourished ("like a tree planed by streams of water"), full of vitality ("its leaf does not wither"), and fecundity ("yields its fruit in its season"). Simply put, the one who is makarios "prospers." 

The point for Pennington is that this vision of asre in Psalm 1 isn't a vision of behavior/reward, that if I do X then I will receive Y. That sort of if/then contingency is how we often think of the Beatitudes, that if I am, say, pure in spirit then I will receive a reward/blessing. By contrast, the vision of asre in the Wisdom tradition, argues Pennington, is describing something more organic, integral, and holistic. Not blessing as mere reward, but a vision of human flourishing--an integral way of being in the world characterized by vitality, fecundity, and prosperity.

If this is so, then the Beatitudes aren't setting before us a command/reward framework. "Do X and you will be Blessed." Rather, in the Beatitudes Jesus is describing a, very paradoxical, vision of human flourishing itself. 

Last year, after 18 years serving as the Chair for the Department of Psychology here at ACU, I stepped away from that role to take up a new position. I currently serve as the Senior Fellow for the Saunders Center for Joy and Human Flourishing here at the university. You can check out our work here. 

At one of our fall "Things That Really Matter" lunches, where faculty and students gather to talk about--you guessed it--things that really matter, my colleague Cliff Barbarick gave a presentation over Jonathan Pennington's book The Sermon on the Mount and Human Flourishing: A Theological Commentary. In this series I'd like to share Pennington's thoughts about how the Beatitudes relate to Jesus' vision of human flourishing. 

Critical to this endeavor is the translation of the Greek word makarios, traditionally translated as "blessed." As in: "Blessed are the meek..." A few translations dare "happy" as a translation. As in: "Happy are those who..."

If you've spent any time at all studying the Sermon on the Mount you've likely encountered the difficulties in translating makarios. While traditional, the translation of "blessed" is inadequate in many ways. Worse, as Pennington argues, "blessed" may even be misleading.

So, what does Pennington suggest for a translation of makarios? Pennington argues that the best word we have, though still limited in some ways, is "flourishing." In this series, I'll share Pennington's argument for this choice, but for today I'll simply share his translation of the Beatitudes:

Flourishing are the poor in spirit because the kingdom of heaven is theirs.

Flourishing are the mourners because they will be comforted.

Flourishing are the humble because they will inherit the earth.

Flourishing are the ones hungering and thirsting for righteousness because they will be satisfied.

Flourishing are the merciful because they will be given mercy.

Flourishing are the pure in heart because they will see God.

Flourishing are the peacemakers because they will be called children of God.

Flourishing are the ones persecuted on account of righteousness because the kingdom of heaven in theirs.

Flourishing are you whenever people revile and slander and speak all kinds of evil things against you on account of me.

Rejoice and be glad because your reward is great in heaven. In this same way people slandered the prophets who came before you. 

Regular readers know that one of the spiritual highlights of my week is leading hymns at the start of the Bible study I lead on Monday evenings out at the prison. I grew up singing a cappella four-part harmony out of gospel hymnals. This is my love language with the Lord. My church, though, has gravitated toward praise band worship music. Which I enjoy, so don't get me wrong. But I do miss gospel hymn singing, and the prison is my weekly chance to scratch this spiritual itch. 

Our tradition out at the unit is for the men to call out the number of a hymn they want to sing. This week a man called out the number of a hymn that I sang a lot growing up, but had not sung in decades: "Low in the Grave He Lay."

Musically, "Low in the Grave He Lay" is a quirky song. The verses are sung in a slow, dirge-like way. These are followed by a chorus sung at a quicker pace and with upbeat energy. The musical contrast highlights a lyrical contrast. The verses describe Jesus in the grave. The chorus turns toward the resurrection. The song swings back and forth, from mourning and grief toward triumphant joy and exuberant praise. 

Personally, I find the dramatic swing in "Low in the Grave He Lay" a bit cheesy. But the hymn has often surprised me. I find myself moved. 

Singing the song again this week, after so many years, I was struck by the Christus Victor themes that run throughout:

1. 

Low in the grave He lay—
Jesus my Savior!
Waiting the coming day—Jesus my Lord!

Chorus:

Up from the grave He arose,
With a mighty triumph o’er His foes
He arose a Victor from the dark domain,
And He lives forever with His saints to reign.
He arose! He arose!
Hallelujah! Christ arose!

2 .

Vainly they watch His bed—
Jesus, my Savior!
Vainly they seal the dead—
Jesus my Lord!

3.

Death cannot keep his prey—
Jesus, my Savior!
He tore the bars away—
Jesus my Lord!

Note the Christus Victor images from the Chorus. He arose, with a might triumph o'er His foes. That line is followed by a Harrowing of Hell image: He arose a Victor from the dark domain. Similar images are found in Verse 3: Death cannot keep his prey. And second Harrowing of Hell allusion: He tore the bars away--Jesus my Lord!

Perhaps most significantly of all, not a single allusion or reference to the cross or penal substitutionary atonement. Good Friday is not mentioned. The focus of the song is wholly upon Holy Saturday and Easter Sunday.

All that to say, while a Christus Victor vision of the atonement wasn't a dominant theme of my upbringing it was always there. And perhaps nowhere more clearly articulated than in an old hymn I had almost forgotten. 

"Where can I go to escape your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there."

Psalm 139 is both glorious and a puzzle.

The glorious part is verses 1–18. In these lines, the poet describes the inescapable presence of God—“Where can I go to escape your Spirit?”—along with God’s intimate knowledge—“Your eyes saw me when I was formless”—of the poet.

The puzzling and controversial part of Psalm 139 concerns the final part of the poem, verses 19–24. After the soaring and intimate poetry we experience in the first eighteen verses, there is a sudden turn to imprecation: “God, if only you would kill the wicked” and “I hate them with extreme hatred.”

So, how do we make sense of this? Scholars are divided on this question.

Some scholars, noting the hard and harsh change of tone between verse 18 and 19, have suggested that the imprecatory conclusion of the psalm was a later addition to the original song. I suspect this conclusion is somewhat nudged along by our modern moral sensibilities. For my part, I feel that verses 19–24 mar the beauty of the song. And a lot of public and liturgical readings of Psalm 139 do not include the ending for that reason. Added or not, the final lines of the song create significant whiplash.

Other scholars disagree and argue that the final lines were part of the original composition. The goal of these scholars is to show some connection between verses 1–18 and verses 19–24. Here is a sketch of what some of those arguments sound like. Let’s start by attending to the final lines of the song:

Search me, God, and know my heart;
test me and know my concerns.
See if there is any offensive way in me;
lead me in the everlasting way.

Given the Lord’s intimate closeness to and knowledge of the singer, the issue of moral integrity is acute. God always sees me, and God sees me with absolute knowledge and clarity. I am under total and inescapable exposure to the gaze of the Lord. There is no place I can escape to in the cosmos, not even in the underworld, and no place within my own heart where I can hide. And so the petition: Search me. See if there is any offensive way in me. Given this request, it stands to reason that the poet would adopt a posture of hatred toward the enemies of God. Not my personal enemies, but God’s enemies.

Who are these enemies of God? They are “bloodthirsty.” These are people who are perpetrating physical harm and violence against people. More than that, they are justifying their violence by invoking God deceitfully and swearing falsely by God’s name. They are baptizing their violence, using God as a divine justification. Beholding this blasphemy, the poet declares his allegiance: “I hate them with extreme hatred; I consider them my enemies.”

As I have shared on Fridays when we have read imprecatory psalms together, progressive readers of these poems often display an odd lack of self-awareness. And I get it. As I mentioned above, I have always felt that Psalm 139 would be better if it did not include verses 19–24. But I understand hatred directed at bloody-handed pseudo-Christians and naming them as real the enemies of God. I feel that rage myself.

And so it stands to reason that if I were to invite God into my heart with the petition, “Search me, see if there is any offensive way in me,” the same God who sees me most clearly and intimately, and from whose gaze I cannot escape, then I should want my back firmly turned on the enemies of God, those who justify their violence by invoking the Lord. Of course, it is God’s work, and God’s alone, to deal with the bloody impostors. But it is up to me to make sure I am standing on the other side of the line.

In yesterday’s post I described how classical theism contradicts (to my eye) penal substitutionary atonement. That is to say, if we describe a change in God’s affections toward us upon the death of Jesus on the cross, then this cannot be so. Relatedly, there is no “prior state” in the life of God. As Eternal Being, God has no before and after, unlike the temporal sequence often described by penal substitutionary atonement.

Now, I expect the last post kicked up some questions. Whenever I write about classical theism’s claim that God’s love never changes, I always get some pushback. Habits of mind and mental prejudices are hard to dislodge! Specifically, there is this common assumption that for us to have a “real relationship” with God, God’s emotions have to “change.” But this is foolishness. Here are two choices:

1. God’s love never changes.

2. God’s love changes.

Which God would you rather be in “a relationship” with? I’m picking #1. I’d rather be in a relationship with a God who always loves me, no matter what, than with a God who can stop loving me.

Phrased differently, the changeability of God’s love does not constitute relationality. You can be in a relationship with someone who loves you. And you can be in a relationship with someone who hates you. What love affects is the quality of the relationship, not the existence of the relationship. The best of our relationships are those in which we experience constant and unconditional love. The same is true with God. That God’s love never changes does not make it a non-relationship. It makes it the best possible relationship we could ever experience.

The confusion here is that people seem to be equating “relationship” with “emotional volatility.” But this is confused. What defines a relationship is responsiveness, the give and take between two people. That responsiveness can be hurtful or healing. Just ponder all the relationships you’ve ever had and their mixed profiles. Our relationship with God, because God is love, is a responsive and healing relationship. And the fact that this responsive and healing relationship does not change, never becomes harmful or abusive, is what makes it the safe and lifesaving relationship we all long for.

So when I say that God is love and that God’s love never changes, receive it as the good news it truly is. For if God is love and you demand that God change, I don’t think you’re going to like what comes next. Because it’s not going to be love, by definition. So here’s my plea: Stop trying to argue God into hating you.

All that said, the main question yesterday’s post kicks up is obvious: Doesn’t the Bible describe the wrath of God? And doesn’t the Bible describe God’s wrath relenting and changing toward mercy? Given these biblical depictions and descriptions, how are we to make sense of these texts in light of the view of God set forth in classical theism?

My view is that we should approach all the emotional and changing descriptions of God in the Bible as relations to love rather than as anthropomorphisms. That is to say, we should not use human psychology as our model for God. Human psychology is a hot mess, and we should not turn God into a hot mess. The better route is to describe how our hot mess always stands in relation to God’s love.

Consider, as an analogy, a loving parent disciplining their child. From the child’s perspective, the punishment is experienced as the parent’s anger and wrath. But from the parent’s perspective, the discipline is an expression of love, a love that has never changed and never will change. Punishment and wrath, therefore, describe the child’s relation to love in moments of disobedience. Relatedly, sometimes the child experiences fear and guilt. They have done something secret and naughty in relation to the parent’s love. Consequently, the child fears exposure and punishment, and rightly so. But the parent does not love the child any less should the exposure occur and punishment be meted out.

In short, the parent’s love is constant and unchanging, but what the child experiences in relation to that love—from punishment to guilt—is dynamically dependent upon their choices in any given moment. Consequently, the child’s experience of the parent’s love is varied and diverse. Again, love doesn’t change, but love is responsive. And it’s this responsiveness that makes the give and take of the relationship dynamic and particular.

Love and wrath are not, therefore, conflicting emotions within God, where one wins out over the other, back and forth. Wrath names, rather, our relation to God’s love. Like how a disobedient child stands in relation to the parent’s love. As with a child stealing a cookie from the cookie jar, guilt and fear are not descriptive of the parent’s heart. They are, rather, symptoms of a broken relation.

Now, is any of this biblical, or am I just playing word games here?

This is biblical. Scripture says it clearly: “God is love.” More, Scripture describes how the constancy of God’s love is rooted in God being God and not subject to the volatile experience of love in human psychology. For example, from Hosea 11: “I will not execute my burning anger; I will not again destroy Ephraim; for I am God and not a man, the Holy One in your midst, and I will not come in wrath.” That God will not punish in wrath is a sign of God being God and not a hot mess. God’s enduring love is consistently contrasted with the vicissitudes and inconstancy of human affection in Scripture. Another example, from Isaiah 49: “Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.” The love of human mothers can fail--“even these may forget”--but God’s love endures.

My go-to example to describe all this, which I put to use in The Book of Love, is the Parable of the Prodigal Son. The son journeys off to a far country and faces the natural consequences of his rebellion against the father’s love. And during that entire time, the father’s love never changes. Simply put, in our disobedience we can run off to a “far country.” And there we will, eventually, hit our “rock bottom,” as the recovery community likes to put it. And in that moment, does the son feel shame, guilt, regret, and fear upon turning back home? Yes, he does, and appropriately so. The change in the son would not be a change at all if he returned entitled, demanding, and unrepentant.

As a final example, here is a Johannine expression of what I have been describing. From John 3:

And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed. But whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God.

Notice, the light doesn’t judge. The light just shines. The judgment is this: we love the darkness rather than the light. The judgment is our anti-relation to the light. And notice also the guilt and the fear: we do not come to the light lest our works be exposed.

All that to say, when I evacuate wrath from the heart of God, I am not evacuating our relation with God of moral dynamism. Our experiences of wrath, punishment, guilt, and fear are real and legitimate. Those Biblical depictions should be heeded. They do not, however, describe God as a hot mess. Rather, they are experiences of our anti-relation to Love.

Over the last few years I have been describing Jesus’ death on the cross as a theophany of God’s love for us. I expound on this in my upcoming book The Book of Love: A Better Way to Read the Bible, which is now available for pre-order.

What have I meant by this?

Many visions of penal substitutionary atonement describe the death of Jesus as a sacrificial mechanism. A prior state of wrath toward us is changed, upon Jesus’ death, into mercy and peace. One of my objections to this vision is that it posits a change in the heart of God. But according to classical theism, this is impossible.

To be sure, not everyone subscribes to classical theism, but I do. According to classical theism, God does not change or experience emotional swings. As Unchanging Love, God is immutable and impassive in relation to human sin. Consequently, what we behold on the cross can only be how God has always and eternally felt about us. That is what I mean by Jesus’ death being a theophany of God’s love for us. A theophany is a visible manifestation of God toward humanity. And as theophany, the cross makes the love of God visible within history.

A closely related reason why penal substitutionary atonement is incompatible with classical theism concerns time. 

Specifically, penal substitutionary atonement describes a temporal sequence in the life of God, a before and an after. A prior state of wrath is followed by a state of grace.

To be sure, in what theologians describe as “the economy of salvation," God’s salvific actions and manifestations within history, there is a temporal sequence. The Fall of Genesis 3 comes first. God’s actions to save us, from Old Testament through to the New, follow after. We behold God’s love in a temporal, economic sequence. The theophany unfolds within time. For us, there is a before and after. But according to classical theism, there is no before or after in the life of God. Time stands in relation to God as a Simultaneous Now. What we behold on the cross is, therefore, God’s loving always, now, and forever. God’s love is not a latecomer, but always was and shall be.

In short, this is one of the big reasons I subscribe to classical theism. Classical theism contradicts penal substitutionary atonement. God’s emotions do not change upon the cross, nor does the cross demarcate a before and after in the life of God. God is infinite and unchanging, immutable love. And that is what we behold in the death of Christ, a visible manifestation of God’s love.

In the last post we reflected upon David Kelsey's work in his book Eccentric Existence. Following Kelsey, if we take our creation theology from the Wisdom tradition, rather than Genesis, the limitations of creaturely existence, our finitude and contingency, are not assumed to be "fallen" but are, rather, ontological givens. If so, there is no "problem of evil" per se, just the experiences of finite creatures in their finitude.

In the ancient mindset this was "the problem of evil." The instability of creaturely existence. Our change, fading, and decay. Finitude haunted the Greeks, and they developed a variety of philosophical responses to it, from Stoicism to Epicureanism. In the East, the Buddha argued that creaturely existence is characterized by impermanence, and that suffering (Duhhka) is caused by our grasping and clinging to that impermanence. Notice how the "problem of evil" here is less about personal experiences of horrendous or gratuitous suffering than with the nature of finite existence itself. 

Consequently, many of the ancients attempted to adopt a moral and existential posture toward finitude. Stoicism and Buddhism recommended a stance of non-attachment to impermanent existence. The Epicureans promoted a more relaxed “enjoy life while we may” attitude, not in hedonistic excess but through the simple and temperate enjoyment of life’s pleasures. 

The point is that finitude posed a challenge. How are we to live with it? Non-attachment was one response. Enjoying the pleasures of life was another. And, yes, there was the desire to escape finitude entirely through ascent to or union with the divine. Regardless, in the ancient world the “problem of evil” was really the "challenge of finitude." Living in relation to finitude demanded the right mindset. That was the Buddha’s point: if your attitude toward finitude is wishing it were otherwise, well, you're going to suffer. For the Stoics, living well in relation to finitude demanded virtue. 

What I'm trying to draw out here is how "the challenge of finitude" is universal. This isn't a uniquely Christian problem. Even if you reject Christianity because of "the problem of evil" you're still stuck with the problem. You still have to adopt a healthy posture, morally and existentially, to finitude. And maybe you turn toward Stoicism, Epicureanism, or Buddhism. Regardless, you're coming to grips with finitude on its own terms. Which means you're embracing creaturely existence as good in itself, for exactly what it is, ambiguities and all.   

Biblically, we see this working out in the Wisdom literature. Ecclesiastes is, if nothing else, expressing a moral and existential posture that relates to finitude on its own terms. Life is hebel, mist and vapor, the fleeting impermanence the Buddha described. This, of course, creates desolations. But also gratitude for and the enjoyment of life:

Go, eat your bread with pleasure, and drink your wine with a cheerful heart, for God has already accepted your works. Let your clothes be white all the time, and never let oil be lacking on your head. Enjoy life with the wife you love all the days of your fleeting life, which has been given to you under the sun, all your fleeting days. For that is your portion in life and in your struggle under the sun. Whatever your hands find to do, do with all your strength, because there is no work, planning, knowledge, or wisdom in Sheol where you are going.

What we find in these reflections from Qoheleth is a stance toward life that has been properly sized in relation to finitude. We find related reflections in the Psalms where there are humble recognitions of finitude. From Psalm 39:

“Lord, make me aware of my end
and the number of my days
so that I will know how short-lived I am.
In fact, you have made my days just inches long,
and my life span is as nothing to you.
Yes, every human being stands as only a vapor."

Biblically, we meet the challenge of finitude, which is essentially "the problem of evil," with humility and gratitude. Morally and existentially, that is how we live as creatures in relation to our creaturehood. As I've described it in this series, created existence, as existence, is a positive good. Simply, to exist is good. That this existence fades into non-existence isn't good, but that doesn't completely overshadow the gift of existence itself. Existence, as existence, isn't accursed. Consequently, we must adopt postures toward existence, in its finitude, that resist viewing existence as accursed. And this imperative isn't a Christian cop out, a way to let God off the hook. For even Albert Camus argued, as an atheist, that we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Human life can only be tolerated if we experience it as a positive good. The alternative is viewing existence itself as evil, that life is a curse. To be sure, some people, in facing the challenge of finitude, reach that nihilistic, life-hating conclusion. And the outcomes of that worldview, morally and existentially, speak for themselves. The only human and humane way of inhabiting creaturely existence is to meet finitude on its own terms. From Ecclesiastes to Greek philosophy to Buddhism, finitude meets us not as an ontological problem but as a moral and existential challenge. To live successfully as a creature requires adjusting our expectations to fit the ontological realities of finite existence in all its ambiguities. 

To exist is good. Which is a sermon even atheists will preach. They feel the imperative: We must imagine that Sisyphus is happy. 

In Eccentric Existence, his epic two-volume work, David Kelsey makes the choice to ground his theological anthropology in the creation theology of the Wisdom tradition. 

This is an unusual choice. As Kelsey notes, most theologians use Genesis as the source for creation theology. Humans are created in the image of God. We dwelt in Paradise. There was a primordial fall from grace. We live with the consequences of this fall. Genesis was the framework of my last post, describing how creaturely finitude was exposed by the fall, how the latent potentiality of creaturely contingency became actualized. 

In contrast to this move, leaning on the work of Claus Westermann, Kelsey argues that the Genesis account of human origins is biased in ways that makes it ill-suited for theological anthropology. Specifically, Genesis was written to set the stage for God's mighty acts of deliverance in the Torah. Thus, the theological interests of Genesis are soteriological rather than anthropological. Kelsey argues that if we want to explore the Biblical view of human persons we need to look toward Biblical resources that aren't "bent" by soteriological concerns but attend to the experiences of day to day human life within created existence. We find this creation theology in the Wisdom tradition of Scripture, the books of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Solomon, and Job.

As Kelsey points out, the Wisdom literature lacks the soteriological and cultic concerns of the Torah. There is no story about cosmic origins. There is no primordial fall and lingering curse. There are no grand narratives about God's saving acts in history, like the Exodus. The cultic life of Israel, as set forth in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, is absent or marginalized. Nor is there an eschatological vision of future restoration. What we find in the Wisdom tradition is, instead, just normal, everyday human life, what Kelsey calls the "quotidian."

Step back and take in the implications of this theological move. It's fascinating. When it comes to pondering human existence, what if we started with Job, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes rather than with Genesis? How might that cause us to rethink the nature of human existence?

Here's one implication: Finitude isn't cursed.

In the last post I tried to connect finitude to the Fall. I did this because, like a lot of you, we take our creation theology from Genesis. But what if this theological habit of ours imports some of the distortions Kelsey is describing? For example, the notion that finitude is cursed. What if, as we see described in the Wisdom tradition, finitude is taken for granted? With no description of cosmic origins or primordial fall, creaturely life within the Wisdom tradition is exactly what it is, no explanations offered. Nor is creaturely existence to be "overcome." Upon being born we simply show up in the middle of finitude. Finitude is a creational given. Contingency is assumed and its origins are not interrogated.

What, then, is Wisdom's position on finitude being either good or bad? The answer Wisdom gives is that creaturely life is a mixed bag. We see this most clearly in Ecclesiastes. We're all familiar with how Ecclesiastes dances between desolation in regards to human finitude and gratitude for the gifts of existence. In the poetic way I've used to describe this, Ecclesiastes dances between sunlight and shadows. Creaturely existence is a positive good, but it is haunted by contingency. As Kelsey describes it, our quotidian existence, being finite, is experienced by us as ambiguous:

"Finite" means "limited." Creaturely being is limited being. This is an ontological claim...

Every particular physical creature making up the quotidian is finite in at least two ways. First are the intrinsic limits to which creatures are subject. Every physical creature is a complex set of interrelated energy systems that is inherently subject over time to progressive disintegration. Energy becomes progressively less organized and eventually dissipates altogether, and the creature ceases to be...Particular physical creatures' finitude is a function, second, of extrinsic limits to which they are subject...They impinge on one another in rule-governed ways that inevitably involve the change and eventual destruction of each of them. The realm of physical creatures, which is the context into which we are born, is inherently accident-prone, as creatures inescapably damage one another...

One consequence of the finitude of creatures is that the quotidian is inherently ambiguous experientially. This ambiguity is rooted ontologically--that is, in the creatureliness of the quotidian....Hence what God relates to creatively, ourselves and our everyday world, may be experienced by us in delight and pleasure as, from our perspective, (relatively) good for us. On the other hand, the finitude of creation means that creatures are inevitably vulnerable to damage, deterioration, and destruction. The context into which we are born simply is the condition of the possibility of our undergoing hurt, lost, and death. Hence, that which God creates, ourselves and our everyday world, may be experienced, from our perspective, as threatening to us. On the pleasure-pain axis, that which God creates is profoundly ambiguous for us experientially. 

Again, Wisdom just assumes all this about life. No explanation is given about why existence is ambiguous. Nor is this ambiguity described as comprehensively accursed. And there is no eschatological vision about how this ambiguity will be, one day, overcome and escaped. The mix of good and bad we experience in life, joy and sorrow, is just what it is. Life was like this yesterday. Life is like this today. And life will be like this tomorrow. Finitude just is. 

Now, how does a creation theology rooted in Wisdom recast what we call "the problem of evil"? 

Again, since we tend to take our beats from Genesis, we frame finitude soteriologically. That is, finitude enters as a curse, persists as a problem, and will be eschatologically overcome. Eschewing this soteriological framework, Wisdom views finitude not as a problem but as an ontological given. True, as we see in Ecclesiastes, this givenness presents challenges. But the problem isn't ontological, a quarrel with finitude itself, but is, rather, moral and existential in nature. Finitude sets the table for the human drama and we're called to act wisely within this drama. In this view, there really isn't a "problem of evil." Again, as I've describe in this series, if "evil" is just another name for "finitude," and finitude is not questioned in Wisdom, then the presence of "evil" isn't rendered problematic. As Kelsey observes, "I question whether much of what has traditionally been classified as 'natural' or 'metaphysical' evil ought to be theologically named 'evil' at all." 

To be sure, after floating that assessment Kelsey goes on to reflect upon gratuitous and horrendous evil. Though a lot of this, like abuse, torture, and genocide, can be attributed to human actors. Still, there are natural evils that create horrors. But the reframing of evil by the Wisdom literature remains. If finitude, in all its ambiguity, is simply a given, then the question shifts away from finitude's origins to our moral and existential response to finitude, even in it's "evil" manifestations. Focus shifts away from abstract ontological questions about theodicy toward wise responses to the ambiguities of our quotidian existence. Wisdom asks us to relate to finitude as finitude.

What would such a posture look like? We'll turn to those questions next and bring Albert Camus back into the conversation.

"thou hast magnified thy word above all thy name"

There’s a curious line in Psalm 138:2. A literal rendering of the Hebrew, given above in the KJV, suggests that God’s word is magnified over God’s name. This seems awkward, and perhaps theologically suspect. Consequently, most modern translations insert an “and” (which isn’t in the Hebrew) between “word” and “name.” This leads to a translation like this in the ESV: “for you have exalted above all things your name and your word.” As you can see, an “and” is inserted between “name” and “word” causing them to be exalted together, rather than word being exalted over name.

There are some scholars, though, who defend the more literal reading, that the poet really did intend to say that God’s word is greater than His name. Specifically, Psalm 138 is a song of praise for God’s faithfulness and steadfast love. The opening of the song:

I give you thanks, O Lord, with my whole heart;
before the gods I sing your praise;
I bow down toward your holy temple
and give thanks to your name for your steadfast love and your faithfulness,
for you have exalted above all things
your name and your word.
On the day I called, you answered me;
my strength of soul you increased.

In light of this praise, it has been suggested that the singer is saying, in the more literal reading, that God’s promises (God’s word) exceed God’s reputation (God’s name). The idea here is that God’s actions are what constitute God’s name and reputation. God keeping God’s promises is what gives God’s name its reputational status and authority.

A more speculative line of interpretation is that God’s fidelity is greater than we can imagine. We have heard God’s name. We know God’s reputation. But God’s word is greater than our conceptions. An apophatic note is being sounded here. We have in our minds God’s name and God’s reputation. God is a representation in our minds. An idea, a concept. But God’s word, God’s living, active vitality, always exceeds, surprises, and interrupts our prior conceptions. 

And that is the good news of Psalm 138, that when God acts, it always surpasses what we had imagined or conceived.