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.

In the last post I made the point that to exist is to be shadowed by finitude and contingency. And if our experience of finitude and contingency is named as evil then it would appear to be that "evil" is intrinsic to creaturely existence. And yet, this seems to contradict the Biblical vision that creation was primordially good and that evil entered at a later point which we call "the Fall." 

Last year I shared some thoughts about all this in a series entitled "A Theology of Everything." Some of this series is an attempt to clarify and deepen some of those reflections. 

When creaturely existence was (or is or will be) united with God it is protected from finitude and contingency. Creaturely existence, therefore, was created good but vulnerable. Finitude existed as a potential future for creaturely being. Our fall into contingency was the actualization of this potential due to an existential "turning away" from divine union. When creaturely existence stepped away from divine union it suffered what I've called "an ontological drop" into finitude. In that drop, creaturely existence was exposed as contingent and began to suffer the vulnerabilities intrinsic to finitude. 

All this seems straightforward, just couched here in abstract theological language. But in describing the Fall in this way what we call "the problem of evil" is recast. Specifically, as described in the last post, evil isn't an alien intruder. Nor is creation "broken." Creaturely existence is just being itself. Finite and contingent. 

In this view, finite existence has an ontological integrity proper to its nature. Nothing is wrong with existence, it's just that existence is finite. Consequently, when we ask questions like “Why does cancer exist?”, “Why are there school shooters?”, or “Why are there natural disasters?”, there are straightforward answers: “Cancer exists because cells begin to multiply…,” “School shooters exist because disturbed individuals…,” “Hurricanes exist because low-pressure systems develop over the Atlantic….” These are contingent events within a finite existence. This is just what existence is in itself. A metaphysical question about why God "allows" such events to occur is, therefore, being posed at the wrong scale. The question is too fine-grained, ontologically speaking. The proper frame of the question concerns existence as an ontological whole. The question posed at its proper scale would be: "Why is creaturely existence finite and contingent?" And, once again, the answer is: "Because that's what creaturely existence, as creaturely existence, just is."

But again, creaturely existence suffering its contingency was not God's plan. Finitude became exposed upon our separation from God. More simply and conventionally stated, evil exists because we've fallen away from God. And the whole of existence, in being exposed to our finitude and contingency, suffers the consequences of that separation.

We misattribute curse to finitude itself because we only encounter it outside its intended relation to God. The curse is not mortality or decay, which are proper to finitude, but the lost communion that leaves finitude exposed. Death is proper to finitude. The curse is being exposed to death apart from God. This sits at the heart of our bivalent attitudes toward finitude. On the one hand, death is expected, natural, and good. It is the circle of life. At the same time, we name death as evil and a curse, especially when it is painful or untimely. Our ambivalent feelings here point toward multiple truths. Finitude, as finitude, is a good. Mortality included. And yet, in light of our lost ontological relation to God, being exposed to finitude is experienced as a curse.

We are born into contingency. We are finite creatures subject to entropy. We cannot hold ourselves in being. We slide into nothingness.

Biblically speaking, we are creatures. And life as a creature means that our existence is a dance between sunlight and shadows. Positively, we name our existence as good. Negatively, we see and experience how our existence is unstable. We are prone to damage, disease, decay, and death. And when our finite contingency intrudes, when existence is eroded, we name that as evil. 

When we talk about the problem of evil some break it down into categories. Moral evil and natural evil is one contrast. Moral evils are the harms humans perpetrate against each other. Natural evils are the sufferings intrinsic to the human condition, from diseases to natural catastrophes to untimely accidents. 

Since moral evil is caused by human agents some set God's responsibility aside in these cases. Moral evil is a self-inflicted wound, and if humanity would stop hurting itself such evils would go away. Natural evil presents a different case, for even if moral evils ceased to exist cancer and natural disasters would still be with us. Regardless, in both instances, our finitude is implicated. As creatures we are vulnerable to harms. And when those harms come, moral or natural, we name them as evils.

Experientially, this makes total sense. If existence is a positive good then anything that erodes our existence is the opposite of good. Augustine famously described evil as privatio boni. Evil has no positive existence but is, rather, the privation of the good. For finite creatures, evil is the loss of existence, the erosion of being. As we see our being dissolving, slowly or in a moment, we name our dissolution as evil.

The "problem of evil," therefore, is entangled with our existential posture toward finitude. By definition, finite existence fades into non-existence. Which means that evil is an intrinsic aspect of finite existence. Evil isn't an ontological intruder. Our tendency toward non-existence, what we name as evil, is simply what it means to exist as a creature. Evil is an ontological implication of finitude. That is, to exist is to experience evil.

Thus, to raise a question about evil is to raise a question about existence itself. If you ask "Why is there evil?" the answer is straightforward: "Because you exist." If you exist, as a creature, you will be shadowed by non-existence. That's what it means to exist as a finite, contingent being. Consequently, any sort of surprise or outrage we experience about evil flows out of a confusion (or delusion) about the nature of creaturely existence. In this sense, the question "Why is there evil?" is odd. The question betrays a lack of ontological insight. 

Of course, if this insight was grasped and appreciated a follow up question could be asked. "Fine, I see your point. Evil is simply a name for the ontological consequences of finitude and contingency. If so, then why didn't God make me a self-subsistent, infinite, necessary being? A being immune to non-existence?" The answer, though, is obvious. If we are created, by definition, our existence cannot be self-subsisting, infinite, or necessary. Theologically, this is what the doctrine of creation ex nihilo is getting at, how our existence is finite and contingent and that there is no other kind of existence outside of God's own aseity. Ontologically, there is God and there are creatures, and we are creatures. So, the question above becomes, "Then why didn't God make me God?" And that question seems to answer itself. For to be "made" rules out you being God.  

Now, you may be starting to ask some questions here. Isn't the theological claim of Genesis that creation is intrinsically good? If so, it seems like I'm suggesting here, contra Genesis, that creation might be intrinsically subject to evil. To wrestle with this issue we need to wade into how creation relates to finitude in light of the Fall. 

We'll turn to that issue next.

Albert Camus famously opens his book The Myth of Sisyphus with these lines:

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.

Not believing in God, as a transcendent guarantor of meaning, in the rest of the book Camus wrestles with the absurdity and nihilism that threatens the meaningfulness of human existence. Facing a existential void, Camus seeks a godless way forward into cosmic significance and fullness. And at the end of the work, Camus reaches his conclusion: "The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

In Hunting Magic Eels, I raise a question about Camus' concluding "must." Why must we imagine Sisyphus happy? All his struggle is meaningless and absurd. The rock will roll back to the bottom of the hill rendering all effort futile, wasted, and pointless. Why, therefore, should we not imagine Sisyphus despairing and hopeless? Surely that seems to be a more reasonable and understandable emotional reaction given his situation. And yet, it is precisely this despair in the face of nihilism that Camus wants to prevent.

Why? Well, Camus is honest enough to know that nihilism cannot provide a livable human existence. If nihilism is admitted then Camus' question about suicide--judging whether life is or is not worth living--remains a perennial temptation and a real moral option. Perhaps even a virtuous and heroic act. And as Camus rightly sees, this path leads to madness. Here be dragons.

Personally, I don't think Camus' attempt at a constructing a meaningful nihilism or a significant absurdity works. True, one can imagine Sisyphus happy, but one can also imagine him suicidal. What I want to focus upon, however, is how, as an atheist, Camus feels it necessary to land on that "must." Even if existence is devoid of meaning, we must imagine our lot as happy. Living as one accursed isn't a good option. We need to embrace and experience our lives as a positive good. We must imagine Sisyphus happy. 

And it's precisely here, with Camus' conclusion about a happy Sisyphus, where I want to introduce Camus as a strange ally into a conversation about "the problem of evil" in Christian theology. 

As regular readers know, I've been thinking about the problem of evil for a very long time. Theodicy defines my theological world. And one of the things I've noticed in conversations about theodicy, among others who wrestle with these questions, is how the conversation can tip toward viewing existence itself as accursed. You see this emerge in Ivan Karamazov's arguments in The Brothers Karamazov, in his questions about how God created the world, even if God plans to redeem it all. Notice the deeper challenge here. The question isn't "Why does evil exist?" but a more radical objection: "Why does creation exist?" Given all the pain and suffering, was creation worth the cost? Ivan Karamazov says no, creation wasn't worth cost. Shouldn't have happened. So, he wants to "return his ticket" back to God. Ivan wants nothing to do with existence. Life is accursed. 

So that is the question I want to ponder. It's a deeper and far darker question than what what we typically debate when it comes to "the problem of evil." For the most part, we debate the mixed state of the world, how evil exists alongside the good. How suffering and pain intrude upon life. But there is a more radical question that attacks, in light of horrific suffering, the goodness of existence itself. And it's precisely here where I think the happiness of Sisyphus might have something to say. For even the godless can see that existence must be embraced as good.

Last post in this series reflecting upon intentionality. Gathering up these reflections, let me suggest that I’ve made two big points.

First, intentionality is vital and necessary. As I described in the last post, intentionality sits at the heart of Christian moral practice. “Fixing your eyes on Jesus” is an intentional act. And as I described earlier in this series, acts of welcome and hospitality require that we intentionally disengage our social autopilot. Otherwise, our habits of relating will be pulled along by social-psychological dynamics that draw us toward sameness and away from difference. Finally, given the pervasive disenchantment of our culture, many of us must practice habits of attention that open the possibility for mystical encounter.

Second, having lost a cultural taken-for-grantedness, Christianity is now experienced as a decision and a choice. This makes faith fragile and effortful. Consequently, many try to recapture, create, or politically enforce a more homogeneous Christian culture. However, as I’ve noted, these efforts carry their own problems. Most importantly, they can’t escape our new normal. Going forward, at least in our lifetimes, faith will always involve intention and choice. We have to choose it.

And yet, our new normal is, in truth, a return to the old normal. At least as far as choice and intentionality are concerned.

We may lament the loss of Latin Christendom. But Christianity didn’t begin with cultural hegemony. The call for intentionality in the New Testament is pervasive because the early Christians were swimming against strong cultural tides, both Jewish and Roman. They were a “peculiar people,” and they paid real social and economic costs for their conversion. Their life of faith unfolded within a hostile majority culture. And while the pluralism of that world pales compared to our modern situation, the contrast between the Christians and what they called “the world” demanded daily, intentional choices. “Do not be conformed,” preached Paul, “to the pattern of this world.” “Be watchful,” Peter declared, “your adversary the devil is on the prowl.”

Like our own time, this constant demand for watchfulness and nonconformity was effortful and exhausting. Thus the constant exhortations for endurance and perseverance. As the writer of Hebrews preached, “Lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees.” We may lament the loss of a culture so homogeneous and ubiquitous that it once carried us along like canoes on a river. But that’s not the world the early Christians knew. They swam upstream. And that demanded effort and intentionality.

So yes, we lost Christendom. We have to be intentional. But our new normal was once the old normal.

We Christians know how to swim upstream.

"Happy is he who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rocks."

We reach what is, perhaps, the most notorious line in the Psalms, perhaps in all of Scripture. We've arrived at Psalm 137, the (in)famous imprecatory psalm. 

We've encountered imprecatory psalms before in this series. And what I said before still stands. The context of Psalm 137 is victimization. The poet has witnessed and experienced murder, torture, sexual assault, and enslavement. And then, on top of all that, the taunting:

By the rivers of Babylon—
there we sat down and wept
when we remembered Zion.
There we hung up our lyres
on the poplar trees,
for our captors there asked us for songs,
and our tormentors, for rejoicing:
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”

"Sing us a song of Zion!" You can imagine the smug and jeering faces of the abusers asking the singer to sing a song about home. In my imagination it's like a scene out of Schindler's List. In response, the poet pens a vicious line: "Happy is he who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rocks." 

This is not moral guidance. It is the tormented and tortured cry of a victim. And as dark as it is, it is also one of the most human moments in all of Scripture. 

Listen, I get why critics of Scripture grab ahold of this line in Psalm 137 to undermine the Bible's moral authority. But failing to attend to this moment of human anguish is also a monumental failure of human empathy. 

There is moral guidance in the Bible. And for Christians we believe that vision comes precisely and definitively into focus in the life and teachings of Jesus. And what makes Jesus' moral witness so challenging and revolutionary is that it takes place in a world where the cry of Psalm 137, that desire for revenge and retaliation, is alive and real. 

But we don't need to jump ahead to Jesus. The Old Testament itself raises these moral concerns. 

This May my newest book is coming out. The Book of Love: A Better Way to Read the Bible is available for pre-order now. I'll have more to share about the book as we get closer to its publication date, but the goal of the book is to show how to read the entire Bible cover to cover--Genesis to Revelation--as a book of love. Obviously, one of the challenges you face in that task are some of the darker moment in Scripture, from the cherem passages in Joshua to the imprecations of the Psalms. As I discuss in The Book of Love, we tend to approach these texts, like I did above, by quickly jumping to Jesus. Which is totally appropriate. But one problem with this move is that it tends to pit the Old Testament against the New Testament. A lot of Christians, progressive Christians especially, are Marcionites. Progressive Christians, given how they tend to handle "problematic" Old Testament texts like Psalm 137, implicitly frame Judaism as morally backward. A whiff of antisemitism hovers around how many progressive Christians treat the Hebrew Scriptures.

But this is unnecessary. As I point out in The Book of Love, the Old Testament, on its own terms, calls texts like Psalm 137 into question. 

Over the last few posts we've been discussing concerns about how calls for intentionality might contribute to the fragilization of faith in the modern age. But in this post I want to make a pivot and argue that while we may worry about a faith rooted in choice and decision, intentionality sits at the heart of the Christian moral life.

The point is simply made. Whenever the New Testament issues a command (“be holy,” “love one another,” “rejoice always,” etc.), it volitional engagement, a deliberate, purposive stance of the self. Obedience to imperatives requires conscious agency. We must notice, evaluate, and intend. The New Testament describes discipleship as a continual reorientation of desire and attention. “Set your mind,” “Present your bodies,” and “Fix your eyes.” These are acts of intention. 

To be sure, practices create habits which create virtues. And virtues, as they they become dispositions, involve diminishing conscious effort. I've described virtue as holy automaticity. 

That said, there is a obvious synergy between intentional obedience and virtuous spontaneity. Intentionality directs the will and virtue stabilizes the will. Virtue doesn't happen by accident.

Also, there is synergy between divine action and human volition. Acts of intention are a participation in the divine life. The call is for responsive cooperation with the Spirit. The will must attend, consent, and yield while the Spirit empowers, renews, and directs. 

And if all this seems a bit deep and abstract, the call for intentionality is crystal clear on the pages of Scripture:

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.” (Romans 12:2)

“Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.” (Colossians 3:2)

“Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.” (Colossians 3:12)

“Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you…be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another.” (Ephesians 4:31–32)

“Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 2:5)

“Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise.” (Ephesians 5:15)

“Put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires.” (Romans 13:14)

“Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up.” (Ephesians 4:29)

“Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15)

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2)

“Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances.” (1 Thessalonians 5:16–18)

“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly.” (Colossians 3:16)

“Be sober-minded; be watchful.” (1 Peter 5:8)

“Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” (James 4:7)

“Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you.” (James 4:8)

In this post I want to pick up where I left off in the last post. 

To recap, one of the ways many low-church non-denominational Christians attempt to escape DIY Protestantism is to convert to Catholicism or Orthodoxy. The fissuring provisionality of Protestantism, rooted as it is in how the individual reads Scripture, is exchanged for a venerable and stable tradition. 

What do I mean by DIY Protestantism? Think of a typical Sunday morning at a low-church Protestant congregation. While there might be a general and traditional flow to the service, much of what you experience and hear changes week to week. For example, at my church we celebrate the Lord's Supper every week. And being low-church Protestants there isn't a set liturgy for the Table. Nor do we have any sacramental theology to consecrate the experience. Rather, a member of the church is invited to share some thoughts about the Lord's Supper. And these thoughts can be all over the place, week to week. Innovations can be introduced that are, frankly, bizarre.  

Another example is how my church celebrates Lent. Again, as low-church Protestants we've never historically celebrated Lent. But wanting to enrich our spiritual formation culture we've begun to observe the season. And yet, our celebration of Lent is very DIY. Every year the materials shared with the church are different, often having very little to do with Lent as a penitential season. For some odd reason, my church thinks Ash Wednesday is about "contemplating your mortality." We're all existentialists! Plus, since Lent is so foreign to our tradition it's not imposed on anyone as a hard expectation. You're invited to participate in Lent. And you're free to select your own personal Lenten practices. All that to say, when it comes to Lent at my church some people observe it and some people don't and among those who observe Lent everyone is doing their own thing. Choose-your-own adventure Lent.

Those are a few examples from my church. Stepping back, there's also the entrepreneurial and performative aspect of many non-denominational churches. Each church has its own brand and vibe aimed at attracting religious consumers who shop the church marketplace. The game of church growth is getting customers to buy your product.     

Lastly, what do low-church Protestants believe? Well, they believe all sorts of different things, on just about every conceivable subject, from the atonement to Armageddon. Consequently, in choosing a church you're also choosing what you want to believe. And even then it's pretty low risk because if you change your mind you can simply find another church. And if you can't find a church that fits you, you can start your own. 

Now, compare all that to Orthodoxy and Catholicism. To be sure, churches and parishes have local character. But the liturgy and the beliefs are old and not open to debate. Nothing is provisional or up for grabs. Plus, while members do opt out of expected obligations this is understood to be problematic, a form of disobedience. You can get disciplined and excommunicated.  

As mentioned in the last post, many low-church Protestants are converting to Orthodoxy and Catholicism because they find rest in the consistent stability of these traditions. Nothing has to be invented. Choices don't have to be made. There is a givenness that doesn't await a decision. And for many who have anxiously wandered the hermeneutical maze of low-church Protestantism, where doctrines multiply like rabbits, there is a sense of relief in arriving at a place where beliefs aren't up for debate and will never change. Truth is no longer anything you can decide for yourself. The ruminating mind can stop its obsessive quest and finally come to rest. 

Returning to the topic of this series, we can appreciate how the perennial call for “intentionality” is differently affected within Orthodoxy and Catholicism. Take, again, the example of Lent. In low-church Protestant spaces, Lent is framed as a practice of intentionality. During Lent we become more deliberate about our faith, and this intentionality is said to improve our spiritual lives. The vibe is one of spiritual self-improvement. In Catholic and Orthodox churches, by contrast, Lent is not something you invent but something you inherit. It is given, not chosen. The season arrives every year with its prescribed fasts and liturgies already in place. You simply step into it. There is a contrast here between choice, decision, intentionality, and invention versus obedience, givenness, participation, and inheritance. The former is ongoing and effortful and the latter, in its already-decidedness, is rest.

We can see the appeal here. Instead of faith always being "up to me," something I'm always creating and inventing for myself, traditions like Orthodoxy and Catholicism allow us to escape this exhausting, never-ending work. Instead of being "intentional," like deciding what I'm going to do for Lent, I just do the thing set before me.

And yet, there are three locations where I don't think intentionality can be wholly escaped, even within the Orthodox and Catholic traditions.

First, as I pointed out in the last post, we're embracing these traditions from within the secular, liberal order. We're not living in Latin Christendom or the Byzantine East. Orthodoxy and Catholicism are not taken-for-granted cultural givens. One has to choose to become Orthodox and Catholic. You must intentionally swim the Tiber or turn toward the East. Faith in the modern world still pivots upon the choice of the individual. True, once chosen Orthodoxy and Catholicism are settled traditions that don't require constant reinvention. But the traditions themselves must be embraced through an intentional act, a choice. And it's a choice that never goes away and that has to made over and over again. In the taken-for-granted past deconversion wasn't a live option. Today, it's a constant temptation. 

Second, while traditional practices don't have to be invented over and over again, rites and rituals can become empty and rote. This is a horrible example to use, but it makes the point clear. Consider the Catholic sexual abuse crisis. The Catholic liturgy is beautiful, a sacramental wonder. But the venerable givenness of the liturgy doesn't guarantee moral formation and sanctification. Not even of the priest. The heart of the person must be engaged. Intentionality cannot be avoided. We must bring ourselves--intentionally--to the sacrament for transformation to occur. There is a synergy between the divine and human wills that demands an intentional response from our side.

Lastly, submission is still a choice. In Orthodoxy and Catholicism the individual conscience must submit to the magisterial tradition and ecclesiastical authority. Individual autonomy is traded in for corporate obedience. Personal choice gives way to collective submission. But obedience is an intentional act, a choice that has to be made over and over again. Consider how conservative American Catholics responded to the pontificate of Francis. Many of them faced a crisis of conscience, causing some to revolt and rebel. Where was that longed for rest in the givenness of tradition in all that foment, drama, weeping and wailing? Catholics and the Orthodox do experience crises of conscience. 

To conclude, I get why some low-church Protestants find peace when they convert to Orthodoxy and Catholicism. They really have escaped the liturgical and doctrinal churn of low-church Protestantism. They really have left a sector of Christianity that is performative, entrepreneurial, and consumeristic for something venerable and stable. But converting to Orthodoxy and Catholicism isn't an escape from intentionality. The cultural givenness of Latin Christendom and the Byzantine East is gone. Converting to Orthodoxy or Catholicism cannot restore these traditions to a cultural taken-for-grantedness. Consequently, converting to Orthodoxy or Catholicism is a choice, and will always remain a choice each day of your life. In the modern world, deconversion is always a live option. And when the church goes sideways, you have to choose to either submit or rebel. Crises of conscience cannot be avoided. And finally, when another Lent rolls around or the Eucharist becomes rote and perfunctory, you have to step into that season and sacrament with renewed intentionality. True, you don't have to make anything up. But you do have to show up. Not just physically, but mentally. And that showing up doesn't happen accidentally. It's a mental act. You have to be intentional. 

Given the modern loss of a taken-for-granted Christian culture, what have been some Christian responses? Where do we see people trying to recover a thick culture?

First, there are the political movements.

There are some, like the Catholic integralists, who want to restore the culture of Latin Christendom. This vision is stronger and more systematic than the evangelical pursuit of “Christian nationalism.” For Catholic integralists, secular political authority must be subordinated to ecclesiastical authority. The ideal is hierarchical, a recovery of the medieval order in which the pope exercised spiritual supremacy over kings and princes, including the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

Christian nationalism is a similar but distinct project. Its goal is to make Christianity more publicly visible and to pass laws shaped by Christian moral commitments. The vision is cultural rather than ecclesiastical, to build a nation where it is easier to raise children as Christians and where public institutions affirm Christian values. The state is seen as a partner in sustaining a broadly Christian moral order, not as subordinate to the Church.

Next, there are family, church, and communal approaches. These approaches assume the secular and liberal political order as a given. The goal is not to overturn it but to carve out spaces within it where a thick moral and religious culture can be practiced and sustained. Examples include the homeschooling movement, intentional Benedict Option–style communities, and churches seeking to cultivate deeper forms of spiritual and moral formation.

Finally, we're seeing low church evangelicals "converting" to Orthodoxy or Catholicism. The Protestant privileging of the individual conscience as the ultimate authority is reversed by returning to a magisterial tradition. Instead of the free-wheeling and entrepreneurial experience of DIY non-denominationalism, there is submission to an old, venerable, and authoritative ecclesiology. There is no call for intentionality here. The tradition meets you as an unchanging and objective reality. You don't have to create, decide, or make anything up. You simple receive and submit to an inviolate truth. 

However, each of these moves has its problems. 

With the political efforts, Catholic integralism is largely an exercise in nostalgia. Medieval Christendom isn’t making a comeback any time soon. The challenge for Christian nationalism is different: there is no cultural “steady state” in a liberal democracy, given the volatility and sharp swings of electoral politics. As a result, Christian nationalism is always tempted toward authoritarianism as the only way to secure a “Christian culture” against the shifting tides of majority rule. 

Regarding family, church, and communal approaches, life in these spaces isn’t wholly insulated from the surrounding culture, and the degree of separation varies. Churches attempting to provide a richer cultural and spiritual life often struggle to get people to fully participate. Members opt in and opt out, creating much the same DIY, “choose your own adventure” experience of church. 

Homeschooling faces similar challenges, particularly from social media and cultural exposure. Once children turn eighteen, they plunge into the wider world. A truly thick moral culture should carry a person from cradle to grave, yet homeschool parents can only hope they’ve “done enough” before their children leave home. 

In addition, the more insular and restrictive the homeschool or communal culture, the sharper the contrast with broader cultural libertinism. Children inevitably observe the freedoms their peers enjoy, and resentment or rebellion can follow. In short, these “carve-out” communities face an uphill battle. This is a battle deemed worth fighting, of course, but one where success is far from guaranteed. 

Finally, regarding the drift of low-church evangelicals to Orthodoxy and Catholicism, I'd like to turn to that issue in the next post.

I want to continue to reflect a bit more upon how modernity fragilized faith by shifting us from a cultural taken-for-grantedness to a marketplace of metaphysical choices. 

As I've described, many lament this loss, and that sadness can tip toward nostalgia. We long for the homogeneous consensus that had once characterized Latin Christendom. Having lost this consensus we're condemned to a decisional, effortful, and deliberative choosing of faith, over and over again. Faith as intentionality. 

The desolations here are many. As I said, the very act of choosing faith over and over again is effortful, wearying, and exhausting. Do I still believe this? Do I still identify as a Christian? Should I leave my church? Do I want to get out of bed on Sunday morning? Decision fatigue sets in. 

Next, given all the choices in the religious marketplace, we face chronic decision regret. Did we pick the right brand of Christianity? We look over denominational fences and think the grass is always greener. We also observe people wandering from tradition to tradition looking for a place to land. 

Also, by privileging individual choice we create the conditions of fissuring and fracturing. The moment Martin Luther privileged the individual conscience over tradition--"To go against conscience is neither right nor safe"--a Pandora's Box was opened. Now left up to the individual, faith has became a DIY project. 

Scholars also describe a fourth problem. Beyond the issue of belief there is also the question of forming virtue. Forming virtue requires a thick culture. As scholars such as Alasdair MacIntyre and Stanley Hauerwas have argued, virtue emerges from a habitus, a communal ethos of social practices, religious tradition, normative expectations, patterns of living, and shared cultural worldview. Virtue is different from the content of an ethics class, like what to do with the Trolley Problem. Virtue concerns habits and dispositions. And you need a culture to form that character. 

In short, when the habitus of Latin Christendom evaporated we lost our ability to cultivate virtue. We're no longer embedded in a thick and rich moral culture that shapes and forms us. This, I think, is one of the reasons our politics has become so moralized. Politics has replaced virtue. I'm a good person not because of my character but because of how I vote. Politics is faux-virtue and ersatz character.

Summarizing, here's how our loss of a taken-for-granted tradition affects the experience of modern faith:

Decision fatigue: It is effortful to keep choosing faith.

Decision regret: We worry over having chosen the "right" denominational brand of Christianity.

DIY Christianity: We privilege individual autonomy over submission to tradition and church authority.

Loss of virtue: We lack thick moral cultures that can form virtue.

Summarizing, calls for intentionality are occurring within this cultural context and these accompanying desolations. In fact, as I've suggested, the call for intentionality might not be a cure for the disease but  symptomatic of the disease itself. By privileging individual choice and decision-making "being intentional" may be reinforcing the very things making us so sick. 

And if that's so, what might the alternative be? And is an alternative even possible?

"his steadfast love endures forever"

Psalm 136 is noteworthy for its call and response format. First, there is an expression of thanksgiving, for who God is ("for he is good"), creation ("who spread out the earth on the waters"), acts of deliverance ("who divided the Red Sea in two"), and provision ("who gives food to all flesh"). This is then followed by the repeated refrain, "His steadfast love endures forever."

As I expect you know, the Hebrew word here is "hesed," and it has a wide semantic range. There is a covenantal aspect:  Steadfast love,  covenant faithfulness,  covenant loyalty,  faithful love, and unfailing love. There is also an affective, benevolent dimension: Lovingkindness, mercy, compassion, and goodness.

Last month, when I reflected upon Psalm 131, I described how we are selves only in relation. Here's what I wrote, with some edits:

The self is inherently relational. There is no isolated ego or self. We exist only in relation. Thus, I can only come to know, define, and explore myself through relation. Self-help, self-exploration, and self-actualization are, at root, delusional, resting upon a false ontology and anthropology. Consequently, it stands to reason that when the self cuts itself off from relation, and tries to explore, define, and know itself in isolation, it will become disordered and hallucinatory.

As Martin Buber put it, our relation to reality is not I-It, but I-Thou. Object-relations theory, however, would reverse this. Self-definition requires a prior relation. A child comes to know herself in relation to the mother. The relation is Thou-I, where a parental Thou precedes my I. Relation is prior to the self.  

As I describe in The Shape of Joy, this is why the science of positive psychology has shown that transcendence is good for us. Our flourishing flows out of a trusting relation with reality. Our I comes into being and flourishes in relation to a prior, parental Thou.

I'd never described all this so clearly before, and since formulating it last month I've returned to this insight over and over again. I exist only in relation, and I can only come to know and become myself in relation to a prior, parental Thou. 

We see this relation liturgically enacted in the back and forth of Psalm 136. As you read the song, the self keeps being thrown back into relation, over and over and over. I exist and have my being because of a prior parental love, kindness, and fidelity. And my flourishing depends upon a constant sounding of this relation as the only secure, steady ground in my life. The reference point I require for self-location and self-navigation. Lose track of this relation, fail to sound it, and the self become fragmented, disoriented, agitated, confused, distorted, and phantasmal.