Penal substitutionary atonement has been getting critiqued very harshly by many Christians. It's almost a fad. And I've done my share of criticizing. But following up on the last post, let me offer a one good word about penal substitutionary atonement.

As noted in my last post, the death of Jesus is understood by the biblical authors through a variety of metaphors. The cross cannot be reduced to any one of these metaphors. Rather, each metaphor is a particular window on much larger vista. And each metaphor performs a different theological function. So the issue is, what are the functions of the metaphors that support penal substitutionary atonement?

The metaphors of penal substitutionary atonement speak to the issue of human guilt. No other suite of metaphors so powerfully addresses this facet of the human experience before a Holy God. Thus, I do think it would be rash to completely do away with penal substitutionary thinking. It performs a task that no other view of atonement can perform.

The problem with the penal substitutionary metaphors are that they are so very strong. Too strong to be deployed on a regular basis. And that is the real problem. It's not so much that penal substitutionary thinking is wrong, it is rather that it is wrongfully deployed. Penal substitutionary atonement is at its best when deployed rarely and only in the most extreme circumstances. It can't be everyday fare. The trouble is that it IS everyday fare in many churches. Penal substitutionary atonement is like a very strong acid. It has to be handled with care. And if you handle it as much as we do in our churches, often and carelessly, you end up with chemical burns. Thus many Christians are pulling away from churches in pain.

So when is the proper time to deploy penal substitutionary atonement? Like I said, penal substitutionary thinking is at its best when it speaks to profound human guilt. Specifically, some of us have committed such awful sins that our self-loathing, guilt, and shame destroy the soul. We cannot forgive ourselves. Only a very strong concoction can wash us clean. Penal substitutionary atonement is that chemical bath. It's strong acid--You deserve death and hell for the life you've lived--making it the only thing powerful enough to wash away a guilt that has poisoned the taproot of a human existence. Nothing more mild (e.g., the moral influence views I so love) can speak to this issue.

So, it seems to me, there is a proper time to pull the beaker of penal substitutionary atonement off the theological shelf.

But here's the trouble. Most of us live bland bourgeoisie lives with bland bourgeoisie sins. Few of us have lived catastrophically immoral lives. Thankfully so. But this creates a bit of a disjoint when a preacher throws penal substitutionary atonement at us. It just doesn't resonate. The strong acid just burns us. The notion that God demands our death for these slight infractions AND that God will condemn us to an eternal torment of excruciating pain makes God seem, well, rather crazed.

This feeling gets worse when penal substitutionary atonement is thrown at children. In these contexts the deployment of penal substitutionary metaphors can seem obscene and psychologically abusive. Again, the issue for us is the incommensurability between the offenses of the children (not playing nice on the playground) and the penal substitutionary view (for these infractions God will punish you forever in hell). Continuing my chemical metaphor, kids shouldn't play with acid.

The point I'm trying to make is that penal substitutionary atonement isn't bad per se. The problem is that penal substitutionary atonement is a victim of its own strength. It has suffered not by being a bad idea, but by being handled too often and too carelessly. Some people do live in such a hell of guilt that only the vision of God's death sentence, something they feel deep in their bones to be justified and proper, can reach the depth of their self-hatred. So we shouldn't throw penal substitutionary atonement out the door. We just need to understand its proper function and place.

Christians just need to go to chemistry class.

A few weeks ago I did a Sunday School class on theories regarding atonement. Since it is Passion Week I thought I'd post my notes. Nothing original here, just a synopsis if anyone is looking for a quick primer on the history of atonement theology.

i. The word "atonement."
What happened at Golgotha? When the New Testament authors spoke about what happened at the Place of the Skull one common way they viewed the event was through the Hebrew Day of Atonement. According to Leviticus 16 the High Priest would slaughter a goat as a "sin offering" and then sprinkle the blood on the Mercy Seat, the cover of the Ark of the Covenant. The word for "Mercy Seat" comes from the Hebrew kapporeth which means "cover." But "cover" here is twofold, a literal cover and also the place where sins are "covered" over.

The Hebrew kapporeth comes down to us as hilasterion in Greek. Hilasterion is the word that is translated as "atonement." Hilasterion has many shades of meaning. Two of the most important meanings are the words propitiation and expiation. Propitiation refers to making something propitious or favorable. That is, something that is an object of wrath or judgment is now considered to be favorable. Thus, propitiation involves notions of satisfaction or appeasement, disfavor or wrath is turned away and is replaced with favor. Expiation refers to making amends or the compensation for a wrong done.

All in all then, hilasterion has two shades of meaning: Appeasement/satisfaction (propitiation) and making amends (expiation). No single word in English captures both of these meanings. "Reconciliation" comes close, but William Tyndale coined the word "atonement" to create a theological term in English that could capture the shades of meaning inherent in hilasterion and kapporeth. Some scholars have contended that "atonement" may be the only significant theological term that is of English origin.

ii. What we all agree on.
What happened at Golgotha? Christians generally agree on this: We were saved at Golgotha. That is, there was something about the death of Jesus of Nazareth that created an atonement, a reconciliation, a peace between God and humanity. This atonement saved us, rescued us.

Now beyond this general consensus little else about Golgotha is agreed upon. Worse, once we get outside this consensus much becomes very controversial.

The issues revolve around the How? and the Why? of atonement. Why, exactly, did Jesus have to die? And how, exactly, did Jesus' death effect the atonement? The answers to these questions have been diverse. What follows is a rough, historical overview of the theories

iii. Ransom theory.
For the first thousand years of the church ransom theory was the dominant view of the atonement. Because of this some scholars call ransom theory the "classical" view of the atonement.

To start, we observe that some of the New Testament writers use the image of "ransom" in describing the events at Golgotha:

Mark 10.45
"For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many."

1 Timothy 2.5-6
For there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all men—the testimony given in its proper time.

The question, obviously, is if Jesus' death was a ransom who got paid? The classical theory had it that Satan was paid the ransom. On this view, due to humanity's sin Satan held humankind captive. To release humanity from Satan's rightful claim Jesus gives his life in exchange, as a "ransom."

I like to call this The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe view of the atonement because it follows the logic of C.S. Lewis' story. Readers will recall that the Witch (the Satan figure) has a rightful claim to the traitor Edmund. However, Aslan gives his live in exchange for Edmund's, thus saving him.

(There is a curious history involving the ransom view. Specifically, why did Satan make this exchange? Interestingly, C.S. Lewis offers the same answer many of the church fathers did: Satan (or the Witch) makes the exchange because he was tricked into it.)

Although ransom theory appears archaic to modern ears (more on that in a bit), facets of the classical view have been revived in what has been called Christus Victor theology. According to Christus Victor theory we should not understand Jesus to be paying a ransom to the Devil. Rather, we should see Jesus as defeating the Devil. The cross is a victory, the defeat of sin, death, and Satan. Satan and the power he represents--sin and death--are still central features in this view but Satan is seen as a vanquished enemy rather than as a bamboozled bargaining partner. The Eastern Orthodox church never significantly moved away from the Christus Victor themes of the classical atonement position. A good example of this is their emphasis on the harrowing of hell, with its depiction of the defeat of the devil and death, at Easter time.

iv. Satisfaction theory.
Around 1027 Saint Anslem published his treatise Cur Deus Homo? (Why did God become man?). In this treatise Anselm rejected ransom theory on the grounds that it gave Satan too much power. God doesn't have to haggle with Satan about the fate of humanity.

But if Satan isn't getting the ransom, who is getting "paid" in Anselm's theory? It is with Anselm that we see the now common move that it was not Satan but God who was "satisfied" at Golgotha.

According to Anselm human sin was an affront to the honor of God. However, humans, due to their sinfulness, cannot pay the price to restore God's honor. But Jesus, due to his sinlessness, can die in the place of humanity to provide a "more perfect sacrifice" to restore God's honor. This theological move--Jesus takes our place to satisfy God--is the beginning of what is known as satisfaction theory.

With John Calvin and others Anselm's satisfaction theory eventually gets morphed into what is known as penal substitutionary atonement. This is the dominant view of atonement in most Protestant churches. "Penal" notes a change from Anselm's theory in Cur?. Specifically, penal substitutionary atonement is a crime and punishment model. The broad outlines are as follows (and they are well known): Death is the just punishment of sin. Jesus, being sinless, accepts death in our place. Thus, the love and justice of God are parsimoniously satisfied in Jesus' sacrifice.

Penal substitutionary atonement is growingly controversial in many Christian circles due to its view of God (e.g., God requires blood sacrifice to be "satisfied"). However, there is another substitutionary model that I, personally, find more viable.

The governmental substitutionary model harkens back to Anselm's original focus on God's honor. In this model, God is "governing" the world. He wants his rule to be both just and loving. However, in the face of sin God is presented with a problem. God wants to punish and he wants to forgive. The trouble is that if God too easily forgives sin humanity would recieve the message that sin is "no big deal." This is particularly problematic given that God should care about the voices of victims. Some sin is horrible and God should not easily forgive it. So how does God express his concern for victims and his anger at sin? God chooses to inflict a wound on himself. In this, Jesus "dies for us" but not because God's nature demands our death. God needs to demonstrate both wrath and love but he handles this internally, within his own nature. The cross is a demonstration, forever answering the question: Does God hate human sin? The cross clearly says yes. And it is by grace that we are not in Christ's place. In short, the cross demonstrates God's wrath at sin and this allows him to forgive us in a way that doesn't make God look "light on sin." Clearly, sin cost God dearly. But he paid the price to make that message clear. We did not. Thus, the cross functions as a dual symbol: Wrath and love intertwined. The cross shows us how much God hates sin yet how much he is willing to suffer to forgive us. The cross shows us that God's grace is costly.

In sum, I like the governmental model as it keeps all the decent pieces of penal substitutionary atonement while removing the problematic facet of God's nature demanding death as "satisfaction" for sin.

v. Moral Influence theory.
A final perspective on atonement is that the cross brings reconciliation between God and humanity by showing humanity the path of peace. Jesus hints at this perspective when he says:

Luke 14.27
And anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.

The notion here is that the cross is a path, a way, the dharma, a trajectory, a goal, a life. And it is this path--the Cruciform Way--that saves us.

Further, the cross can function as an exposure and an unmasking that is aimed at halting the mechanisms of human evil. On this view, the cross is aimed at humanity rather than at God (as it is in penal substitutionary atonement). Of these theories I am particularly sympathetic to Rene Girard's scapegoat theory.

vi. An oversimplified synopsis.
As I reviewed the historical theories I summarized them for myself this way:

The cross saves us from...
Satan (ransom theory)
God (substitution theory)
Ourselves (moral influence theory)

vii. Metaphors and Theories
What happened at Golgotha? Most Christians agree that we were saved at Golgotha. Like the Mercy Seat, the cross is the "place of atonement," the locus of the event. But what exactly happened at Golgotha? And why did it have to happen in just that way?

All the New Testament writers offer us are metaphors. Ransom. Victory. Crime and punishment. Discipleship. But none of these are worked out in a systematic way.

The systematization occurred when theologians took a particular metaphor, wove it together with bits of Scripture, and then constructed a theory. The metaphors seem viable. But the post hoc theories often look more suspect.

The point, it seems to me, is that the cross refutes systemization. The cross is too big to be captured. The cross cannot be reduced, pigeonholed, or packaged. There is no final catechesis for the cross. The best we can do is metaphor. And lots of them.

In the end, it seems that the only language for the cross is poetry.

Let's end this series with some reflections on Christ, with a particular focus on the cross and atonement. Specifically, one criticism you often hear about universalism is that it throws away the cross. If everyone gets to heaven then why did Christ have to die?

So let's talk about that.

Why did Christ have to die?

Broadly speaking, there have been two approaches to understanding the atonement. Specifically, theologians talk about objective versus subjective theories of atonement. In objective theories of atonement Sin in an external predicament. That is, the problems associated with Sin are "out there," beyond the human agent. As a consequence, the "fix" has to be "out there" as well. Subjective theories of atonement suggest that the problem of Sin is on the "inside" of us. The "fix" in this case is to change, educate, and rehabilitate the human heart. As always, the bible points to both of these understandings but Christian denominations tend to privilege one sort of understanding over the other.

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In my course Psychology and Christianity at ACU I spend some classes talking about how in the West our religious experience has been moving from enchantment to disenchantment, from a supernatural world to a secular world. Recently, I've questioned the comprehensiveness of that story, wondering if some of our journey has not been from enchantment to disenchantment, although that's a large piece of it, but from one enchantment to another. Specifically, we're shifting from a transcendent enchantment to an immanent enchantment. Either way, our focus is increasingly on this world.

One of the things I talk about with my class is how, even if you remain a Christian in the West, you still feel the pressures of disenchantment. Many of us are Christians, but we're disenchanted Christians. I'd like to share a few posts illustrating what I'm talking about, with a specific focus upon how disenchantment has affected our visions of salvation.

As many readers are likely aware, penal substitutionary atonement is seen by many Christians as increasingly problematic. I'm not going to rehash those concerns right now. The question I want to ask is this: Why did penal substitutionary atonement become the norm in the West?

As we know, penal substitutionary atonement wasn't the primary way the early church viewed the atonement. To be sure, this point has been overplayed. The early church was aware of and embraced the substitutionary and sacrificial themes of Christ's death on the cross. Still, the dominant framework for the atonement for the early church was Christus Victor rather than penal substitutionary atonement. That is, the early church viewed salvation as emancipation from dark, cosmic forces--Sin, Death and the Devil--whereas we tend to view salvation in forensic terms, as mainly about guilt and the forgiveness of sins.

Why did this shift occur?

I would argue the shift was largely due to the forces of disenchantment. Specifically, Christus Victor is a very enchanted view of salvation. The Devil, for example, plays a large role. The harrowing of hell is also a big deal. So as the forces of disenchantment grew in the West, these enchanted aspects of Christus Victor atonement were put under stress.

Forensic views of atonement, however, like penal substitutionary atonement, are much more disenchanted. You don't need the Devil, for example. The only metaphysical paraphernalia you need in these forensic views is human sin, which is really an empirical issue (just look around and see how terrible we are to each other), and something in the heart of God that demands justice/satisfaction. The death of Jesus then flows out of that mix.

All that to say, penal substitutionary atonement became the norm in the West because it presented us with a disenchanted view of salvation. It just became too difficult to believe the more ancient, enchanted views of salvation that once held sway in the church.

But here's the paradox. When penal substitutionary atonement pushed the "problem" of salvation into the heart of God (i.e., a just God demanding satisfaction), it definitely disenchanted salvation by shifting focus away from the Devil and the cosmic power of Sin. But the price of that shift into the the heart of God was to create a view of salvation that many have found increasingly problematic. Penal substitutionary atonement foregrounds the wrath of God and introduces violence into the equation (i.e., God requiring a death to be satisfied).

Consequently, there's been a lot of pushback to penal substitutionary atonement. And there's been increasing interest in more ancient and non-violent atonement theories, like Christus Victor. And yet, as I point out in Reviving Old Scratch, the people most interested in views like Christus Victor, progressive Christians, are the most disenchanted. So here's the tension. Progressive Christians like the non-violent aspects of Christus Victor, but can they embrace this more enchanted view of salvation? Do they, for example, believe in the Devil? Do they believe in a cosmic force called Sin? Do they think all of humanity is bound over to dark cosmic forces, slaves in Satan's kingdom of darkness?

My hunch is that disenchanted Christians are going to balk at all this. We don't like penal substitutionary atonement, but we struggle in our skeptical, doubting, secular age to embrace the more ancient, enchanted views of salvation.

One of the things I'm learning in the prison bible study is how different theology sounds inside the prison as opposed to outside the prison.

Two examples from this week.

First, on Sunday night during our small group Al, who was leading our discussion, read some selections from Rachel Held Evans' book Evolving in Monkey Town. If you've read the book you know that the book is more about spiritual evolution than biological evolution, mainly the journey from certainty and dogmatism to doubt and tentativeness. In light of that Al had us go around the room describing our own spiritual journeys. And all of us, to a person, had made the same journey Rachel has traveled. Once, long ago, we knew all the answers. Today we have a bunch of questions.

Now I'm aware there is a lot of doubt in the prison. How couldn't there be? But the men I'm working with seem so faith-filled. Not dogmatic, but really convinced God is alive and active in their lives. In short, I don't think our small group class would have translated well into the prison setting. Where our stories, on the outside, were from faith to doubt, the stories on the inside, I suspect, are going the opposite direction.

Driving home from the prison I often call Jana to talk. Tonight as we talked I was contrasting, as I did above, our small group discussion with the time I just spent with the inmates. And the phrase I floated was this: "I wonder if doubt is the luxury of the privileged."

As someone who doubts a lot I know I'm on the wrong end of that assessment. And I don't know how far I'd push that sentiment. But it was the thought that came to mind. Take it for what it's worth.

My second example has to do with penal substitutionary atonement.

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Twice now it's been my honor to visit Cason Pyle's senior Bible class at Abilene Christian School, where my wife is the High School Theatre teacher. Cason has invited me to speak to the class about salvation, and I've used most of that time to explore issues and problems with penal substitutionary atonement, the dominant view held by the students and the churches they come from. This series will be blogging through the main beats of my talk.

After introducing the class to the word "soteriology," as that is what we're talking about, I then sketch out the main points of penal substitutionary atonement. These should be familiar to you. Our sins bring us under the judgment of God. Jesus, in his death on the cross, takes on my punishment, substituting himself in my place. I receive that gift by faith. 

For the students in the class, this view--penal substitutionary atonement--"just is" salvation. Full stop. 

So the first thing I say to the class is this: Penal substitutionary atonement is true, but partial, and therefore distorting.

I think it's important to start by saying that penal substitutionary atonement is true. I think a lot of progressive Christians just blow past that point. Penal substitutionary atonement is the great whipping post of ex-evangelicals. But progressive Christians tend to ignore the fact that penal substitutionary atonement is right there in Scripture. 

By "true" I don't mean that the whole theorized mechanism is laid out in book, chapter and verse. Just that the offending ideas that make up penal substitutionary atonement are actually in the Bible. Shall we review? The wages of sin is death (Romans 6.23). Jesus bore our sins on the cross (1 Peter 2.4). For our sake Jesus became sin (2 Corinthians 5.21). Jesus died for our sins (1 Corinthians 15.3). Jesus redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse (Galatians 3.13). Jesus' blood saves us from the wrath to come (Romans 5.9). Jesus' blood washes away our sins (Revelation 1.5). Jesus is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world (John 1.29). Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins (Hebrews 9.22). Jesus' death was a propitiation for sins (1 John 2.2). 

I could go on, but you get the point. Penal substitutionary atonement is true. Or more carefully stated, the ideas behind penal substitutionary atonement have ample Scriptural support. What offends about penal substitutionary atonement is actually in Bible.

Given that, I think it is unwise for progressive types to just chuck the whole thing. I'd suggest not squeezing the Bible into your cozy progressive box. Be disturbed. It'll be good medicine.

That said, while penal substitutionary atonement is true, it is only a partial truth. It's not the whole story. And partial truths, when taken to be the whole truth, can be distorting. As I shared with the seniors, how many times have you heard a story which enrages you. In your outrage, you share your feelings with a person involved. But that person says, "Hold on. You're missing a few critical details." Upon hearing those details, everything changes and you're no longer outraged. That partial truth you had was true, but partial, and therefore distorting. In fact, a partial truth can point you in the exact opposite direction of the whole truth.

Penal substitutionary atonement is like that, I told the class. It's true, it's right there in Scripture, but it's a partial truth and therefore distorting.

I'll turn to those distortions in the posts to come.

Last week it was my honor to participate in a talkback with filmmaker Kevin Miller after a viewing of Hellbound?.

As I mentioned yesterday, I am using posts this week to work back through some of the Q&A Kevin and I hosted, the queries we fielded and some of our answers regarding "universal reconciliation in Christ" or "evangelical universalism."

Today's post is about universal reconciliation in Christ and the atonement.

This is one of the biggest misconceptions about evangelical universalism, that is dismisses the atonement. Specifically, Kevin and I were asked, "If everyone gets to heaven then what's the point of Jesus dying on the cross?"

This question is really strange because so many people think it's a legitimate criticism when, in fact, it is one of the most easily answered objections to universal reconciliation in Christ. It's so easily answered that I wonder if the people raising the question have taken two seconds to think about it.

To be sure, I don't want to criticize someone who has just encountered this conversation for the first time. Many young people are just getting introduced to these topics and discussions. So most haven't really taken the time to think it through.

But pastors with graduate degrees don't get a pass on this! They should know better. So let me be clear. Any pastor who makes the claim "universal reconciliation in Christ negates the cross" is either 1) being thoughtless (I edited here my harsher descriptions) or 2) willfully attempting to mislead people.

Because this is really very simple and rudimentary.

To show this, let us just assume that penal substitutionary atonement is true. Let's just assume the most conservative view of the atonement.

In this view God is both a God of grace and a God of justice. And in order to satisfy God's justice God demands the punishment of sinners, their very lives. But being a God of love God takes on this punishment, Christ substitutes himself in our place taking on the just punishment that we deserve. And in this way both God's love and justice are reconciled in God's extension of grace to a sinful humanity.

Let's assume all that is true. The basic idea is this. The atonement is necessary because God cannot forgive humanity without the just punishment of sin being meted out. Basically, God's extension of grace requires an atonement. Jesus provides that atonement. Thus all humanity can be forgiven by God.

Now, just take a second to ponder all that and ask yourself, how does any of that affect universal reconciliation in Christ?

Answer: it doesn't affect it at all, not one whit.

And why is that? Because if the atonement is necessary for God to forgive humanity then it is necessary no matter if it was one or one million people being saved. If the atonement is necessary then it is necessary. The numbers of people being saved is irrelevant. The number being saved many be few or many. One person or every person who has ever lived. But the math has nothing to do with the necessity of the atonement.

Because the atonement, commonly understood, has nothing to do with the number of the saved but with the inner life of God, the means to reconcile justice and love. The atonement, commonly understood, is about that tension in the heart of God and has nothing to do with the number of the saved/elect.

In short, whenever you hear a pastor raise the issue of the cross in relation to universal reconciliation in Christ you've got either a competence or a dishonesty problem on your hands.

Because this is really very, very simple.

Theologically, this isn't 1 + 1 = 2, but it's pretty close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hebrews completely undermines all this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last post in this series.

Many of my readers subscribe to universal reconciliation, that all of humanity will, in the end, embrace and be embraced by the grace of God. Given this, it's fair to ask how universalist accounts balance the tensions of grace.

I think the main point to make is that visions differ here. 

For example, you could posit the view that, since God loves all of humanity, always has and always will, there isn't much work for Christ to do in regards to atonement. Jesus' death on the cross is simply unnecessary, since God loves everyone already. Since no one is ever at risk, no one ever needs saving. 

Given this view, what then is the death of Jesus all about?

Many would argue that the death of Jesus makes the love of God visible within history, and exposes our rejection of that love. The cross, then, demonstrates God's love and persuades us to love. This is the moral exemplar view of the atonement. The cross shows us how much God loves us and teaches us how to love.

Stepping back, if you held a view like this, then your creation theology would be, in my estimation, carrying the weight of grace. Beyond a moral pedagogy, soteriology is simply not needed.

This is, in fact, why many people object to universalism, that it diminishes or nullifies the atonement and the work of Christ. However, you can believe in both universal reconciliation and the atonement. In this view, Christ is doing more on the cross than making the love of God visible. Christ is actually repairing the damage of sin and defeating the cosmic powers holding humanity captivity. Christ makes a way where there was no way. In this particular variety of universalism, soteriology carries as much grace as any traditional view of atonement. You can believe, for example, in both universal reconciliation and penal substitutionary atonement. To be clear, this isn't a common view, but there is no incompatibility between these views. The only issue is if you believe the offer of grace extends post-mortem. That's really the only issue between traditional views of atonement and universal reconciliation: Does death stop the soteriological clock? Traditional views of the atonement say, yes, the clock stops at death where you fate is fixed. The offer of grace is time-stamped. Universalist views of the atonement say, no, Jesus defeated death and holds the keys of Hades. Time never runs out on God, the offer of grace persists post-mortem.

The point to be observed is that, even in universalist visions of salvation, soteriology can still carry the weight of grace. Because of the fall, existence now demands saving grace. You still have to accept, by faith, the atoning work of Christ. As Acts 4.12 says concerning Christ: "Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to mankind by which we must be saved.”

In summary, universalist accounts of salvation balance the tensions of grace differently. Some accounts will front-load grace and marginalize the atonement. Soteriology is put to the side. But other views of universal reconciliation place as much weight upon soteriology as any traditionally held views of the atonement. People are lost until they accept Christ. Full stop. The only issue is how death affects God's offer of grace, if it terminates at death or persists. 

While at Streaming last week during one of the panel discussions I was asked about my use of Christus Victor atonement in my book The Slavery of Death. During that conversation I made an observation about a problem I'm noticing in how many progressive Christians (by progressive I mean post-evangelicals) have been increasingly attracted to Christus Victor atonement.

Specifically, given their disillusionment with penal substitutionary atonement many progressive Christians have been attracted to Christus Victor atonement because it presents us with a non-violent vision of the atonement. In Christus Victor atonement Christ dies to liberate and free us from dark enslaving powers. In this vision God's actions in allowing or sending Jesus to the cross are wholly benevolent and non-violent.

There is no wrathful God being appeased by blood sacrifice in Christus Victor atonement. And because of this progressive Christians--in their commendable search for a non-violent atonement theory--have been increasingly making appeals to Christus Victor theology.

But here's the problem I noted at Streaming.

For Christus Victor theology to make any sense you have to have a robust theology of those dark enslaving powers, a robust theology regarding our spiritual bondage to the powers of death, Satan and sin. And yet, because of their pervasive struggles with doubt and disenchantment, along with their post-evangelical reluctance to talk about our enslavement to sin, progressive Christians lack an important aspect of Christus Victor atonement: a vision of enslavement to dark spiritual powers.

Basically, what are you being rescued from if you aren't enslaved to anything in the first place?

Progressive Christians like the idea of Jesus spiritually rescuing us but they do a damned poor job of describing how all of us, without Christ, are in spiritual bondage. But without a robust vision of spiritual slavery and bondage in the hands of progressive Christians Christus Victor theology is a non sequitur, it just doesn't make any logical or theological sense.

Personally, I've noted this problem and have been trying to work on it. The Slavery of Death is an attempt to articulate what slavery to death might look like and why that slavery can be described as the power of the devil. In a similar way I've also tried to rehabilitate the notion of "spiritual warfare" for progressive Christians (see the "On Weakness and Warfare" series on the sidebar). I'm doing all this work because I'm attracted to Christus Victor atonement and, thus, note the necessity to articulate a vision regarding the power of sin, death and the devil, a vision a spiritual bondage to these powers. Otherwise, if I can't articulate that vision, I should give up appealing to Christus Victor theology.

What I don't see among many other progressive Christians who make appeals to Christus Victor  atonement are similar efforts to articulate a vision of spiritual bondage. Greg Boyd, while he and I have different visions of the spiritual powers, is an exception, which is why I made this remark at Streaming while presenting there with him.

And if I'm right in this assessment, that many progressive Christians lack a theology of spiritual bondage, then I wonder if progressive Christians should drop their discussions of Christus Victor atonement.

I want to devote four posts to the relationship between penal substitutionary atonement and disenchantment. 

It's not news that penal substitutionary atonement has come under a lot of criticism. And not just among progressive Christians. Theologians and biblical scholars have also raised concerns about how a narrow focus on the forensic aspects of salvation warps and distorts the full scope of what the Bible and the early Christians meant by "salvation." Salvation is more than guilt and punishment, more that God's wrath and God's forgiveness. 

Still, for better or worse, penal substitutionary atonement has become the dominant model in Protestant churches, especially evangelical churches. And the thesis I want to argue for across three posts is that the disenchantment of the West was one of the forces that made penal substitutionary atonement ascendant. Basically, penal substitutionary atonement is what happens when Christian salvation becomes disenchanted. 

Today, let's start with the decline of Christus Victor and the rise of penal substitutionary atonement.

To catch everyone up, Christus Victor was a dominant, if not the dominant, way in which the early church viewed atonement and salvation. In this view, humanity was enslaved to dark cosmic forces--Sin, death and the devil. The work of Jesus in his life, death and resurrection was to defeat these powers and set captive humanity free.

Starting around 1094, with St. Anselm's treatise Cur Deus Homo? ("Why Did God Become Human?"), Christus Victor began to fade within the Western church. To be clear, Anselm didn't really preach penal substitutionary atonement, but he does mark a turn which culminated in the ascendency of penal substitutionary atonement in modern times.

Why this turn? In his seminal treatment of the subject, Gustaf Aulen argues Christus Victor began to struggle in the West because it was too tied up with a metaphysical imagination where the devil played a large role in human affairs and salvation history. Here's Aulen describing how Christus Victor took a beating among modern theologians:

[Modern theologians] inclined to be critical of the forms in which the patristic teaching had usually expressed itself. They disliked intensely the 'mythological' language of the early church about Christ's redemptive work, and the realistic, often undeniably grotesque imagery, in which the victory of Christ over the devil, or the deception of the devil, was depicted in lurid colours. Thus the whole dramatic view was branded as 'mythological.' The matter was settled. The patristic teaching was of inferior value, and could be summarily relegated to the nursery or the lumber-room of theology.

Basically, Christus Victor atonement was too enchanted for the increasingly disenchanted West. Especially when it came to the devil. So the earliest view of atonement in the church was slowly swept aside for a more disenchanted view of salvation, penal substitutionary atonement. 

We continue to work through, psychologically and theologically, the Christological sections of the Apostles' Creed. We've considered two of the four doctrines I set out to review: The Imitation of Christ (Jesus as "Lord" and "Judge") and the Incarnation ("born of the Virgin Mary"). In this post we take up the doctrine of the atonement: "Was crucified."

There is little doubt that the early Christians viewed the death of Jesus in sacrificial terms, mainly through the Hebrew Day of Atonement. According to Leviticus 16 the High Priest would slaughter a goat as a "sin offering" and then sprinkle the blood on the Mercy Seat, the cover of the Ark of the Covenant. The word for "Mercy Seat" comes from the Hebrew kapporeth which means "cover." The notion of "cover" is twofold, being both a literal cover and also the place where the sins of Israel were "covered" over.

Continue reading...

As I've written before in these posts about George MacDonald, reading MacDonald is what convinced me to become a universalist. And no sermon in Unspoken Sermons has had a more decisive impact upon me in this regard than the sermon Justice. This sermon, in my opinion, is MacDonald's theological magnum opus.

MacDonald begins the sermon by asking us to think about the nature of justice and punishment. Are justice and punishment the same thing? This is an important question because when Christians speak of hell as "just" they are implicitly drawing an equivalence between the "punishment" of sin and God's "justice." But MacDonald wants to push back on that notion, to suggest that justice is a far richer concept than punishment. And if this is so, no amount of punishment in hell gets God closer to achieving justice. To illustrate this MacDonald has us consider someone stealing our watch:

Suppose my watch has been taken from my pocket; I lay hold of the thief; he is dragged before the magistrate, proved guilty, and sentenced to a just imprisonment: must I walk home satisfied with the result? Have I had justice done me? The thief may have had justice done him—but where is my watch?

The point here, obviously, is that a "just" result can't be found through punishment alone. No doubt punishment is a part of the picture. But, as any victim knows, "justice" isn't reducible to punishing the perpetrators. Crimes (and sin) create relational and psychological wounds that punishment cannot heal.

Continue reading...

A couple of weeks ago I invited you to ask me questions about my recent book The Slavery of Death. Thanks so much for your questions and your interest in the book.

Let's start with Trischa's questions as this Q&A was her suggestion. Trischa asks:

1. On one of your recent posts, you mentioned that you always find something after you submit your final manuscript for publishing you wish you could have included. What would you like to have included in Slavery of Death?

2. What are some ways you've found helpful to talk about concepts in the final part of the book (like kenosis, martyrological/eccentric identity) with those who haven't read the book and/or are unfamiliar with this type of Christianity and possibly even opposed to it?...[Are] there are there questions you ask or brief points you've found may help in discussing these things with people who are entrenched in a religious mindset that esteems nationalism, excellence, significance, heroism, moralism, and the like.

Regarding #1 I wish I had read Brene Brown's book Daring Greatly before writing. Last fall our bible class at church did a study using Daring Greatly and I was struck by three things that really complemented some of the things I try to say in The Slavery of Death.

Specifically, in The Slavery of Death I talk a lot about the neurotic manifestations of our fear of death, which tends to manifest in a thirst for self-esteem and significance. These worries are wonderfully described by Brown in Daring Greatly, what she calls "the shame-based fear of being ordinary." I've used that line a lot in talking about The Slavery of Death ever since. I featured Brown in my lectures at Fuller Theological Seminary.

The other aspect of Daring Greatly that is helpful is Brown's discussion of how a feeling of "worthiness" is vital to face down shame as we live into vulnerability ("neediness" and "failure" in my book). In The Slavery of Death I describe how this worthiness--Brown's mantra of "I am enough."--is achieved not through the self but through what I call an "eccentric identity." That is, when your identity is "hidden in Christ" you experience a sense of worthiness, but one that isn't rooted in the ego. What a fragile foundation that would be! And the refrain "I am enough" sort of begs the question: Why, exactly, are you enough?

I expect Brown agrees with me that worthiness is a spiritual issue. She just doesn't make that move explicit in Daring Greatly. Regardless, the connections between worthiness, vulnerability and shame in Daring Greatly are all things I talk about in The Slavery of Death.

Finally, both Brown and I talk a lot about how the antidote to fear is gratitude and that gratitude is inherently a spiritual practice.

Regarding Question #2, that's really hard. On the surface you can experiment with different words and descriptions. Instead of "eccentric identity" I can talk about "gift." Instead of "neurotic manifestations of death anxiety" I can talk about "the shame-based fear of being ordinary." Instead of "doxological gratitude" I can just talk about "gratitude."

So there are ways to make the ideas as ideas more accessible. Communication is easy, but conversion is much harder. Because if the argument in The Slavery of Death is accurate then the reason people are "entrenched in a religious mindset that esteems nationalism, excellence, significance, heroism, moralism, and the like" is that these things are being (unconsciously and neurotically) used at the deepest levels of the psyche to secure self-esteem and/or existential consolation in the face of death. Consequently, people are in a fearful and defensive posture. And in my experience, it's really, really hard to untangle that neurotic knot without getting thrown out of the room. I think all you can do in this instance is hold up a diagnostic mirror so that people can see their reflection and perhaps unwind themselves a bit. The psychological analyses in The Slavery of Death is trying to provide such a mirror.

And at the end of the day, I think non-neurotic and freely loving people are relatively rare. "Narrow is the way that leads to salvation"?

///

Tracy asks:

What does atonement theory look like in light of your books?

In Unclean I talk about Girardian theory and in The Slavery of Death I discuss Christus Victor. But neither book is, strictly speaking, about atonement theory. The material in the books can complement various atonement theologies but the books themselves don't articulate or argue for a particular atonement position. Of course, I have my personal opinions and am very skeptical of and wary about penal substitutionary atonement. But I don't think anyone who believed in penal substitutionary atonement would find my books offensive. They definitely wouldn't think my books painted a comprehensive picture of the atonement and in that they would be correct. The books aren't really about the atonement. I never raise or get into the question about the nature of God's wrath or how that wrath is dealt with via a sacrifice of expiation or propitiation.

Garret asks a related question about the atonement:

...I'm drawn to articulations of atonement that are more concrete like Girard's Scapegoat theory and Moral Exemplar. In these two articulations I can see a connection between what Jesus did and my own (process of) emancipation from sin and death. Where would you place Christus Victor on this spectrum of metaphysical/concrete? Is this a helpful spectrum to begin with? It seems that in your book you talk about Christus Victor as a set of symbols that narrates Christ's freeing us from the power of death. However, I'm having trouble seeing the causal connection between what Jesus did and our own freedom from the fear of death. 

While The Slavery of Death doesn't present an atonement theory, and keeping in mind Tracy's question about what the atonement might look like in the book, I'd say that I create as sort of conflation between Christus Victor and Moral Exemplar theories. Specifically, in the book the powers of sin, death and the devil are described as being psychological rather than metaphysical. Thus, emancipation from these "powers" (Christus Victor) is achieved by adopting the identity of Jesus (Moral Exemplar). This psychological treatment of Christus Victor is different from classical and more ontological and metaphysical theories of Christus Victor.

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Bruce asks a question about the resurrection of Jesus:

You talk a lot about ecclesial practices and the presence of Christ, but how exactly does the resurrection of Jesus defeat the enslaving power of death? Could your account of freedom from the enslavement of death work with Jesus who simply lived and died as a fulfillment of the law (i.e. Complete love of God and neighbor modelling freedom from the slavery of death)? 

Relatedly John asks:

It seems to me that to be truly set free from the fear of death, I have to live with a degree of confidence that Jesus has in fact defeated death - in some bodily material way. So first question: Do you think this is the case - do we need confidence in bodily resurrection to be set free from our slavery to the fear of death? Second - what would it look like if we were confident in bodily resurrection to hold this view in a non-violent way?

I'm a bit cagey about the resurrection and life after death in The Slavery of Death. For two different reasons.

The first reason was practical. I wanted the book to straddle conservative and liberal audiences. I wanted the book to speak into belief systems that endorse the literal and historical resurrection of Jesus and life after death. But I also wanted the book to speak into belief systems where there was skepticism about those matters.

The second reason has to do with the issue John raises, about how we can believe non-violently.

I think people should read The Authenticity of Faith alongside The Slavery of Death. Specifically, one reason I don't quickly rush to discuss resurrection or life after death is that, per the argument in The Authenticity of Faith, we tend to rush toward these beliefs to assuage death anxiety. But if we do that what we end up with is a fear-based religion. Belief in life after death is a solution to our fear of death but it's generally a neurotic solution, one that leads to violence in various forms.

So how do you believe in God, resurrection and heaven non-neurotically and non-violently? I spelled out what this might look like in this post following up on my lectures at Fuller. The crux of the argument I make in that post is that if heaven and life after death is experienced eccentrically--as a gift I wait on rather than as something I possess, protect and control--then the possibility is created for us to hold onto these beliefs non-neurotically and non-violently.

But at root, The Slavery of Death is less about theology than it is a psychological analysis regarding the relationship between fear and love. So I think no matter where you stand on the metaphysical questions regarding resurrection and heaven the analyses of The Slavery of Death should supplement and complement how you experience and live out your Christian life.

/// 

Joe asks:

Do you think one is either emancipated or not emancipated from the fear of death (an either/or)? Or is the fear of death more like a continuum where we can eventually become less and less fearful but not necessarily escape the fear all together? Do you think certain people are more prone than others to the fear of death based on their personality and psychology? Do you fear death?

I think it's a continuum. More, I think this tension between fear and love exists at every moment of our lives. We never get past this. Fear or love? We face the choice over and over again.

In the book I have an Interlude on timor mortis (the fear of death) in the thought of Augustine. The point of that Interlude is to say that, at root, the fear of death is related to the value and preciousness of life. In that sense, the experience of gift and fear go hand in hand. A lack of fear in the face of death would indicate a loss of reverence or honoring of life. A lack of fear would be pathological.

So the issue isn't the fear itself but the dominion of fear, the power of fear. Fear will always exist, tempting me to put myself selfishly before others. That's natural, it's our animal nature. So the question becomes, how can love "cast out" this fear in living sacrificially for others? How can we live less as fear-driven animals and more as loving human beings?

And yes, I do fear death. But day to day this fear doesn't manifest as a concrete fear of dying (though that fear does grip me at times) than it does in my daily thirst for self-esteem, all the neurotic ways I try to secure significance. That neurosis is the most toxic part of our fear of death. Overcoming that fear in being willing to serve others in ignominious and inconspicuous ways is the day to day battle I face in overcoming my fear of death.

Basically, while I might have some mortal dread of dying by and large that mortal dread doesn't make me an asshole. It might freak me out or panic me or make me depressed, but it doesn't make me an asshole. So in my opinion, facing up to how our self-esteem projects make us sinful and violent is our real struggle with death.

Regarding the fear of death E Wo asks:

How does slavery to the fear of death work with suicide...Was someone who committed suicide "enslaved to the fear of death"? 

Perhaps not in a basic sense but perhaps more neurotically. (I work with the contrast between basic and neurotic anxiety in the book.) I do discuss suicide and the fear of death in the timor mortis Interlude. As I mentioned above, our fear of death is rooted in the preciousness of life. Consequently, if that anxiety is lost, if we become indifferent to both life and death, then the experience of gift has become eclipsed. In that instance life is "loss" and death is "gain." In that experience of life being "loss" or a "fail" is where I'd locate the neurotic enslavement to the fear of death.

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Judy asks:

I'm just starting the book, having read through the chapter explaining "ancestral sin" in contrast to "original sin." My question right off the bat is: What is your definition/understanding of "sin?" (just the word by itself) Some ideas I've heard over the years include: "Sin" is "separation from God," "rebellion towards God," "destructive behaviour," "anything that displeases God, whether actions or attitudes of the heart."

I'd like to think that my definition of sin is as multifaceted as is the bible's. Sometimes sin is described as moral failure. Sometimes sin is described as a state or condition, like being lost or sick or blind. Sometimes sin is described as a force, power or agent attacking, enslaving and oppressing us.

One point in this regard that I make in the book is that sin, death and the devil tend to be a tangled web of concepts. I call it the unholy Trinity.

In the book I talk about bit about Paul's usage of the word sarx, concretely translated as "flesh." But some translations translate sarx as "sinful nature." As I describe in the book, I think the translation "sinful nature" is missing the point. The problem with sarx isn't that our "nature" is intrinsically sinful or guilty, but that being "flesh"--simply being a biological animal--makes us weak in the face of death and survival pressures.

So while in the book I generally use the word "sin" as being synonymous with moral failure, I see all these things as being bound up together. It's a dysfunctional cycle, a feedback loop. Sin causes death and death causes sin in a cycle of moral dysfunction, a cycle kicked off by the primal act of disobedience in Garden and one that keeps us separated from God.

That brings us to P. Fitch's question:

Is the contrast between Orthodox and western notions of sin perhaps overdrawn here, such that what we’re really doing is groping for a new way to frame the story such that we can come out from under the shadow of tired and old formulations of evangelical piety? 

I am trying to make the contrasts very clear and, perhaps as a consequence, overdrawing them. But in making those contrasts I'm not suggesting one has to choose (though you could if you wanted to) between the Western and Eastern views of sin. The views are not mutually exclusive but overlapping and reinforcing.

So the goal of the book, which emphasizes the moral impact of death upon our lives, isn’t an attempt to replace the Western vision of sin. The goal of the book is to point out how many Western Christians, especially evangelicals, have ignored a wealth of biblical material regarding the relationship between sin and death. The bible presents us with a dense and complex causal matrix in which sin, death, and the devil all mutually interact. Consequently, the evangelical focus on sin tends to oversimplify the dynamics of our moral struggles. So if I'm pushing back on formulations of evangelical piety I'm pushing back on its flat, simplistic and monotonous focus on sin and how salvation is envisioned as a consequence.

And regarding the Eastern view of Ancestral Sin TimmyC asks:

Is there a good resource for more detail on understanding "Ancestral sin" how that doctrine originated and contrasting it to "Original Sin" beyond the level you did in chapter 1?

I don't have any great resources other than the ones I cite. The best treatment being John Romanides' Ancestral Sin. Start there and also read broadly in Orthodox Theology.

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R Vogel asks:

I just finished the first reading and am about to start my second deep dive - but the question the hovers in my mind is what prevents us from seeing the entire Christian framework, or religion broadly, as just another hero system?

I think this is a constant temptation. I don't think you can ever get comfortable thinking that your faith isn't just another hero system. You have to constantly and vigilantly check on this.

Three checks come to mind.

First, leaning on The Authenticity of Faith, one check is fallibillism, holding your beliefs tentatively and provisionally. Knowing you might be wrong. Thus, dogmatism, certainty and triumphalism are all symptomatic of problems.

Second, is the eccentric experience of God as I described in this post (the same one I noted above). God is not owned by the faith community.

Finally, as I mention in the last chapter of The Slavery of Death, the eclipse of the prophetic imagination. Stated starkly: Do you have imaginative capacity to see God standing with your enemies against you? If so, and caveats about self-deception being duly noted, you can be somewhat reassured that you aren't using God to mark an in-group versus out-group boundary. The key symptom here is when God is being used by an in-group to justify violence against an out-group. Sarah Palin's recent comments about water-boarding being how we "baptize" terrorists come to mind here as an example. Not trying to get into politics in using her as an example, just observing that those comments suggest that God has become identified with the American hero system and that the prophetic imagination in regards to the American hero system has been, in this instance, eclipsed.

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Chris asks a question about how to integrate the insights of Ernest Becker with those of Rene Girard:

I guess my initial thought here (as I love Girard, so I'm trying to find a way to bridge the gap) is that perhaps mimetic theory is a better way of understanding internal societal conflict (e.g., how we deal with internal conflict based on desire and rivalry) and Becker's insights can better describe external conflict (e.g., how we demonize the 'ideological Other' in order to maintain our cultural hero system so we do not need to face our fear of death).

Does that seem like a legitimate way to understand the complementary nature of the two views? To me, it seems like this would be a way of keeping both anxiety and imitation (as Girard understands it) as foundational ways of understanding human relations - particular when it comes to conflict.

I think there are lots of possible connections between these two thinkers and I think, Chris, this is a good one.

But stepping back, regarding how to integrate Becker and Girard, I think it's important to ask this question: What is more fundamental, anxiety or imitation?

I think this question is important because sometimes I think Girardians can be overconfident about what can be explained by imitation. Girardians have a great hammer--mimetic theory--and when you have a hammer, well, everything starts to look like a nail. Everything has to come back to imitation.

But for my part, as I mention in a footnote in the book, I think anxiety is more fundamental than imitation. Imitation came about in a social species like our own because it aided in Darwinian survival. Anxiety over self-preservation predates imitation and is the motive force behind imitation. We imitate because it's adaptive, which means imitation is driven and fueled by death anxiety, in both its basic and neurotic manifestations. We imitate to survive and to avoid death.

Anxiety is also what shapes and directs our desire. Before we can imitate, before we even have a sense of self, we are biologically needy and vulnerable creatures. When hunger pains hit the newborn infant there are no rivals, no triangulation of desires, no mimesis. Just basic need. Raw biological vulnerability that causes us to cry out in hunger pain. That pain and that need--the way we are born under the shadow of death--is our fundamental predicament, the predicament that, in my estimation, sits at the heart of our "sin problem."

This isn't to dismiss Girard's theory, just to suggest that there is more going on in human psychology and society than mimetic theory. Consequently, I welcome including mimetic theory in a larger psychological and sociological account of human behavior.

///

Let's end with some church-related questions from lukexvx:

For my question I would want to connect that with your concept of "communities of love" that you talk about around pg 110 of your book. If experiencing a state of vulnerability and neediness is the path to love, and this requires a certain social space in which to practice it, how would that space be structured? What ecclesiological model do we use to think about this?...When you talk about Jesus' call to sacrifice in Mark 10 and the early Christian communities' koinonia in Acts 4, I ask, "what would church look like here?" Should we all move into intentional community? Do we just need to add more programs onto our existing church structure?...What examples from non-Protestant traditions (liberation/postcolonial theology, etc.) do you see as providing insight into the way forward? How do you relate to your own church in wanting to challenge it to do more, but at the same time having the patience and grace to see it as a gift?

Boy, that's hard. So many theologians--me included--talk about a church that doesn't really exist. I've even heard some NT scholars argue that this is also the case with Acts 2 and 4, that those descriptions of the early church are polemical and idealized rather than real. If so, I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe the church has never existed. Church being so, so hard.

But there are communities that come to mind. Monastic and intentional communities, both old and new. The Catholic Worker movement. L'Arche.

For myself, I'm a part of an established church with all the baggage of an established, institutionalized church. But institutionalized churches vary along a continuum. So there are choices about where to place membership.

To escape the institutionalization of my church I spend most of my time at our church plant Freedom Fellowship that reaches out to the poor and homeless. There, among the poor and homeless, the "community of neediness" becomes more apparent. Life is more raw there on the margins. The needs more visible and acute. Because of this, love can begin to flow in these locations. Love can become what it should be, an economy of gifts.

So I guess my recommendation is twofold. First, there are communities of neediness out there. They are rare, but they do exist.

Second, but if you find yourself in an established church find the ministries where you can make friendships at the margins, where need is not neurotically hidden but very much on the surface. Where rent and bills need to be paid. Where failures are confessed and shared. Where getting the next meal is a concern. Or the next shower. Live and make friends in those places.

And let me end with this. More and more I'm thinking of the Kingdom of God as an event. The Kingdom of God comes--for a season, for a moment--and then is gone. Church is a place where, hopefully, the conditions for the Kingdom coming are cultivated. But those conditions don't guarantee anything. You just have to wait. And keep at the work. Make yourself available, over and over, individually and corporately.

All that to say, what I describe in the book is real. It does occur. It just doesn't last in any organized or bureaucratic way, as a "church." Consequently, there will be long seasons of church life where nothing seems to be going on.

But here and there--around this table, in this worship service, in this small group--the Kingdom of God comes. Elusively and transiently. But still, it comes.

///

Thank you all so much for your wonderful and challenging questions! And thank you for reading The Slavery of Death.

And if my answers missed the mark or raised additional questions, please feel free to ask some more.

Yes, you read that title right.

Penal substitutionary atonement continues to be debated. As I've mentioned before, the belief that Jesus' death on the cross was substitutionary is increasingly recognized. The debate tends to focus on the word penal, upon a crime/punishment framework for the atonement.

The problems with the penal framework come from how it implicates God in violence. The punishment for sin in this view is a death-sentence, and that involves God requiring the killing of Jesus.

And yet, my title says that there's such a thing as non-violent penal substitutionary atonement. What might that be?

To be sure, there are people who preach and teach a violent penal substitutionary atonement, the vision many of us find so problematic. However, punishment doesn't always have to involve violence and killing.

For example, God's punishment can be divine withdrawal. Greg Boyd uses this notion of punishment-as-divine-withdrawal extensively in his recent opus on God and non-violence Crucifixion of the Warrior God.

Behavioral psychologists are also very familiar with the distinction between positive punishment (adding something negative, like a spanking, to punish behavior) and negative punishment (removing something positive to punish behavior, like in a timeout).

All that to say, there is a version of penal substitutionary atonement that is non-violent. If the just punishment of sin by a holy God is divine withdrawal, then what happened on the cross wasn't God killing Jesus but God abandoning Jesus. And Jesus cries out in that moment, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" The framework here is still penal, this is still a punishment for sin. But the punishment is non-violent.

What, then, about all the violence associated with Jesus' torture and crucifixion?

Here's where a Christus Victor frame is helpful. On the cross God surrenders Jesus to the forces of chaos and evil. Separated from God, Jesus descends into the nightmare of violence, into the hellscape governed by demonic, destructive forces. But again, Jesus is surrendered to those demonic powers, God isn't the one being violent. And still, there is a penal framework here, where the punishment of sin is being abandoned by God, handed over to chaos and the demonic forces.

To be clear, I'm not defending penal substitutionary atonement. I don't defend any doctrine of the atonement. That's sort of like defending poetry.

My point is simply that the contested word penal doesn't necessarily imply violence. There can be a non-violent punishment for a crime.

Thus, in these debates we might start needing to distinguish between violent penal substitutionary atonement and non-violent penal substitutionary atonement.

You might be wondering why I'm slowing going through the seven great pains of sin that Julian of Norwich describes in Revelations of Divine Love, enumerating the plights and predicaments of a servant who falls into a pit upon setting out on a mission from their lord. I'm interested in this vision of Julian's because it can be difficult to talk about sin in an increasingly post-Christian world, and especially among Christians who are deconstructing their faith. Talk about sin can be shame and guilt inducing.

Julian, though, is not guilt or shame inducing. Her vision of God's loving, non-judgmental posture toward us is the reason why she is everyone's favorite mystic. And yet, Julian shares with us a sermon about sin. But the sermon doesn't have a wrathful, judgmental God. Rather, sin is like falling into a pit and becoming injured, where the mind is stunned by the pain. In short, I think Julian of Norwich is a resource for talking seriously about sin, but a non-judgmental way.

This brings us to the fifth great pain of sin. Hurt and stunned in the pit, Julian says that the servant "cannot rise." The servant cannot get up or climb out of the pit. 

We've already described this incapacity when looking at the injury and hurt of the servant. Our powerlessness. Our stuckness. 

Here's why I think that matters.

A few years ago I did a breakout section for Rachel Held Evans and Nadia Bolz-Weber for one of their Why Christian? conferences. This was just after the publication of Reviving Old Scratch, and Rachel wanted me to talk about the devil and spiritual warfare. I entitled the class "Exorcism 101." 

That title was a bit of a provocation given the audience attending the conference. The Why Christian? audience was mostly comprised of deconstructing evangelicals, ex-evangelicals, progressive Christians, and Christian-adjacent agnostics. So a talk about the devil and demons was going to be potentially triggering, given how spiritual warfare is generally talked about in more conservative and traditional Christians spaces, especially among pentecostals and charismatics. 

One of the approaches I took with that audience concerned the "atonement wars" going on at the time, and still raging among those who are deconstructing their evangelical faith. Specifically, penal substitutionary atonement was being rejected by the Why Christian? crew as bad and shame-inducing. There was a lot of conversation then about Christus Victor views of the atonement, as an alternative to penal substitutionary atonement, as Christus Victor was deemed to be a "non-violent" vision of atonement. 

To catch you up, if you don't know about any of this, Christus Victor atonement, which goes back to the church fathers, is the view that humanity was enslaved by hostile cosmic forces--Sin, death, the devil, and the principalities and powers. In the incarnation, death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus, these powers are defeated and humanity set free. Notice that there is no blood sacrifice to appease a wrathful deity in this view. God requires no death to forgive us. Atonement is "non-violent." 

As you can see, Christus Victor would hold a lot of appeal for deconstructing and progressive types struggling with penal substitutionary atonement. That was my audience at Why Christian? and why Christus Victor was buzzing among them. But in my talk I pointed out a lurking problem for this group. 

Specifically, for Christus Victor to "work" you have to have a pretty robust vision of being held captive by dark, enslaving powers. Powers like the devil. Powers like sin. And yet, these were the supernatural and metaphysical sorts of things many in the Why Christian? audience were struggling to believe in. Deep into their deconstruction of faith, they hardly believed in God anymore. So how were they going to believe in something like the devil? 

Which brings me back to Julian's vision. For a Christus Victor vision of atonement, you need to face Julian's fifth great pain of sin: You "cannot rise." Christus Victor atonement is premised upon the condition that you are stuck. Enslaved, even. You cannot rise. Consequently, you need an intervention from a power beyond yourself. You need rescue. 

That idea--salvation as rescue--goes to Julian's vision of sin as being in a pit of hurt, confusion, and pain. Consequently, if you want a vision like Christus Victor, salvation as rescue, you need to articulate a vision of the pit we're all in. You have to imagine something like what Julian of Norwich imagines. 

Beyond deconstruction, one of the other reasons the emerging church movement failed, in my estimation, was that the emerging church conversation eventually gravitated, after it became very online, toward unconventional theological perspectives that impaired wider acceptance, especially among evangelical churches. 

At the time, these theological perspectives were exciting and mind-blowing for many people. Seismic, even. But the ideas tended to be esoteric and theory-heavy, appealing mainly to theological nerds with graduate degrees. At the time, the epithet "theobro" was leveled at this online demographic, though this tag could be leveled at the "young, restless and reformed" crew as much as at the emerging church crowd. A "theobro" was generally a white guy with a graduate degree who liked to argue about theology on social media. From the mid-2000s on, as the emerging church began showing up in online spaces, there were a lot of theobros debating online. I count myself among this group, given how much I enjoyed arguing about theology after I had launched my own blog.

Let me give two examples of unconventional theological positions that were debated back then, positions which, I think, got in the way of the movement taking root in more churches. These were Girardian views of the atonement and process theology.

To start, the atonement was debated a lot during the emerging church conversation, especially after blogging came on the scene. I've described these online conflicts as "the atonement wars." The doctrine under the gun was penal substitutionary atonement. The emerging church made penal substitutionary atonement famous. Or, rather, infamous. The emerging church made penal substitutionary atonement "a thing."

There were two related concerns. First, there was the whole "sinners in the hands of an angry God" framing of atonement, the wrath of God needing to be "satisfied." Second, there was the notion that God required blood--the actual killing of a human being--to be "satisfied." This matrix of ideas proved so troublesome, problematic, and toxic to the deconstructing evangelicals in the emerging church that they began searching for what are called "non-violent" views of the atonement, where the violence we see in the crucifixion of Jesus isn't due to the actions of God. Two views rose to prominence at the time, Christus Victor and René Girard's scapegoat theory. Christus Victor blamed Satan for the death of Jesus. René Girard's scapegoat theory blamed human beings.

You might not have heard of René Girard. Like the emerging church, Girard's name has slipped from view. And I think the reason for that is that Girard's view of the atonement became the regulating theory of the atonement for many within the emerging church movement. Consequently, when the emerging church vanished so did Girard's scapegoat theory. They rose and fell together.

In retrospect, it is not hard to see why. For many within the emerging church, Girard's view of the atonement was a life-altering, Copernican revolution. The impact of Girard's ideas was so transformative a zealous, cult-like intensity swirled around him and his ideas. Among the true-believers, Girard had cracked the code. Here was the Master Idea that revealed all knowledge. Girard's theory was the theological Rosetta Stone that unlocked the secret meanings of the Bible, and especially the death of Jesus.

And yet, herein lurked a problem.

Let me say that I'm a huge fan of René Girard. I was an early adopter. In the first years of this blog I did a series on Mark Heim's book Saved from Sacrifice, still one of the best introductions to a Girardian reading of the Bible. I loved, and still love, James Alison's Girardian books, like Raising Abel. I used Girard in my first book, Unclean, and, as a consequence, got invited to speak at Girardian conferences. 

And yet, in trying to share these ideas with my own church, I quickly bumped into a problem. You have to do a lot of explaining to get the ideas across. And I do mean a lot of explaining. Girard's ideas are very theory-heavy. Personally, I think Girard is worth the trip, but most people don't like being told that they need to listen to a vey long and speculative theological lecture before they can "really understand" the crucifixion of Jesus. Plus, it strikes people as wildly implausible that, for almost 2,000 years, the church fundamentally misunderstood the death of Jesus until some French dude cracked the code in the 1970s. 

Here's my point. When Girard's scapegoat theory became a dominant, if not the dominant, view of the atonement among the emerging church crowd, the movement stubbed its theological toe, limiting its ability to communicate the gospel to normal, everyday folk. No one wants to be told that you need to learn about "memetic desire" to properly understand Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. 

Process theology is another example of some of theology that began to influence the emerging church conversation.

For example, if you know Tripp Fuller and his popular podcast Homebrewed Christianity, the podcast that hosted so much of the emerging church conversation once blogging and podcasting became a thing, you also know that Tripp is a proponent of process theology, and that the podcasts, titles, and events associated with Homebrewed Christianity promote process theology. 

As I briefly mentioned in Part 1, many within the emerging church were dealing with issues of theodicy. The problem of evil was the most acute theological problem to solve, the trigger of so much deconstruction. Consequently, many were attracted to open, relational, and process perspectives concerning God's "omnipotence." By rethinking God's "power," responsibility for the pain and suffering of the world could be shifted away from God. This shift lessens the theological burden of "the problem of evil" that weighed, and still weighs, so heavily upon so many.

Open, relational, and process perspectives are rich and fascinating theological resources--I love them--especially in conversations about theodicy. For many, these perspectives are literally faith-saving, the only way they can view God's power and remain a Christian. So, in my estimation, good work is being done here. And yet, we encounter a problem similar to the one we observed with Girardian scapegoat theology. Open, relational, and process perspectives are also theory-heavy. The metaphysical fireworks can be exciting, but they get in the way of broad appeal. Plus, there's the nagging issue of heresy. 

Listen, I think people have got to do what they got to do, theologically speaking, to hang on to faith. And if reaching for some heterodox ideas keeps you in the orbit of Jesus Christ, well, there are worse fates in life. As a psychologist, I think theology has as much to do with coping as with creedal orthodoxy. Sometimes you have to rearrange your mental furniture to make sense of the world, and over-policing these re-configurations in the name of "correct doctrine" often betrays a pastoral cluelessness. Plus, God isn't going to send anyone to hell for having a few squirrelly ideas. 

Also, many of the open, relational and process thinkers insist that their views are creedally orthodox, and work to demonstrate this. But this effort only goes to make my point: If your views are always fighting skirmishes to beat back the charge of heresy, your view isn't going to become mainstream. Too much theological headwind. 

There were other theological trends within the emerging church movement we could also highlight. We could talk, for example, about social trinitarianism and the influence of Jürgen Moltmann, or the popularity of non-dualistic thinking from people like Richard Rohr. (For example, we could do an autopsy of how Michael Gunger took the very popular and emergent-adjacent podcast The Liturgists down the non-dualistic, spiritual-not-religious path.) But our examples of Girardian atonement theory and process theology suffice to make the point. One of the reasons, albeit likely a small one, the emerging church movement failed, in my estimation, was due to the unconventional and esoteric theology that came to influence the movement. From the mid-2000s on, a lot of the foment and energy of the emerging church conversation involved sharing, propagating, and debating these theological ideas online. And while that conversation snapped, crackled and popped among a certain demographic, these debates were very niche and never really had a chance of winning over large numbers of regular folk in the pews, especially normal evangelical folks. 

Simply put, the emerging church failed because much of theology that came to dominate the conversation got a little too weird. 

As a series reminder, do check out the Emerged podcast hosted by Tony Jones and Tripp Fuller, their oral history of the emerging church movement (webpage here, Apple podcast here, and Spotify here).