Reclothing the Emperor

 I suspect you are familiar with Hans Christian Andersen’s fable, “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” A pair of swindlers posing as tailors offer to supply the emperor with magnificent clothes that are invisible to those who are stupid or incompetent. The emperor hires them, and they set up looms and go to work. Several officials, and then the emperor himself, occasionally check their progress. Obviously, the looms are empty, but everyone pretends otherwise to avoid being thought a fool. Finally, the tailers are finished. They mime dressing him and he sets off in a procession before the whole city. The townsfolk uncomfortably go along with the pretense, not wanting to appear inept or stupid, until a child blurts out that the emperor is wearing nothing at all. Although startled, the emperor continues the procession, walking more proudly than ever.

When the newly converted Emperor Constantine declared Christianity the religion of the realm and marched his army into the sea as an act of baptism, the church began, slowly at first and then headlong, a process of adopting the model of empire as the way to get things done. Brief exceptions notwithstanding, since that time (early 4^th century), whenever the church has advanced, it has been on the basis of expansion by conquest (including military conquest) and rule of law, enforcing its presence through political power and inquisition and outright fear. Beginning with Augustine and reinforced by Calvin, the primary instrument of control and intimidation has been the fear of hell.

And the masses went along with the sham, fearing the fires of hell if they didn’t. And then along came Martin Luther, who exposed the emperor’s nakedness with his 95 reasons the church more closely resembled the empire than the kingdom of God.

The Protestant Reformation exposed corruption in church leadership and restored a sense of integrity. The church’s political and police power was challenged, and except in isolated areas diminished over the next several generations. But John Calvin kept the fires of hell stoked, and the empire model remains the primary mode of operations for the church even today.

What changed during the Reformation was a shift of the church’s source of power and control. With the political and police power of the state diminishing,[1] the church’s grasp of power evolved ideologically; nevertheless, the basic instrument of control has remained intact, viz., the fear of hell.

But now a new generation is coming into maturity[2] and is shouting, “The emperor has no clothes!” And a new movement is rediscovering a way to reclothe the emperor. Briefly, I say “rediscover” because the clothes in which the emperor will be dressed are not new. They are found in some of the earliest writings of the church (prior to Constantine and Augustine), and in some writings in my own lifetime. So, why have these clothes not been worn—why have these writings not been at the forefront of the church’s life and teaching and ministry? Maybe because the emperor doesn’t want to admit to being naked?

In 500 words or less, essentially in the original languages of the Scriptures, the concept of God’s punishment, including the idea of hell, are redemptive rather than punitive. Insofar as human suffering is to be understood as divinely inflicted, it is less like a courtroom and more like a hospital operating room. What pain and suffering are experienced are necessary elements of a process of healing and restoration.

Another biblical metaphor is the smelter whose fire melts the metal so the impurities float to the top where they can be skimmed off, and pure metal remains.

A bit more complicated is the idea that God’s punishment, and particularly hell, are forever. The primary New Testament word translated forever did not originally imply eternity. The word is αιών (ai–ón), which is the root of the English word, eon. It means “a very large division of geologic time usually longer than an era” (Mirriam-Webster). It was not translated “forever” until the time of Augustine in the early 4^th century. In some cases, it remains translated “age,” which implies a beginning and an ending, and there is the clear idea that one eon follows another: “Whoever speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but whoever speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this age or in the age to come” (Matthew 12:32 NRSV).[3]

Thus, the call to faithfulness is more biblically accurate when instead of inflicting the fear of eternal hell, it offers the hope of healing and restoration, even though the process may be painful. In this perspective, the spiritual disciplines are practiced, not to earn God’s love and peace, but to experience life lived abundantly in that already gifted condition.

While I always admit to limitations in my understanding and practice of Christianity (“I see as if through a pane of flawed glass” ~ my paraphrase of I Corinthians 13:12), from where I sit, the reclothed emperor looks resplendent! What remains is to reimage the church in some model other than “empire.”

That’s the way it looks through the Flawed Glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

If I've piqued your curiosity, here are a few bibliographical suggestions for further reading:

Artman, David, Grace Saves All: The Necessity of Christian Universalism. (Wipf and Stock, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2020).

Karris, Mark Gregory. Religious Refugees (Quoir. 2020)

Zahnd, Brian. A Farewell to Mars: An Evangelical Pastor's Journey Toward the Biblical Gospel of Peace (David C Cook. 2020).

---

[1] The separation of church and state reached its peak of influence during the early generations of the United States; however, it remains a relative thing, and that unholy marriage has never completely been dissolved.

[2] Actually at least two generations as Strauss and Howe, et al identify them, beginning with “Generation X”.

[3] The foregoing comment regarding “eon” is encapsulated from David Artman, Grace Saves All: The Necessity of Christian Universalism. Wipf and Stock, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition.

The First Mutation

 “The Church is a place of great beauty and healing. It can also be a place that traumatizes, excludes, and abuses.”[1]

From the very beginning—the Acts of the Apostles in the Christian New Testament—the church has been divided. In chapter 15 Peter and Paul, the leading voices of the nascent church, locked horns over whether Gentiles should become Jews (read: be circumcised) before being accepted into the church.

The church in Corinth was divided over almost everything: which spiritual gifts were more important, whose baptism counted, which preacher they should follow… Even the Lord’s Supper was a point of contention.

Heresies abounded in that first generation of the church: Gnosticism, Docetism, Arianism, etc. The overarching question was “Who’s right?” How can we make sure we get it right, so we won’t go to hell when we die? (More about hell in the next blog!)

That issue of who’s right and who’s wrong never has been resolved within the historic church. I saw a headline today (I didn’t read the article. The headline was upsetting enough.); it read, “All Baptisms Performed by Phoenix Priest Invalid Because He Changed One Word.” Good grief!

Some of the apostles seemed to catch momentary glimpses of what was right; but they were inconsistent in their proclamation of it. Some of the early church fathers—I’m thinking specifically of Origen of Alexandria (c. 184 – c. 253)—seemed to get it right, at least part of the time. Of course, even this paragraph represents my own conviction that I’m right. (One difference is that I accept the human limitations described by the title of my blogsite: “Flawed Glass,” based on I Corinthians 13:12. I accept the possibility that I may be wrong.)

The purpose and objective of spiritual discipline—both individually and in community—is not to attain that divine love, but to experience what already is and always has been.[2]

But there’s that first mutation thing. From primordial wondering about things unseen, we humans have wanted to get it right. We have a need to be loved and accepted. We have a need to make sure we’re loved and accepted. We don’t want that faith and trust stuff, we want a solid guarantee! So we develop a binary “right/wrong” system by which we can be sure. Oral Roberts often said, “I know that I know that I know.”

So that first mutation is the move from trust to certitude. It’s not a new thing; it’s a throwback to a prehistoric human need to control the unknown. It is a rejection of faith and trust.

The truth is: nobody ever gets it right! That’s why we need grace. It’s not about being right. It never was. It’s about being loved and accepted by the source of all love. John got it right (I John 4:8): God is love!

Red, brown, yellow, black, white: you are loved! LGBTQ/Straight: you are loved! Republican/Democrat/Libertarian/Socialist/Communist: you are loved!

And here’s the thing: when we are experiencing love and acceptance, we are free from all that worry and anxiety about whether we’re “right.” The reason we wanted to be “right” in the first place was just to be loved and accepted. When we experience love we are free to love, without concern for ourselves and without concern about whether the recipient of our love is worthy, or whether our love will be returned. We already are loved!

The natural response to experienced love is to love in return. We worship the God who is Love with praise, adoration and thanksgiving, and we serve the God who is Love by loving the people God loves, which excludes nobody! Thanks be to God!

That’s the way it looks through the Flawed Glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

---

[1] Bruce Epperly, endorsing Mark Gregory Karris, Religious Refugees (Orange, California: Quoir, Kindle Edition, 2020) p. 4.

[2] I’m grateful for this insight discovered in David Artman, Grace Saves All: The Necessity of Christian Universalism (Wipf and Stock, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition 2020) p. 105.

Spiritual Archeology

The longer I live and study the Scriptural and other witnesses of my faith, the more I discover how little my faith, and the faith of almost all Christians I know, is based on the life—the teachings, the examples, and the ultimate rejection of the world’s values—of Jesus of Nazareth. We quote selective—selective—sound bites from the Bible to defend a faith and spirituality that scarcely models the Carpenter of Galilee, opting instead to choose one of the many mutations that have emerged, beginning in the fourth and fifth centuries (Current Era).

An honest and more nearly accurate approach to Christianity would resemble spiritual archeology, digging through the many layers of spiritual mutations, noting how Christianity in each historic period reflected its culture, rather than molding its culture according to the Gospels, until finally reaching—as nearly as possible—the original meaning and intent of Jesus.

The choice of which gospels and epistles would form the definitive Christian witness (New Testament) was not decided until the end of the fourth century (Council of Carthage in AD 397). By then, the mutations already had begun.

[Quick aside to address the elephant in the room: the question of divine inspiration. With more than 450 English translations today dating back to the early 16^th century[1] (and countless translations into other languages), none of which are identical, and with literally thousands of more ancient documents, scrolls, and codices in the original languages dating back to the fifth century[2], again, none of which are identical, which one is the divinely inspired version? None of the original documents survive.]

In the early fourth century when the Roman Emperor Constantine converted to Christianity and declared Christianity to be the religion of the realm, two mutations resulted. The first was that Christianity became the vassal of the empire, with a primary role of chaplain of state, defending and confirming the affairs of state (including military imperialism). This mutation reflects the direct opposite of any New Testament concept and resulted (as one example) in the anti-Christ Crusades of the middle ages. It also is emerging today into a frightening level in American Christian Nationalism.

Second, when Constantine convened the First Council of Nicaea in 325, Christianity mutated from a kerygmatic[3] faith to a credal religion. What had been for 300 years a dynamic behavioral and relational moral response within a community to a preached message of God’s presence and love as demonstrated through Jesus of Nazareth, at Nicaea mutated into a static mental assent to the Creed of Nicaea, with morality defined by the laws of the Empire.

A hundred years later Augustine of Hippo (St. Augustine) engineered another mutation. Until then, in the Christian understanding of Scripture, divine punishment was restorative. Like a medical procedure that inflicts pain in the process of healing, or like the smelting process of melting metal ore to extract the sluff and refine the metal to a state of purity, God’s punishment was seen as a part of divine healing and purification. Even the biblical teaching related to hell was understood as a part of that divine healing process.[4]

Under Augustine’s influence, divine punishment mutated into a punitive thing. Moreover, until Augustine, the New Testament word αιών (ai - ón) was understood to mean essentially what it means in today’s English, namely, “eon” or “age.” The biblical understanding of eternity is an unending series of eons or ages. From the time of Augustine, when the word appears in Scripture it usually is translated, “eternity.” It is not thus translated in other religious or secular contexts.

Thus, what originally was described God’s punishment, including hell, as relating to an eon or an age and accomplishing its intended purpose of restoration, under Augustine mutated into a concept of eternal, punitive damnation and punishment with no hope of restoration.

That mutation, with some variations, continues at the center and core of most Christianity. The fear of eternal damnation became a primary tool of control, even of monarchy, and was wielded like a weapon to keep the rabble in line during the middle age corruptions and Inquisitions of the church. It reached its peak and its harshest application under John Calvin and Puritanism. It continues today in the offshoot denominations and sects of Calvinism.

There have been other mutations, like the emergence of American Christian Nationalism; but probably none have had greater or longer lasting influence than the Constantine/Augustine/Calvin combo. But the fundamental result is the emergence of a religion based upon fear: fear of getting it wrong and thus inheriting eternal damnation. Each successive sectarian division of Christ’s Body assumes an exclusive and infallible grasp of the truth, with growing animosity toward any person or group who perceives reality differently.

The fallacy or heresy of each successive mutation is that it places the burden and responsibility of the divine/human relationship squarely upon the shoulders of humanity (if we get it right we go to heaven when we die; if we don’t get it right, we go to hell—forever!)—it’s all up to us—which is a direct contradiction of the New Testament’s undeniable witness that it is God’s grace alone, and not any human effort or action or credal affirmation or sinner’s prayer that determines either the immediate or the eternal destinies of humanity.

In that context, our relationship with God takes on the character of a child’s relationship with a loving parent, fully trusting and gratefully responding with thanksgiving and praise, and humbly seeking to please that parent[5] in all we do and say. “God is love” (I John 4:8), and “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love” (I John 4:18 NRSV).

That’s the way it looks through the Flawed Glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

---

[1] John Wycliffe is the first known translator of the Bible into English in the 14^th century; however, William Tyndale’s translation (ca. 1525) was the first printed English version.

[2] Actually, some fragments date to the turn of the first century, e.g., the John Rylands fragment of the Gospel of John.

[3] Kerygma comes from the Greek word meaning “to proclaim” or, as applied in Christianity, “to preach.” Early 20^th century theologians like C. H. Dodd and Rudolf Bultmann suggested that the gospels were a literary type that was unique in the ancient world. They called it kerygma and described it as a later development of preaching which morphed into a literary form. The Kerygma has come to denote the irreducible essence of Christian apostolic preaching, especially in its references to Jesus.

[4] See the writings of Origen of Alexandria in the early third century, as well as many other early Church Fathers.

[5] In contrast to responding out of fear of eternal punishment.

Are Evangelicals Killing Christianity?

It’s admittedly a dangerous title, but I chose it, not for shock value or to gain attention (although I hope it does gain attention).

I hope to open productive conversation, not start a fight. In a fight there is a winner and a loser. Any time I do a conflict resolution consultation, whether between troubled marital partners, a parent/child conflict, or in an organizational setting, I always begin by asking, “Do you truly want to resolve the issues between you, or do you just want to win the fight?”

Nobody wins a fight. The only thing a fight accomplishes is the establishment of one’s power over another--and resentment on the part of the loser. Relationships—indeed, civilizations—cannot thrive indefinitely in a power relationship.

Thus, I attempt here to open a conversation. Agreement is neither necessary nor truthfully expected. Mutual understanding, I think, is a reasonable expectation. Respectful conversation teamed with earnest seeking might lead to some common ground upon which to build “a more excellent” way than the way that has produced four generations of decline in the Body of Christ.

These thoughts were stimulated by a paragraph from evangelical author, Philip Yancey. In Vanishing Grace. He writes:

“I decided to write this book after I saw the results of surveys by the George Barna group. A few telling statistics jumped off the page. In 1996, 85 percent of Americans who had no religious commitment still viewed Christianity favorably. Thirteen years later, in 2009, only 16 percent of young “outsiders” had a favorable impression of Christianity, and just 3 percent had a good impression of evangelicals. I wanted to explore what caused that dramatic plunge in such a relatively short time. Why do Christians stir up hostile feelings—and what, if anything, should we do about it?”[1]

I haven’t read beyond those words. My mind was stimulated to distraction, and I was compelled to put my thoughts on paper. I look forward to finishing Yancy’s book.

One of my greatest frustrations in ministry is what Thomas Bandy Calls the largest and fastest growing spiritual population in North America, viz. “the spiritually yearning, institutionally alienated public;[2] a population that calls itself, “spiritual but not religious.” Yancey notes in his book the phenomenon of the “nones:” those who, when polled about religious preference, respond by checking “none.” They now constitute one-third of all Americans under the age of thirty.

My frustration is that virtually two generations have abandoned, not just that part of “religion” (specifically Christianity) that offends them but essentially all organized religion, and in the process have thrown out the proverbial baby with the bath water!

My read is (and has been for a couple of decades), that they really don’t disagree with the theological content or the essential purpose and ministry of the denomination in which I serve. My impression (again, biased and unsupported by data) is that they experienced, either personally or vicariously, something in a relatively narrow religious context that offended or hurt them and have generalized from that isolated experience to justify their judgment about all religion.

The truth is that I agree with the two most frequently identified offenders: hypocrisy and judgmentalism. And while no discipline or community has a lock on hypocrisy, it would be difficult to deny a distinct aura of judgment as a definitive characteristic of evangelicalism.

As a recovering evangelical, here is what I remember: the first premise is the basic Calvinist dogma of the total depravity of man. Already, we’ve lost the “nones,” but hang with me; I think I can get us out of this mess. I learned the “Roman Road to Salvation” as the basic “plan of salvation,” and it begins with Romans 3:23, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” The basic approach in this doctrine of salvation is to assume that that all are lost and bound for hell.

The trouble is, some people—probably a large majority of people—don’t “feel” lost. I’ve heard in more than one discussion group or conversation, “But, I’m not a sinner.” People generally associate “sin” with gross crimes and harmful behavior (especially sexual in nature), and most people don’t fall into either category; therefore, we have to create that sense of being lost for them. It is manipulative and dehumanizing and the origin of a lot of the impression of judgmentalism.

Here's the thing: one thing I’ve always loved and admired about evangelicals is that they’re sincere in their concern for the salvation of all humans. Who can fault that? But the Kennedy approach: “If you were to die today, where would your soul be tomorrow?” and the basic assumption that everyone is lost and bound for hell—right or wrong—is dehumanizing, and has become increasingly ineffective; indeed, it has become increasingly counterproductive since the middle of the last century! The results are available on basically any related survey or poll.

WHAT IF…

Instead of the Pauline “Roman Road” (which has been proof-texted and tailored to fit the Calvinist doctrine of the depravity of all humans), WHAT IF we began with Jesus? Most who identify as “spiritual but not religious,” and even many who are classified as “none” affirm an admiration and/or devotion to Jesus. But, like Gandhi, “I love your Jesus; but your Christians are so unlike him.”

Still, why not begin on common ground? Jesus said, “If I am lifted up…” WHAT IF we simply lift up Jesus, rather than create a need? WHAT IF we quit preaching hell and “lift up Jesus?” Does one absolutely need to recite the “good confession” or pray the “sinner’s prayer” to enter an eternal relationship with God through Jesus Christ? Is it the recitation of the words, or would the act of following Jesus by following his example accomplish that same relationship? Would not the action indicate the acceptance of Jesus as Lord?

Yes, I memorized this, too: “Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven” (Matthew 10:32-33 NRSV). Is the good confession and/or the sinner’s prayer the only way to acknowledge Jesus before others? Or do actions truly speak louder than words, especially when a “spiritual but not religious” public points vociferously at religious hypocrisy? Would not actions that are consistent with our words remove any impression (or reality) of hypocrisy?

The truth is, while the overall trend of American church is downward, there are those entrepreneurial churches that attract large flocks. And—right or wrong—those growing churches put out a message that is clear of judgment or condemnation, offering instead a prosperity gospel or the Prayer of Jabez. No, Jesus is not the core of that message. BUT NEITHER IS HELL OR CONDEMNATION! Misguided or not, the offering is hope!

WHAT IF there is yet another approach: an approach that lifts up Jesus only? Could that be a valid starting place—common ground upon which to begin?

Stay tuned. I’ll continue this conversation with some specific applications.

That’s the way it looks through the Flawed Glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

---

[1] Phllip Yancy, Vanishing Grace, Page 15, as quoted in Artman, David. Grace Saves All: The Necessity of Christian Universalism (p. 103). Wipf and Stock, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition.

[2] Tom Bandy, Talisman: Global Positioning for the Soul (p. 6) Wipf and Stock, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition. [Bandy identifies this population in several other books, including Christian Chaos, Kicking Habits: Welcome Relief for Addicted Churches, et.al.]