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 4th 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 4th
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,
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.
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