I’m going to rant for a minute, so bear with me. There’s a lot of talk these days (and in years past too) about how formal biblical education has the tendency of decreasing one’s spirituality. In other words, the academic focus and the attention to cognitive processes when approaching the scripture and theology are in direct opposition to how one is “supposed” to read the Bible: with the heart, soul, or even spirit.
In fact, so many who have gone through seminary or any other biblical education seem to make similar statements: that Bible school makes them less spiritual.
A lot of this, as I mentioned above, has to do with the approach to scripture and theology of the seminarian; an approach that is analytical and cerebral. It’s implied that by reading the Bible this way, one cannot have a spiritual experience. In order to have a spiritual experience of some sort, one has to return to reading the Bible as he or she did before he or she started biblical education.
I have a serious issue with this for several reasons. First, I have had so many deeply spiritual experiences while analyzing text. I have learned some deep truths about myself, the way God works in the world, the nature of humanity, etc. These have all produced some significant changes in my life along with some times of incredible spiritual connection to God.
Which brings me to my second problem with this statement about seminary: It’s dualistic (and, in my opinion, dangerous). This is something I’m only beginning to ponder, but I think there’s something in it. The dualism is that there is mind and there is spirit, and the two work independently. So when we analyze text, we are engaging our mind and not necessarily our spirit or soul. The same is true in reverse. When we are reading the text for some spiritual meaning, we aren’t using our cognitive abilities. In fact, some would urge the reader to put aside his or her “intellect” (or maybe analytical skills) in order to approach the text in a spiritual way.
Now the answer to this dualism has been something to this effect: “The key is to engage both your intellect and your spirit and to hold them both in a healthy tension.” Sounds good, but to me, it’s still dualistic. Sure, the goal to have both intellect and spirit be equal is good, but this still maintains they idea that they are separate.
I want to move toward a more holistic view of the human being; like what we see in the OT. In the Jewish mind, there is no outside and inside of the body; no spirit and flesh; no body and soul. We are whole beings.
And in reality, can we really separate our “intellect” from our “spirit?” Are we really able to function fully in one without engaging the other? Or, stated more directly, aren’t they really the same thing? Where is my spirit? Point to it. Is it in a different location than my intellect?
All of this is really premature. I’ve only begun to mull it over. But I know for sure I get exceedingly frustrated when I hear of seminarians who claim an academic reading of scripture strips them of their spirituality. I also know for sure that I want to understand this human life we have in a more holistic way. Am I flesh? Am I spirit? Am I soul? Or am I human?
There are a series of phrases that I’d like to remove from my phrase vocabulary. They are phrases like, “are you alright?”, “everything OK?”, “Are you doing alright?”, and so on.
You know these phrases. They’re the ones we use when we think something is wrong with a friend or when we think a friend has something on their mind. So we say something like, “Hey man, are you doing alright?”
To which the easy answer is, “Yeah, I’m OK.” Problem solved. Nothing is wrong.
Here’s why the phrase bothers me: Why don’t we be more direct? Why can’t we ask, “Is there something troubling you?” Or better yet, why can’t we just say, “Tell me why you seem sad/angry/hurt/etc.” It’s like we phrase the question in a way that we don’t really have to get involved. In reality, we know something is wrong. We only ever ask the question when a friend seems to be troubled. So why not be more direct?
Instead we say, “Please tell me you’re alright so I don’t have to hear about what’s wrong with you…” Sure, that’s probably an exaggeration, but maybe not. Why else would we ask, “Are you alright?” if we’re not hoping for a positive answer that lets us off the hook (although we still did our due diligence in asking).
So I’m trying to make an effort to ask, “What’s on your mind?” or “Can we talk about what’s bothering you?” instead of the non-committal, “Are you alright?”
Join with me…
Those who know me know I’m a stickler for context when it comes to reading the Bible. To me it’s incredibly important to know the cultural/historical context of a passage in order to understand the intended meaning. I’ve seen many verses, when taken out of context, used to say all sorts of craziness. But sometimes the discussion of context need not go any further than the immediate textual context of a passage (read: the verses around a particular passage).
For a long time I’ve been very frustrated by a specific example of this. If you’ve gone to church on any kind of regular basis, you’ve probably heard Matthew 18:20 quoted: “For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them.” I’ve heard it used during prayers, in worship, and even in sermons. The idea intended is that when a group of Christians get together, Jesus is there.
But when we look at the preceding verses, a different reading stands out. Jesus is talking to his disciples about the very specific topic of church discipline, and he is essentially telling them that whatever decision they make in terms of church discipline will be supported by him. So when two or three gather together to make a decision about what to do with someone in the Christian community who has done something wrong, it is as if Jesus is there supporting the decision.
There’s a lot of weird stuff in the passage, including Jesus talking about things bound on earth being bound in heaven, and things loosed on earth being loosed in heaven. I’d have to study a little more to really understand what he’s trying to say.
But the fact remains the passage so commonly quoted is often removed from its context to express some kind of point.
And here is where I’m really confused. What point is being made? That Jesus is only around when two or three are gathered? Are we saying Jesus is not with us when we’re alone? If so, then why pray? Exactly what are we trying to say here?
My confusion grew when I read Henri Nouwen’s, In the Name of Jesus a few weeks ago. In his book, he quotes this very passage to illuminate the importance of ministry being done in groups and not by individuals. But is that what Jesus is saying? Maybe more so than what others claim this passage means. But I still can’t shake the sense that we are missing the point of this passage, and I’m frustrated to read that someone like Henri Nouwen uses Matthew 18:20 in a way I feel is inappropriate.
I don’t want to rule out the fact that I am wrong with my understanding of the text. I may be. I’m often wrong more than I’m right. But this is something that has bothered me for quite some time, and it is an example to me how often we misuse scripture because we fail to consider context – whatever context that may be.
Christmas is 10 days away, and I’ve been thinking about the birth narratives of Jesus. We wonderful Christians have such an easy time romanticizing the things we read in the Bible, and the birth narratives are no exception. Honestly, I’m not sure why we do this… maybe we’re insecure about the stories and we feel the need to spice them up. Maybe we don’t get the point so we make up our own. Maybe we just love the dramatic so much that we need to over dramatize things so they appeal to us.
So what about the birth narratives of Jesus? We all know the story: Mary and Joseph are traveling on a cold night, trying to get to Bethlehem. Mary is obviously pregnant, and they need a place to stay and fast! They go door to door to the different inns finding none that are vacant. Finally a kind innkeeper allows them to stay in his barn with the animals. This is where Jesus is born, and Mary and Joseph nudge the animals away from the feed to lay Jesus in the feed-trough. Soon Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and the animals are joined by shepherds and kings and apparently some kid with a drum.
Sounds about right, doesn’t it? The crazy thing is that most of this info is not in the birth narratives. Most of what we know of the birth of Jesus is from Luke 2, with Matthew helping a little (Matthew adds the wise men, but some time after the birth).
Luke’s story goes a little more like this: Emperor Augustus decrees a census (and a tax) be taken, and as a result, everyone has to go to their home towns (well, the men do at least). Since Joseph is from Bethlehem, that’s where he goes. At some point after they are in Bethlehem, Mary goes in to labor and gives birth. After birth, she wraps Jesus in some infant clothes and places him in a manger/crib, and she does this, as the text indicates, because there is “no place for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7). Later, some shepherds, after hearing from angels that the Messiah is born, go to see Jesus.
And that’s it. No innkeeper. No going door to door. No sense of urgency because she’s about to have the baby. Not many of the details we’re used to.
In fact, the word Luke uses for “inn” does not necessarily refer to a “hotel” of sorts. Luke uses this same word one other time in his gospel, but this time to refer to the upper room where Jesus had his last meal with his disciples (22:7-12). Even more interesting is that Luke uses a completely different word later in his gospel (10:34) to refer to an actual inn or guest lodging.
So it’s very likely Luke is referring to the upper room of a private house when he uses the word “inn,” changing the details we know so well just a little. Mary and Joseph find that there is no room in the upper room of Josephs ancestral house (where they most likely would have stayed during the census period), so they move to the lower level where the animals are kept, kind of like the garage. The most obvious place to lay a newborn in this kind of garage is one of the feed-troughs. Incidentally, the word for “manger” can also be translated “crib,” but “manger” is probably a better translation here.
So what’s the point? Why does it even matter? I’m not completely sure, and maybe you can weigh in on this, but I think it’s generally a bad practice to romanticize biblical texts. Maybe I’m being cynical when I write this, but I would rather focus on the intended meaning of the texts rather than spice them up with fancy details, especially when those details are misleading.
What can we say about the birth narratives of Jesus? Well, especially in Luke, the announcement of the in-breaking reign of God and the redemption of humanity is made to a bunch of shepherds, not to kings and rulers. And this king has a birth that is not special in any way. He’s not born in a palace and wrapped in purple cloth. He’s born like everyone else and in normal circumstances. He represents what the humility of humanity means. Even in his birth, he identifies with us; with normal people and not with the most powerful and influential.
If anything, this is the beauty of the Christmas story: That God has come and is setting up a new way of life; one that is not based on power structures and amassing wealth but on humility, joy, and peace.
To me, that is a powerful message on its own.
I wrote this for xanga a while back, and I just reread it today. I like it…
I think people misunderstand the purpose of doctrinal and theological studies. I don’t think the point is to properly define God. I think the point of studying is to learn just how much of God there is yet to know.
The people I have met who suffer from the “I know all there is to know about God” syndrome are not the people who have devoted their lives to study. They are usually the people who have never properly studied doctrine or theology at all.
When you encounter someone who has deeply studied issues of doctrine and theology, you usually encounter someone who is humbled by what they have learned and wouldn’t dare say anything about God in any definite terms.
It’s like the person who sees the vastness of the universe for the first time. They don’t walk away from that experience thinking they have seen all there is to see. They have a feeling of smallness that makes them realize how much there is to know, and how far they are from even knowing a fraction of it.
Here’s a blog I originally posted for xanga. Not new, but worth reposting:
I think diversity (in terms of racial/ethnic/cultural/etc diversity) is a lot like soda. Think about how many different kinds of soda are out there: Coke, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Sprite, Mt. Dew, Cherry Coke or Pepsi, Fresca, Grape, Birch/Root Beer, and on and on. And each kind has a diet version. In some cases, there are kinds that have extra caffeine versions. So the possibilities are endless.
But in terms of color, there aren’t very many sodas: brown, clear, yellowish, purple, maybe a few more. So if we look at the diversity of soda in terms of appearance, we are really looking at it in a limited sense. But when we consider flavors, the possibilities become endless. Sure, Dr. Pepper and Diet Coke might both be brown, but they have very different flavors. Sprite and Sierra Mist Free (or whatever it’s called) may both be clear, but one has a ton of sugar and the other has caffeine (at least I think…). So to just talk about the color of soda really limits the discussion of diversity.
I’m sure you figure out where I’m going here. A lot of people may look at a group of people and say, “I see a lot of white people. That’s not very diverse.” But is this really fair to say? Pick any two of the white people from that crowd and you will find two very different cultural backgrounds. And really, isn’t that what diversity’s all about? Or should we just limit it to color?
So the question could become, “What is diversity, really?” Is it different skin colors? Or is it different cultural backgrounds. Think of it like this: there are many families that have adopted children of a different race when they are very young. These children then grow up in a certain culture that may be very different than the culture of their specific ethnicity. Say a family has one child and adopts another of a different ethnicity. Are those two children very different from each other just because of skin color? Or does the culture in which they were raised determine who they are?
I guess what I’m getting at is that we have really limited the discussion on diversity by making it about color. In one sense, you could say this actually works against diversity since it limits it to a kind of stereotype. It may cause someone to look at a group of people who appear to be the same “color” and consider them all to be pretty much the same.
I guess I’m not ok with that.
