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There is something unique about St Brendan’s island, something I find very difficult to put into words, because I have no term of comparison. These Celtic Pilgrimages are filled with places of such spiritual strength that they can be overwhelming. About Iona, there is a saying that no pilgrim will ever come here just once. You will always return because you need to hear once more the things you’ve heard in your heart the first time. This is true of all the isles; in some ways, it is even stronger on the smaller, more secluded ones, precisely because of their very remoteness and silence.

Let me tell you a secret. Of all the amazing places we see during our pilgrimages, my heart aches for four in particular: St Brendan’s beehive cell; the hermit caves on St Kenneth’s Isle; St Columba’s Bay on Iona; and the Nuns’s Cave on Mull. It is revealing to me, as the leader of these pilgrimages, that people tend to wander alone here. After we pray together, each of us instinctively looks for solitude to pray alone. It is as if we all answer a personal silent call from the cliffs, the hills or the coast of the ocean.

There is something deeply unsettling about these sites, something that immediately throws you out of your spiritual comfort zone. The things we learn to avoid, the aspects of our faith we gradually learn to ignore somehow become the essential, central themes here. These are un compromising places, dangerous places for anyone except uncompromising characters of dangerous, uncompromising faith. I hope to tell you about all these places over time, but let’s start with few words about St Brendan’s cell.

The ‘data’ concerning the cell is itself impressive beyond belief. Dating back to the very early 500s, it is stunningly well-preserved. Fifteen centuries later, its unmistakably Irish character is perfectly obvious, building a direct link with St Brendan’s first monastic community. All the original monastics were Irish, and they built their first cells as they did in their own country. The beehive cell on St Brendan’s are identical with those you find on the Skellig Islands, for instance.

What makes this cell even more remarkable is that it is an extremely rare example of a double beehive cell. From what I know – please tell me if this is not true – the cell on St Brendan’s is the only example of a double beehive cell in Scotland. We don’t really know why the Christian Celts built these double cells, just as we don’t know why they are so rare. The most likely explanation is that they were intended for the use of the Abbot of the monastery, who would have needed the second space to hear the brothers’ confessions and to offer them private guidance.

It is a unique experience to kneel in this cell and to pray for St Brendan’s guidance. Just kneel down and ask him to accept you as one of his community, and to cover you with his protection after your return home; just ask for the unspeakable, ask with boldness, ask with the positive desperation of the one who feels lost but refuses to give up the fight. Hope against hope. ‘Christ beside me, Christ within me.’ – these words come from the heart of a tradition that knew this feeling very well.

Come with us. Come pray with us. Come and say these words here, in St Brendan’s cell.View to St Brendan's CellThe Cell on the Coast of the oceanBeehive Cell on St Brendan's IslePraying in St Brendan's CellLooking our from St Brendan's CellDouble Irish Beehive Cell

Remembering Marcus Borg | March 11, 1942 – January 21, 2015


Marcus J. Borg, beloved husband and father, renowned teacher, author and leading scholar of the historical Jesus, New Testament and contemporary Christianity, died on January 21, 2015, following a battle with Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. He was 72 years of age.

Marcus Borg was an internationally revered speaker and scholar who authored or co‐authored 21 books, some which were New York Times and national bestsellers. His books have won multiple awards and been translated into twelve languages. The New York Times called him, “a leading figure in his generation of Jesus scholars.”

Marcus Borg earned his doctorate degree from Oxford University. He was a professor at Oregon State University for 28 years where he held the Hundere Chair of Religion and Culture at the time of his retirement in 2007. His long career has included appointment as Canon Theologian at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in Portland, Oregon, chair of the Historical Jesus Section of the Society of Biblical Literature and co‐chair of its International New Testament Program Committee, president of the Anglican Association of Biblical Scholars, and a Fellow of the Jesus Seminar. He was a greatly sought‐after speaker and lecturer domestically and internationally at universities, colleges, churches, retreat centers and museums, including both The Chautauqua and The Smithsonian institutions.

Mark Tauber, SVP and Publisher of HarperOne, says, “I am deeply saddened by the passing of our author and our friend Marcus Borg. His life and his work have been a challenge, a comfort and an inspiration to literally millions of readers and students over the years. Marcus was unafraid to follow the scholarly evidence where it led him while both communicating complexity fluently and remaining a man of faith. In these times when writing and speaking (and illustrating) messages and stories that seek truth are dangerous, Marcus Borg was a hero and a beacon.”

Marcus Borg was known for teaching that a deep understanding of the historical Jesus and the New Testament can lead to a more authentic life—one not rooted in dogma, but spiritual challenge, compassion, community and justice. He was often quoted and re‐taught, among many things, for his work on the meaning of Easter and resurrection. He wrote, “Easter is not primarily about Jesus’ triumph over death and future for us beyond death. Rather Easter stories in the gospels and the affirmation of Jesus’ resurrection in the rest of the New Testament are much more significant. Moreover, their meanings are not dependent upon whether a spectacular miracle happened to the physical body of Jesus.”

Marcus is survived by his wife Marianne, son Dane, son‐in‐law Benjamin, daughter Julie, grandson Carter, and terriers Henry and Abbey. A public memorial of celebration and remembrance will be held at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Portland OR on Sunday, March 22, at 2 pm.

Marcus J. Borg

“Christianity’s goal is not escape from this world. It loves this world and seeks to change it for the better.”

“So, is there an afterlife, and if so, what will it be like? I don’t have a clue. But I am confident that the one who has buoyed us up in life will also buoy us up through death. We die into God. What more that means, I do not know. But that is all I need to know.”

“More than half described Christians as literalistic, anti-intellectual, judgmental, self-righteous, and bigoted.”

“But Christian illiteracy is only the first part of the crisis. Even more seriously, even for those who think they speak “Christian” fluently, the faith itself is often misunderstood and distorted by many to whom it is seemingly very familiar. They think they are speaking the language as it has always been understood, but what they mean by the words and concepts is so different from what these things have meant historically, that they would have trouble communicating with the very authors of the past they honor.”

“This book might also be seen as “a Christian primer.” A primer teaches us how to read. Reading is not just about learning to recognize and pronounce words, but also about how to hear and understand them. This book’s purpose is to help us to read, hear, and inwardly digest Christian language without preconceived understandings getting in the way.”

“The heaven-and-hell framework has four central elements: the afterlife, sin and forgiveness, Jesus’s dying for our sins, and believing.”

“When we read Paul, we are reading somebody else’s mail—and unless we know the situation being addressed, his letters can be quite opaque…It is wise to remember that when we are reading letters never intended for us, any problems of understanding are ours and not theirs.”
“To see Paul positively does not mean endorsing everything he ever wrote.”

Marcus J. Borg, The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church’s Conservative Icon

“Our images of God matter. Just as how we conceptualize God affects what we think the Christian life is about, so do our images of God.”
“How can women be in the image of God if God cannot be imaged in female form?”
“Our central problem is not sin and guilt, as it is within the monarchical model. For the Spirit model, our central problem is “estrangement,” whose specific meaning of “separated from that to which one belongs” is most appropriate. … For the monarchical model, sin is primarily disloyalty to the king, seen especially as disobedience to his laws. The metaphors used to express the Spirit model suggest something else. For the metaphor of God as lover, sin is unfaithfulness—that is, sin is going after other lovers.”
“When tradition is thought to state the way things really are, it becomes the director and judge of our lives; we are, in effect, imprisoned by it. On the other hand, tradition can be understood as a pointer to that which is beyond tradition: the sacred. Then it functions not as a prison but as a lens.”
“The point is not that Jesus was a good guy who accepted everybody, and thus we should do the same (though that would be good).  Rather, his teachings and behavior reflect an alternative social vision. Jesus was not talking about how to be good and how to behave within the framework of a domination system. He was a critic of the domination system itself.”
“The Christian life is not about pleasing God the finger-shaker and judge. It is not about believing now or being good now for the sake of heaven later. It is about entering a relationship in the present that begins to change everything now. Spirituality is about this process: the opening of the heart to the God who is already here.”
“God wills our liberation, our exodus from Egypt. God wills our reconciliation, our return from exile. God wills our enlightenment, our seeing. God wills our forgiveness, our release from sin and guilt. God wills that we see ourselves as God’s beloved. God wills our resurrection, our passage from death to life. God wills for us food and drink that satisfy our hunger and thirst. God wills, comprehensively, our well-being—not just my well-being as an individual but the well-being of all of us and of the whole of creation. In short, God wills our salvation, our healing, here on earth. The Christian life is about participating in the salvation of God.”
“The spoken word has come to dominate many Protestant forms of worship: the words of prayers, responsive readings, Scripture, the sermon, and so forth. Yet the spoken word is perhaps the least effective way of reaching the heart; one must constantly pay attention with one’s mind. The spoken word tends to go to our heads, not our hearts.”
“In a number of workshops, I have asked people whether they have had one or more experiences that they would identify as an experience of God and, if so, to share them in small groups. On average, 80 percent of the participants identify one or more and are eager to talk about them. They also frequently report that they had never before been asked that question in a church setting or given an opportunity to talk about it.”
“How we think about God matters. It affects the credibility of religion in general and of Christianity in particular. Our concept of God can make God seem real or unreal, just as it can also make God seem remote or near.”
“The political vision of the religious right is for the most part an individualistic politics of righteousness, not a communal politics of compassion.”

Convictions: How I Learned What Matters Most

Convictions, my newest book, is a bit of a memoir, even as it is not an autobiography.

Rather, it combines the triad of memories, conversions, and convictions. Memories – of growing up Christian and American more than half a century ago and what I absorbed then. Conversions – major changes in those understandings that have happened in my adult life. Convictions –foundational ways of seeing and living that are more or less settled and not easily shaken (but are neither dogmatic nor closed to change).

The book was birthed in my experience of turning 70.

What was then my home congregation, Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in Portland, Oregon, where my wife Marianne had been a priest and canon for eighteen years and I a member for the same period of time, invited me to preach on the Sunday of my 70th birthday.

I had taught there frequently and had been bestowed with the title “canon theologian.” The title does not mean that I am a priest. I am not. Ordination is not a requirement for becoming a “canon.” Rather, Marianne tells me, “canon” means “big shot.”

Preaching on the occasion of my 70th birthday to a congregation in which I was known emboldened me. Though for many years, I have not been especially timid, that occasion led me to think, “What are the convictions that my life has led me to that I most want to speak as I turn 70?” If we don’t share those at 70, when will we?

My convictions are about the past and the present. Beginning fifty or more years ago, my intellectual passion became the study of the Bible, Jesus, Christian origins, Christian history, and to a lesser but substantial extent, other religions.

From that study – convictions about the past – has emerged a set of convictions about what it should mean to be Christian today. And to be Christian and American today, the cultural context that has shaped me and that I know best.

My working title for this book was “what I wish every American Christian knew.” I am convinced – convicted – that if American Christians knew and embraced what is in this book that it would change American Christianity – and American society, culture, and politics.

“But “having dominion over” meant something very different from what it has often been understood to mean. It refers to the relationship between shepherd and sheep.”

“The book of Proverbs makes the same point: Those who oppress the poor insult their Maker, but those who are kind to the needy honor him. (14.31)”

“the Bible is a human product: it tells us how our religious ancestors saw things, not how God sees things.”

“But believing something to be true has nothing to do with whether it is true.”

“Salvation Is More About This Life than an Afterlife”

“Because modern critical thinking is corrosive of conventional religious beliefs, some Christians reject applying it to the Bible and Christianity. The result is fundamentalism and much of conservative Christianity, which holds that regardless of the claims of modern knowledge, the Bible and Christianity are true—and not just true, but factually true.”

“Its meanings include: The risen Christ journeys with us, is with us, whether we know it or not. Sometimes there are moments when we do recognize this.”

“The notion that there was one “right” way of seeing things disappeared. This was enormously liberating, even if a bit alarming. But my curiosity was greater than my fear.”

“We learned, in the opening words of the Lord’s Prayer, that God is “in heaven.” But we also learned that God is everywhere—that is, omnipresent. When one combines the two, the result is panentheism. It is orthodox Christian theology.”

Marcus J. Borg, Convictions: How I Learned What Matters Most

“Myth is stories about the way things never were, but always are.”

“Part of the scandal of American Christianity is that statistically the U.S. is the most Christian country in the world, and yet as a country we have the greatest income inequality in the world. And as a country we are uncritically committed, not simply to being the most powerful nation in the world militarily, but to being as militarily powerful as the rest of the world combined.We Christians live in a tradition that is passionate about issues of economic justice and peace and yet at least half of American Christians, probably even more, think it’s really important that we be as powerful as the rest of the world put together.”

Marcus J. Borg

“Other prophets, other messiahs, came and went in Jesus’ day. Routinely, they died violently at the hands of the pagan enemy. Their movements either died with them, sometimes literally, or transformed themselves into a new movement around a new leader. Jesus’ movement did neither. Within days of his execution it found a new lease of life; within weeks it was announcing that he was indeed the messiah; within a year or two it was proclaiming him to pagans as their rightful Lord. How can a historian explain this astonishing transformation?”

“Jesus died for our sins” has been understood. Among some Christians, it is seen as an essential doctrinal element in the Christian belief system. Seen this way, it becomes a doctrinal requirement: we are made right with God by believing that Jesus is the sacrifice. The system of requirements remains, and believing in Jesus is the new requirement. Seeing it as a metaphorical proclamation of the radical grace of God leads to a very different understanding. “Jesus died for our sins” means the abolition of the system of requirements, not the establishment of a new system of requirements.”

Marcus J. Borg, The Meaning of Jesus

“By the time I began college, anxiety about hell had disappeared—not because I was confident that I was “saved,” but because the whole package had become sufficiently uncertain that I didn’t worry about it.”

“a worldwide flood destroyed all life on earth about five thousand years ago requires denying an immense amount of generally accepted knowledge—from astronomy, physics, geology, paleontology, anthropology, archaeology, biology, cave paintings, and more.”

“The way of Jesus is thus not a set of beliefs about Jesus. That people ever thought it was is strange, when we think about it — as if one entered new life by believing certain things to be true, or as if the only people who can be saved are those who know the word “Jesus”. Thinking that way virtually amounts to salvation by syllables.Rather, the way of Jesus is the way of death and resurrection — the path of transition and transformation from an old way of being to a new way of being. To use the language of incarnation that is so central to John, Jesus incarnates the way. Incarnation means embodiment. Jesus is what the way embodied in a human life looks like.”

“The word “sacrament” also has a broader meaning. In the study of religion, a sacrament is commonly defined as a mediator of the sacred, a vehicle by which God becomes present, a means through which the Spirit is experienced.”

Marcus J. Borg, Reading the Bible Again for the First Time: Taking the Bible Seriously but Not Literally

“To believe in a person is quite different from believing that a series of statements about the person are true.”

“I conclude this section with a possibly puzzling postscript on the meaning of the word “literal.” What is the literal meaning of a parable? Its literal meaning is its parabolic meaning. What is the literal meaning of a poem? Its literal meaning is its poetic meaning. What is the literal meaning of a symbolic or metaphorical narrative? Its literal meaning is its symbolic or metaphorical meaning. But in modern Western culture over the last few centuries, “literal” has most often been confused with “factual,” and factuality has been elevated over the metaphorical. Hence when people say they take stories in the Bible and the gospels “literally,” they most often mean “factually.” Thus the difference is not ultimately a literal versus a metaphorical reading, but a factual versus a metaphorical reading. And to read a story factually rather than metaphorically often involves a misjudgment about the literary genre of a story. When the metaphorical is understood factually, the result is a story hard to believe. But when a metaphorical narrative is understood metaphorically, it may indeed be powerfully and challengingly true.”

“One scenario begins by imagining that Jesus heals somebody in a village. What is the likely response, beyond amazement and gratitude? He (and those with him) would be invited to a meal. It is the classic ancient way of expressing gratitude and hospitality.”

“When I was a young college teacher in my mid-twenties, an older colleague delighted in characterizing post-Enlightenment theology as “flat-tire theology”—“All the pneuma has gone out of it.”

“In function, Jesus’s aphorisms are very much like his parables—provocative and invitational forms of speech. They provoke thought, lead people to reconsider their taken-for-granted assumptions, and invite them to see life differently.”

“When somebody says to me, “I don’t believe in God,” my first response is, “Tell me about the God you don’t believe in.” Almost always, it’s the God of supernatural theism.”

Marcus J. Borg, Jesus: Uncovering the Life, Teachings, and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary

“Even more striking and revealing is how he interweaves “sons of God” twice in Romans 8:14, 19 with “children of God” twice in Romans 8:16, 21—and again in Romans 9:8. It is, for Paul, all about family values—but divine family values, and that is what makes him very, very radical.”

“Humanity’s universal sin is far, far worse than those traditional vice lists cited for Greeks and Jews by Paul in Romans 1–3. It is this: we have accepted violence as civilization’s drug of choice, and our addiction now threatens creation itself.”

“Finally, then, I conclude with an iconic image of that foundational reconciliation from the later fourth century. It is a bronze hanging lamp from the villa of the aristocratic Valerii on the Celian Hill in Rome, now preserved in the National Archaeological Museum in Florence. The lamp is shaped like a boat. Peter is seated in the stern at the tiller. Paul is standing in the prow looking forward. Peter steers. Paul guides. And the boat sails full before the wind.”

“But “redemption” in the Bible and in Paul is not about the forgiveness of sins. Rather, it is a metaphor of liberation from bondage—from life in Egypt, from a life of slavery. “The redemption that is in Christ Jesus” would be better translated “the liberation that is in Christ Jesus.” We are liberated through him.”

“Rather, the language of divine agency here emphasizes the theme of God’s grace: God provided the sacrifice.”

“When one of the Jewish Sibylline Oracles imagines what God’s perfect world will look like on its arrival, it claims: “The earth will belong equally to all, undivided by walls or fences…. Lives will be in common and wealth will have no division. For there will be no poor man there, no rich, and no tyrant, no slave. Further, no one will be either great or small anymore. No kings, no leaders. All will be on a par together” (2:313–38). So we moderns should not think we invented everything.”

Marcus J. Borg, The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church’s Conservative Icon

“Faithfulness leads us to pay attention to our relationship to God—through such attention, we become even more deeply centered in God. Trust is the fruit of that deeper centering. It grows as we center more and more in God.”

“These questions can be used by individual readers and also in reading groups in which participants are invited to share their memories and thoughts. Many of them invite reflection on previous or current understandings and are best used before treating the content of the relevant chapter. Some invite reflection about material in a particular chapter.”

“As an epiphany of God, Jesus discloses that at the center of everything is a reality that is in love with us and wills our well-being, both as individuals and as individuals within society. As an image of God, Jesus challenges the most widespread image of reality in both the ancient and modern world, countering conventional wisdom’s understanding of God as one with demands that must be met by the anxious self in search of its own security. In its place is an image of God as the compassionate one who invites people into a relationship which is the source of transformation of human life in both its individual and social aspects.”

“Images of Jesus give content to what loyalty to him means. The popular picture of Jesus as one whose purpose was to proclaim truths about himself most often construes loyalty to him as insistence on the truth of those claims. Loyalty becomes belief in the historical truthfulness of all the statements in the gospels. Discipleship is then easily confused with dogmatism or doctrinal orthodoxy.

The absence of an image – the most common fruit of biblical scholarship in this century – leaves us with no clear notion of what it means to take Jesus seriously, no notion of what loyalty might entail, no direction for the life of discipleship. But the vision of Jesus as a person of Spirit, deeply involved in the historical crisis of his own time, can shape the church’s discipleship today. For us, as for the world in which he lived, he can be the light in our darkness.”

Marcus J. Borg, Jesus: A New Vision: Spirit, Culture, and the Life of Discipleship

“God’s dream for us is not simply peace of mind, but peace on earth.”
Marcus J. Borg, The First Christmas

Responding to a Critic: Misunderstanding or Misrepresentation?

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

To write about religion is to court controversy, conflict, and criticism. It confirms the counsel of conventional etiquette that it is best in polite conversation to avoid two subjects: religion and politics.

So I know that conflict and criticism are part of writing blogs for Patheos. Indeed, that’s what makes it worthwhile doing. If my blogs got no responses, generated no conversation, why would I want to spend time writing them? Life is too short.

But it is not as clear what I should do when perhaps the most frequent responder to my blogs at least seriously misunderstands and certainly misrepresents things I have said.

Graciousness might suggest that I simply let him have his say and not respond. Rhetorical wisdom might suggest that I not give more air time to his comments by responding to them. But either or both of those might also be condescending.

Moreover, not responding might convey the impression for other readers that he is accurately reporting things I have said. And so I have decided to respond, even as doing so risks descending into a tedious dispute of “He said I said” but “That’s not what I said.”

In one of his most recent responses to my previous blog, he wrote:

Here, on this blog, you have Mr. Borg saying that not only is Jesus not God and the Resurrection not a physical historical (and ongoing) reality…that, also, to hold to that is to be “uncritical” and “pre-critical”. So, in effect…in a Progressive administration of Christianity, those historic core faith positions are held just point blank to be not an option. One would hope, for the sake of peace, that there should at least be the position that they are valid options for a faithful Christian.

More than one thing to say. First, my position on Jesus and God and on the resurrection is more nuanced than he suggests, and he should know that from previous blogs of mine that he has read. I have said very clearly that the post-Easter Jesus is one with God, and thus part of the Trinity; and that the pre-Easter Jesus is the decisive revelation of God – the Word become flesh, embodied in a human life. But to think of the pre-Easter Jesus, Jesus of Nazareth, as if he were God (what does it mean to say that?) diminishes his grandeur as a human being. Second, I have said that though I do not think the resurrection of Jesus was physical and bodily, I strongly affirm that Jesus continued to be experienced by many of his followers after his death and that such experiences continue to this day. The risen Jesus, the post-Easter Jesus, is an ongoing reality.

Third – and perhaps the most important misunderstanding or misrepresentation of my position and where it leads – he says: So, in effect…in a Progressive administration of Christianity, those historic core faith positions are held just point blank to be not an option.

I have never said that believing that Jesus was/is God is and that believing in a physical-bodily resurrection are not Christian options. Indeed, about such issues as the stories of the virgin birth, the spectacular miracles, the empty tomb, appearances of the risen Jesus in bodily form, I have said again and again, in blogs and books, I have said again and again, “Believe whatever you want about whether the stories happened this way – now let’s talk about what they mean.” That’s what matters most – what do these stories mean?

His response continued with a suggestion that I agree with:

Let Mr. Borg explain why, at the very least, he would not allow the divinity of Jesus and the Resurrection as bodily (and spiritually) to go forward in the Reformation’s tradition of allowing “adiaphora”…that is, those things which should not be counted as weighty enough to fight over.

I would be happy to view these issues as “adiaphora” in the sense in which he uses the word: “those things which should not be counted as weighty enough to fight over.” But in my experience, it is not progressive Christians who refuse to see them as adiaphora. It is, to use shorthand, the majority of conservative Christians, at least half of American Christians. For them, the virgin birth, the divinity of Jesus even as a human being, and the physical-bodily resurrection are not adiaphora. They are non-negotiable. And often accompanied by non-negotiable teachings about an inerrant Bible, Genesis versus modern science, a future literal second coming of Jesus, “traditional” marriage, and so forth. Progressive Christians generally do not define being Christian as believing a correct list of teachings.

My critic’s response concluded with advocacy of a Christian middle:

Many more things could be said about what a “middle” is about. But, here, I can think of no other central icon of the matter than the chief Christian historic faith positions of Jesus as God and the Resurrection. There ought to be a way for a dude with a PhD to not call people of basic faith in the pew stupid.

Now it sounds as if “Jesus as God” and “the Resurrection” (presumably meaning physical and bodily) are not adiaphora but essential. And even more importantly, I have never called folks who affirm both “stupid.” I have written about “pre-critical” or “uncritical” ways of seeing the Bible. But that is not the same as being “stupid.” My own parents I am quite sure lived in a state of a pre-critical understanding of the Bible all of their lives – by which I mean a taken-for-granted acceptance that whatever the Bible says is true. But they were not stupid people. They simply had not been exposed to constructive critical thinking about the Bible, Christianity, and religion. And they were good Christian people.

Critical thinking about the Bible is not a prerequisite for being Christian, even though I think it is helpful and important for understanding the Bible and what it means to be Christian. Especially in our time, when many Christian understandings that were commonly taken for granted a half century and more ago have become unpersuasive to a growing percentage of the Western world.

And not just among the “nones” but also among many who remain within churches. To these people, I seek to be an evangelist: there is a way of being Christian other than the form that you have rejected as less than compelling, perhaps even as reprehensible and repulsive. And I seek to be an evangelist to those in the Christian middle – people who are still in churches but who are troubled by some and perhaps many of conventional Christian beliefs that were taken for granted not so long ago.

I conclude on an irenic note. My most frequent critic and I may yearn for the same thing: for the day when the theological and cultural wars of our time are over with, when pastors can be pastors again without being involved in conflict and taking theological sides, when the church can be the church again, united in a common understanding of what it means to be a follower of Jesus.

Indeed, I hope that what I have emphasized in much of my writing – today’s conflict between two very different visions of what it means to be Christian – will soon be irrelevant. But that time is not yet.

A few years ago, I spoke at an event sponsored by a group called “The Foundation for Contemporary Theology.” They placed an ad in the local newspaper that contained an error, probably a typo. Instead of the word “contemporary,” the ad printed “temporary.” And so the ad read, “The Foundation for Temporary Theology.” I thought the mistake was perfect. All theology, if it is related to cultural context – which means time and place – is temporary. Yet it has a foundation.

Ending the conflict between progressive and conservative Christianity – again to use inadequate but generally understood shorthand – would require some agreement about what is adiaphora and what is foundational, what is essential. I do not imagine that can happen through any “official” gathering or resolution. If a consensus about what is foundational and what is adiaphora ever happens, it will happen over time, perhaps and probably a century or more.

But in the meantime: is it possible to talk about different understandings of Christianity without misrepresenting what we disagree with?


Postscript to A Letter About Jesus

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:
This is my third installment about a letter about Jesus and the issue, “Was Jesus God?” If you have not read the first two installments, this may not make much sense to you.

To emphasize: as a Christian, I affirm that Jesus is “the Word of God” and “the Word become flesh,” that is, the Word incarnate, the Word embodied in a human life. In Jesus, we see what can be seen of God in a human life. This affirmation goes back to the first Christian century and is orthodox Christianity.

For those who want to say more than “Jesus is the Word embodied in a human being,” namely that “Jesus was God,” a challenge. What do you mean? Do you mean that Jesus as a historical person had the mind and power of God – that he was omniscient as God is commonly thought to be?   And that he had divine powers – that like God he was omnipotent and could do anything? And if you don’t mean that, what do you mean?

If what you mean is that Jesus as the Word of God embodied in a human life is the decisive revelation of what can be seen of God in a human life (namely, God’s character and what God is passionate about), then our disagreement may be about words rather than substance. But if you mean more than that, what do you mean?

Finally, I recognize that for some Christians, Jesus has become one of the names of God. People praise and pray to Jesus. I have no problem with that – unless that is projected back on the historical Jesus so that he becomes a super-human and thus not one of us.   The Word become flesh – the incarnation – means that he was one of us.


Further Thoughts on a Letter about Jesus

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

My previous blog – “A Letter about Jesus” – drew a much larger response than I expected. In this blog, I continue that conversation with a clarification and some additional comments.

Clarification – even as I think this was pretty clear in my previous blog. One of my major claims was that the New Testament does not simply identify and equate Jesus and God. It never says, “Jesus is God” or “God is Jesus.”

Of course, it does affirm, in phrases from John’s gospel, that Jesus is “the Word of God” and “one with God.” But that does not mean that Jesus was God. Rather, in John’s language, he was “the Word become flesh.” He revealed what can be seen of God in a human life – and that means within the limitations of human life.

To affirm that Jesus is the Word become flesh, the Word incarnate, means what another New Testament verse does: he is “the image (ikon) of the invisible God” (Col. 1.15). He shows us what God is like – reveals God’s character and passion.

But none of this means that the New Testament teaches that Jesus was God – as if all of God was in Jesus during his historical life. To use the language of the Trinity, God the father did not cease to be while Jesus was alive. Jesus was “God’s son,” not God the father. Was the son like the father? Yes. Was the son the father during the life of Jesus? No. Are they in an important and complex sense one? Yes. But to equate God and Jesus during his historical lifetime is bad history and bad theology. It is the product of pre-critical conventional and uncritical dogmatic Christian thinking. Sounds harsh. But think about it.

An additional comment. The conflict among Christians about whether or not Jesus was God is grounded in two different understandings of the gospels – and the New Testament and the Bible as a whole.

One view – generally embraced by “conservative” Christians – sees the Bible and the gospels as “divine information.” That is shorthand for the view that the Bible and the gospels are the direct revelation of God and thus have a divine guarantee to be true. For them, divine inspiration means divine inerrancy.

A second view sees the gospels as the product of a historical process, written in a particular time and setting. Time: the earliest was probably written around 70, the last perhaps as late as the early second century. Setting: they are the product of early Christian communities, written from within and to those communities. As such, they combine early Christian memory of Jesus and testimony about Jesus. Their memories of what he was like – of what he taught and did. And their testimony to what he had become in their experience and lives – his significance for them.

To illustrate the difference generated by these two ways of seeing the gospels, reflect upon the series of “I am” statements attributed to Jesus in John (and only John). In them, Jesus refers to himself as “the Light of the World,” “the Bread of Life,” “the Door,” “the Good Shepherd,” “the Resurrection and the Life,” “the Way, the Truth, and the Life,” and “the Vine.” For the first view, this is “divine information” – the direct revelation of God about who Jesus is. And because John says Jesus said this about himself, that means that he did.

The second way of seeing the gospels understands this language as early Christian testimony to Jesus and not as memory of what Jesus said about himself. A major reason for this verdict is that the first three gospels (the synoptic gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke) do not report that Jesus said anything like this about himself. Within this way of seeing the gospels, the “I am” statements in John are best understood if we turn them into third-person statements about Jesus: Jesus is “the Light of the World,” “the Bread of Life,” “the Way, the Truth and the Life,” and so forth. This is the testimony of the Christian community within which and for which John was written.

As a concluding illustration of the difference made by the interconnected issues of whether we think Jesus was God and how we see the gospels, I suggest the miracles stories of Jesus and the sea. They share in common that the disciples are in mortal peril in a boat on a stormy sea. Jesus rescues them by stilling the tempest. He comes to them walking on the sea.

Those who think of Jesus as God and the gospels as divine information hear these stories literally and evidentially. Anybody who can still a storm at sea and walk on the water must have divine power, indeed be divine, for no mere human could do that. This hearing of the stories sees them as reports of spectacular events that happened in the distant past, long ago and far away. They matter because of what they demonstrate, prove: that Jesus had divine powers, was more than human.

Just as the first way of hearing these stories combines a way of seeing Jesus with a way of seeing the gospels, so does the second. It takes seriously that as a human being, as an incarnate being, Jesus did not have supernatural powers during his historical lifetime. Was he “filled with the Spirit”? Yes. Was he a healer? Yes. But could he change water into wine? Multiply food so that he could feed a multitude of 5000 (or more) with a few loaves and fishes? For this way of seeing Jesus, he was a vulnerable human being living within the conditions of finitude, incarnation. He was born and could be (and was) killed. He was not God, but the revelation of what can be seen of God in a human life.

Within this framework, the miracles on the sea are not historical data proving that Jesus was God. They are about what trust in Jesus and God produce. Jesus stills the storms that threaten us. He makes it possible to walk on the water, the void, the abyss, without sinking.

Within the gospels, this metaphorical – more-than-literal – meaning is clearly intended. As Matthew takes over the story from Mark of Jesus walking on the water, he adds an episode: Peter also walks on the water. Successfully. But then he becomes afraid and begins to sink (Matt. 14.22-33). The story identifies Peter’s fear with “little faith.” With faith, we can walk on water. Literally? No. The story is about the importance of trusting in Jesus. It is about faith as trust, the opposite of fear. It is about the significance of Jesus, not about something he once did.

A final reflection question: what is added to the story of Jesus by thinking that he was God – and therefore could do spectacular deeds that no one else could or can? Does his story gain meaning? Or is something lost? Was Jesus extraordinary because he was God? Or was he extraordinary because he was an utterly remarkable human being, one of us?


From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

A very few days ago, I received by e-mail a letter about Jesus from a person who is reading one of my books. His thoughts and questions struck me as being of interest to many people. I quote the letter at length and then share my response.

The Letter

Your book has persuaded me that much of the language of the Bible and theology is metaphorical and should not be taken literally. Granted that, at what point do you think one reaches a gray area as to whether Jesus was even divine?

I believe I’m getting a better sense of your views as I read, but please correct me if I’m misinterpreting. You essentially say that many of the gospel stories should be taken metaphorically. This, you argue, doesn’t imply that they can’t have a rich meaning or even be divinely inspired (?) In fact, we may derive more meaning from it by taking a metaphorical/historical approach.

But it does mean that Jesus didn’t really do x, y, or z. Clearly you must believe Jesus was divine. Otherwise why would you be a “Christian”? I think you said something along the lines of Jesus being the perfect embodiment of what God is like in human form. That’s different from saying that he WAS God, or God incarnate.

So, do you believe he was God? And if so, what has convinced you? I mean if the miracle stories are metaphorical (you say he must have been a great healer, but I think you believe there have been other great healers/mystics), what are we left with as evidence that he was more than a man?

He clearly was a revolutionary and a wisdom teacher, but that doesn’t make him more than a man. You are not convinced that he rose in bodily form, which is fine. But is it not just a small step to go from saying that he was “experienced” in some way after his death to saying he didn’t appear at all?

Are we placing the idea of his divinity solely on these “experiences”

of him, if we aren’t taking the miracle stories or the bodily resurrection literally? As a side note, what if it’s possible for other people’s spirits to appear after death – ordinary people who pass onto a spirit world and aren’t divine but perhaps in very rare occasions can be seen again? Doesn’t it leave open the possibility that Jesus was just one of these and not God incarnate?

What has convinced you that he is worthy of being worshiped? Is it the stories of the unshakable belief and devotion by the apostles after his death? And are many of these even credible? (I haven’t read enough to know.) Sorry for the length of my epistle.

My Response

To say the obvious, the core of your letter concerns the divinity of Jesus. About that there’s more than one thing to say.

1. Was Jesus God? No. Not even the New Testament says that. It speaks of him as the Word of God, the Son of God, the Messiah, and so forth, but never simply identifies him with or equates him with God. As John’s gospel puts it, he is the Word become flesh – that is, he reveals what can be seen of God in a finite human life. To say, “I believe Jesus was God” (as some Christians do, or think they are supposed to) goes beyond what the New Testament affirms and is thus more than biblical. He is the Word incarnate – not the disembodied Word

2. Did some of his followers experience Jesus as a divine reality after his death, and have some Christians had such experiences in the centuries since, including into the present? Yes. These experiences led to the conviction that Jesus was “one with God,” “at the right hand of God,” and ultimately to the doctrine of the Trinity: that God is one (monotheism) and yet known/experienced in three primary ways (as God, the Son, and the Spirit). This is the context in which it makes sense to praise and pray to Jesus. But this doesn’t mean that Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus during his historical life, was “God.”

3. Jesus of Nazareth was completely human. He did not have a divine component that made him different in kind from the rest of us. That’s what it means to say he was “true man,” “fully human.” He didn’t have a divine supercharger.

4. Does that make him ordinary? No. I think he is one of the two most remarkable human beings who ever lived. I don’t really care who the other one was – my point is that what we see in Jesus is a human possibility. That’s what makes him so remarkable. If he was also divine, then he’s not all that remarkable. If he had the knowledge and power of God, he could have done so much more.

5. Christian language about the exalted status of Jesus – as the Word of God, the Son of God, the Messiah, and so forth, is testimony, witness: this is who Jesus became and who he is in Christian experience, life, and thought. This is who he is for those of us who are Christians.

Best wishes,
Marcus Borg


Does the Bible Matter? Progressive Christians and Scripture

Progressive Christians are often better known for what we don’t believe than for what we do affirm. I say “we” because I am one of them.

There is an obvious reason: we disagree with much of the most publicly visible form of contemporary Christianity. Commonly called “conservative” Christianity, its political form is “the Christian right.” Thus we tend to define ourselves with a series of negations that differentiate “us” from “them.” We don’t believe what they do.  We’re not like them.

At the heart of the disagreement is the Bible. For conservative Christians, two claims about the Bible are foundational. First, it is inerrant and/or infallible. Though some argue that inerrancy and infallibility are not identical, the differences are at most subtle. Functionally, they have the same effect: if the Bible says something, it’s true. That settles it.

Second, the Bible is to be interpreted literally. The most obvious example: about half of American Protestants believe that creation happened less than 10,000 years ago.

Given the overwhelming evidence that the earth and life and the universe are much older than that – from geology, astronomy, physics, paleontology, biology, archeology, anthropology, and more – why do they think that? Because they belong to churches that teach biblical literalism, mostly independent Protestant churches (that is, those that are not part of “mainline” denominations – though a “soft” form of literalism is somewhat common among “mainline” Christians as well).

Together, affirming biblical inerrancy and biblical literalism are a litmus test for most conservative Christians, distinguishing “true believers” from those who are not. In many conservative Christian colleges and seminaries, faculty are required to sign a statement affirming both.

For this view, the Bible is divine truth. If it says something is wrong, it’s wrong. If it says something happened, it happened. Its truth is grounded in its claimed origin: it is a divine product, nothing less than God’s revelation. And God would not mislead or deceive us.

Progressive Christians reject biblical inerrancy. A major reason is the Bible itself. In both the Old and New Testaments, God sometimes wills and even commands the killing of men, women and children. Was indiscriminate slaughter ever the will of God?  Passages in both Testaments condone and regulate slavery. Was slavery ever consistent with the will of God? And was patriarchy and the subordination of women ever the will of God? The progressive Christian view of the Bible affirms: sometimes the Bible is wrong.

Often this is implicit rather than explicit. It would be salutary if it became boldly explicit. If more Christians – and ideally all – were candidly to acknowledge that sometimes the Bible is wrong, it would change the discussion of biblical authority.

So also there are compelling reasons for rejecting biblical literalism. There is, of course, the conflict with generally accepted modern knowledge. Beyond that, why should we imagine that God speaks only in literal-factual language? Is God a literalist? Why cannot God speak in the language of poetry, metaphor, and myth?

To use specific examples, why should we interpret the Genesis stories of origins literally when they are far more powerful and truthful as metaphorical narratives? Or what would it mean to take a phrase like “the right hand of God” literally? Does God have hands? And a right side and a left side? Literal interpretation of the Bible as a whole is literally impossible.

But it is often less clear what progressive Christians do affirm about the Bible. There is, so far as I know, no “official” statement. So I share my affirmations.

I begin with a favorite hymn about the Bible that goes back to my Lutheran childhood. Written by a progressive Danish Lutheran pastor in 1817 and sung to the tune of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” the first line affirms: God’s Word is our great heritage, and shall be ours forever. Then:

To spread its light from age to age
Shall be our chief endeavor.
Through life it guides our way,
In death it is our stay.
Lord, grant, while worlds endure,
We keep its teachings pure.
Throughout all generations.

To all of that, in my senior adulthood, I say Amen.

The Bible is “God’s Word.”  As such, it is Christian sacred scripture.  So our spiritual ancestors in ancient Israel and early Christianity declared this collection of books to be. But this does not mean that it is “the words of God.” The equation of “the Word of God” with “the words of God” is not only linguistic legerdemain but a serious theological error. It is also recent, primarily the product of a particular stream of Protestantism.

The Bible is our “great heritage.” It is for Christians our inheritance, passed down to us from our spiritual ancestors in ancient Israel and early Christianity. In it, we hear their voices: their stories and wisdom, their praise and prayer, their grief and lamentation, their convictions and hopes. It also contains their limited understandings, their acceptance of cultural conventions, their desire for triumph over enemies and revenge against oppressors. That is why it is sometimes wrong.

The Bible is “treasure in earthen vessels.” The phrase is from II Cor. 4.7, written by Paul in the 50s. In context, the treasure is “the gospel” (the message about Jesus) and the earthen vessels are the messengers of the gospel, including Paul. Imperfect, fragile, and finite, they and their words are “clay jars,” not the treasure itself. So it is with the Bible: the treasure is “God’s Word,” God’s revelation, in the earthen vessels of our spiritual ancestors.

The Bible is foundational to Christian understanding and identity. To be Christian means to be shaped by in a continuing conversation with this collection of texts. If that conversation ceases, then we cease to be Christian.

The Bible is about the dream of God. Its overarching narrative is about God’s dream, God’s passion, for transformation – of ourselves and of the world.  Its primary stories are about liberation from the powers that rule this world, return from exile under those powers, restoration of sight to the blind (including those who have eyes but do not see), life to the dead (including those who are living and yet dead), and a new way of life marked by compassion, justice and peace. It is also about the nightmare of God – the way the world most commonly is.

The Bible’s norm is Jesus.Christians refer to both the Bible and Jesus as “the Word of God.” The Bible is God’s Word in a book – God’s revealing, disclosure, epiphany in the words of our spiritual ancestors, earthen vessels and clay jars. Jesus is God’s Word in a person, the Word become flesh, incarnate, embodied in a human life. When the Word in the book and the Word in Jesus conflict with each other, as they sometimes do, the Word incarnate trumps the Word in words.

That “Jesus trumps the Bible” is not a modern notion. It has been so from the beginning of Christianity. To elevate the Bible as “the Word of God” so that it is equal to and perhaps even superior to “the Word of God” in Jesus is to betray one of the foundations – perhaps the foundation – of Christianity: what we see in Jesus is the decisive (and thus normative) revelation of God.

His passion – and thus for his followers should be ours – was the coming of the kingdom of God on earth. That was the heart of his message, God’s dream. It was embodied, incarnated, in his life, death, and resurrection. What we see in Jesus is God’s passion for the transformation of ourselves and the world

So, does the Bible matter? Absolutely. Without it, the foundation of Christianity crumbles. Do most progressive Christians affirm that? Perhaps not. Many have fled from an understanding of the Bible that was often incredible and sometimes oppressive and hurtful.

But to neglect the Bible because of the negative associations generated by the common Christianity of the recent past and present would be to abandon our heritage and to deprive ourselves of its riches and power as one of the world’s great wisdom traditions.

Properly understood, the Bible is a potent ally in the progressive Christian passion for transformation, of ourselves and the world. It is our great heritage. Along with Jesus, to whom it is subordinate, it is our great treasure. To allow conservative Christians to have a monopoly on the Bible and Jesus is to lose the struggle for the heart and soul of Christianity.  We need to reclaim our tradition.


Easter Again

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

I sympathize with clergy who preach about Easter to the same congregation for several years. Of course, you say what you think is most important the first time.

So what do you say the second time and the third time and more? Do you avoid saying what you said the first time so that you don’t repeat yourself? But wouldn’t that mean leaving out what you think is most important because you’ve already said it? Or do you proclaim it again, even if in somewhat different words?

I am in a similar situation as I write this blog. I have blogged on Easter more than once on Patheos.

My understanding of Easter has not changed in any significant way since those blogs. So there will be some repetition.

I am sometimes accused of not believing in Easter because it does not matter to me whether Jesus’s tomb was actually empty and whether something utterly miraculous happened to his corpse –what is commonly called a “physical bodily resurrection.”

For many people, that is what Easter is about and the meaning of the question, “Did it really happen?” Some believe it did, some don’t, and some are in a conundrum, uncertain whether things like that ever happen, even within a Christian framework.

If you are uncertain about or doubt the physical-bodily resurrection of Jesus, can you be a Christian, a “real” Christian? Can you whole-heartedly embrace Easter?

For me, the answer is “yes.” Explaining why will take the rest of this blog, and even that will be insufficient.

For me, the truth of Easter is grounded in the religious experience of Jesus’s followers and in a particularly important instance an enemy, namely Paul. I regard it as a fact of history that Jesus was experienced after his death as a living figure of the present and not just as a dearly-remembered figure of the past. That is the unanimous testimony of early Christianity as we know it from the New Testament.

It begins with the earliest documents, the genuine letters of Paul, written in the 50s. Paul’s testimony is especially striking because he had been a strident opponent of the Jesus movement in the first few years after Jesus’s execution. In his first letter to his Christ-community in Corinth, written about 20 years before the first gospel, Paul tells us that Jesus “appeared” to him and radically changed his life (15.3-8).

In the same passage, he provides a list of others to whom Jesus “appeared” after his death: Cephas (Peter), the twelve, 500 at one time, James, and all the apostles. Paul’s repeated us of the verb “appeared” for their experience and his suggests a vision. That had been his experience, as the later book of Acts narrates three times (9, 22, and 26).

So did Paul believe that God had raised Jesus from the dead? Absolutely. He had experienced Jesus after his death. Did he say, “If Christ has not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain?” (I Cor. 15.14). Yes.

But did he think of the resurrection of Jesus as physical? That is much less clear. His experience of Jesus after his death was not only a few years after what Acts narrates as the Ascension” of Jesus but also a “vision.” And near the end of I Corinthians 15, he explicitly says that the resurrection “body” is not a “physical” body but a “spiritual” body, a “glorified” body. What that means is not transparently clear, but, as Paul says, it is not a flesh and blood body.

Easter is about God saying “yes” to Jesus and what he was passionate about. What Jesus was passionate about was God and the kingdom of God.

God was the central reality of his life and the kingdom of God was the center of his message. The kingdom of God was not about heaven, not about life after death, but about the transformation of life on earth, as the Lord’s Prayer affirms. It is not about “Take us to heaven when we die,” but about “Your kingdom come on earth” – as already in heaven. The kingdom of God on earth was about God’s passion – and Jesus’s passion – for the transformation of “this world”: the humanly created world of injustice and violence into a world of justice and nonviolence.

That’s why the powers that ruled the world of Jesus killed him. They were not unknowingly doing the will of God by playing their part in God’s plan of salvation to provide a sinless sacrifice to pay for the sins of the world. No. They killed him because he was a radical critic of the way they had put the world together and he was attracting a following. So they snuffed him out.

In this context, Easter is about God’s “yes” to Jesus and God’s “no” to the powers that killed him. That, I suggest, is the primary meaning not only of Pau’s testimony and affirmation, but also of the Easter stories in the gospels.

The earliest of these is the story of the empty tomb in Mark, written around 70. Reflect about what the story says, and set aside for a moment whether it’s meant to be read/heard literally and physically.

Its meanings are clear. You won’t find Jesus in the land of the dead. Don’t look for him in a tomb. He is not there – “why do you seek the living among the dead?” Imperial execution and a rich man’s tomb couldn’t stop him, hold him. It’s not over. He’s still here, still loose in the world, a figure of the present, continuing to recruit for the kingdom of God.

That is the central meaning of Easter. God has said “yes” to Jesus and what he was about.

What would Christianity be like if Christians took Jesus, Holy Week, Good Friday and Easter seriously? What if Good Friday isn’t about Jesus dying to pay for our sins? What then is our Holy Week about?


“Holy Monday”: Public Protest in the Temple

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

On Monday in Holy Week, Jesus performed the second of two provocative public protests in Jerusalem. The first, as described in my previous blog, occurred on what has come to be called “Palm Sunday.”

Two processions entered Jerusalem for the Festival of Passover that year. One happened every year while Judea was ruled by Roman governors, the most famous of whom was Pontius Pilate. Imperial cavalry and troops, displaying the pomp and power of empire, entered the city to reinforce the garrison permanently stationed there. Passover – which remembered and celebrated ancient Israel’s liberation from imperial Egypt – was a politically volatile time.

The other procession happened only once: Jesus entered the city riding on a young donkey that symbolized a king of peace who would bring an end to war. The contrast to imperial power and violence was intentional and obvious.

On Monday, Jesus performed another provocative public act, this time in the courtyard of the temple. As Mark (and Matthew and Luke) tells the story, he overturned the tables of some money-changers. Though often called “the purification of the temple,” the gospels do not call it that. Moreover, the name is misleading – as if the issue were that the temple had become impure because it mixed “business” with worship.

Rather, his act was an indictment, a public protest, against what the temple had become. In words that echo Jeremiah 7.11, it had become “a den of robbers,” a robber’s cave, a center of injustice and complacent affirmation of God, as the fuller context of Jeremiah 7.1-11 makes clear.

So it was in the time of Jesus: the Roman governor ruled Judea through the temple authorities whom he appointed. So long as they collaborated with Roman authority, they remained in office.

That is what had turned the temple into “a den of robbers.” Because of the collaboration of temple authorities with Roman rule, it had become the center of an economically exploitative domination system and thus a center of injustice, as in the time of Jeremiah six centuries earlier. That was not what it was meant to be.

The authorities understood that Jesus’s protest and indictment were directed against them. It was too much. As Mark tells the story, it was the last straw. They decide that Jesus must be killed: “When the chief priests and the scribes heard it, they kept looking for a way to kill him; for they were afraid of him, because the whole crowd was spellbound by his teaching.” Before the end of the week, they and the Roman governor find a way to do so.

Why did Good Friday happen? Because it was the will of God? Or because Jesus in the name of God publicly denounced and defied the domination system of his day? The historical answer is clear.


Holy Week: Palm Sunday

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

I wish that all Christians knew the story of Holy Week. Indeed, I wish everybody, Christian or not, did. But Christians especially. It is the story that should shape our understanding of Jesus and thus our understanding of what it means to be Christian – of what it means to follow him, to follow “the way” that he revealed and embodied.

What most Christians know about Holy Week centers on Good Friday and Easter, Jesus’s death and resurrection. The former is commonly understood as payment for our sins. The latter is most often understood as the proclamation of life beyond death – that God not only raised Jesus from the dead, but will someday also raise us, or at least those who believe.

But there is so much more to the story of Holy Week. Not only is there more, but the more challenges and indeed negates the common understanding of Good Friday and Easter.

In this blog, I focus on what Christians call “Palm Sunday.” The story is familiar: as the week of Passover begins, Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey and people cheer him, shouting “Hosanna – blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”

Less well-known is the historical fact that a Roman imperial procession was also entering Jerusalem for Passover from the other side of the city. It happened every year: the Roman governor of Judea, whose residence was in Caesarea on the coast, rode up to Jerusalem in order to be present in the city in case there were riots at Passover, the most politically volatile of the annual Jewish festivals. With him came soldiers and cavalry to reinforce the imperial garrison in Jerusalem.

It is clear what Pilate’s procession was about. By proclaiming the pomp and power of empire, its purpose was to intimidate. But what about Jesus’s procession, his entry into the city?

As Mark, the first gospel to be written, tells the story, Jesus planned it in advance. It was not a last-minute decision, as if he decided to ride a donkey because he was tired or wanted people to be able to see him better.

And – this is the crucial connection – riding a donkey into Jerusalem echoes a passage from the prophet Zechariah.

Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem!
Lo, your king comes to you;
triumphant and victorious is he,
humble and riding on a donkey,
on a colt, the foal of a donkey (9.9).

That king, the passage continues, will be a king of peace:

“He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the war horse from Jerusalem; and the battle bow shall be cut off, and he shall command peace to the nations” (9.10).

Thus for Passover that year, two very different processions entered Jerusalem. They proclaimed two very different and contrasting visions of how this world can and should be: the kingdom of God versus the kingdoms, the powers, of this world
The former is about justice and the end of violence. The latter are about domination and exploitation.

On Friday, the rulers of this world kill Jesus. On Easter, God says “yes” to Jesus and “no” to the powers that executed him.

Thus Palm Sunday announces the central conflict of Holy Week. The conflict persists. In words from St. Paul, the rulers of this world crucified the Lord of glory. That conflict continues wherever injustice and violence abound. Holy Week is not about less than that.


Lent and the Cross

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

A few blogs ago, I wrote about a persistent theme of my thinking in my middle and late adult life: memories, conversions, and convictions. Memories of what I absorbed as I grew up Christian more than half a century ago; major changes in my understanding since then; and the convictions that have emerged from those changes.

And as I wrote many blogs ago, those changes include a different understanding of Lent with its climax in Holy Week, Good Friday and Easter. If this blog repeats some things you’ve read before, I apologize. But this season brings up thoughts that seem to me to be of annual- and thus perennial – importance.

If you had asked me at the end of childhood, at age 12 or so, what this season was about, I am quite sure I would have said: Lent is about becoming intensely aware of our sinfulness and need for forgiveness, and Holy Week is about Jesus dying to pay for our sins so that we can be forgiven.

In shorthand, the above is the payment understanding of Jesus’s death. Also known as the substitutionary or satisfaction understanding of the cross, it means that Jesus died in our place in order to satisfy the debt that we all owe to God.

I have become convinced that the payment understanding of the cross is a serious distortion of its meaning. Of course, having a conviction is no guarantee of truth. Convictions can be wrong. The deficiencies of the payment understanding are both theological and historical. At stake is not primarily having “right beliefs.” At stake is what Christianity is about.

Theologically, the payment understanding intrinsically implies that the death of Jesus was part of God’s plan of salvation – that it had to happen, indeed was foreordained and even predicted. The debt for our disobedience to God had to be satisfied, and Jesus as God’s sinless son paid the price that we all deserve to pay.

Thus the payment understanding sees the death of Jesus as ultimately God’s will. But one must ask: really? Was it God’s will that this remarkably good person, centered in God to an extraordinary degree, be killed? If so, what does that say about what God is like?

The payment understanding is also historically flawed. A major problem is that it was first fully articulated less than a thousand years ago by Anselm in 1098. In the first thousand years of Christianity, including the New Testament, the payment understanding is at most a minor metaphor, and in the judgment of some scholars, not there at all. I am inclined to agree with them.

Another historical problem: in the first three gospels (Mark, Matthew and Luke, together known as the synoptic gospels), Jesus three times warns his followers of what will happen in Jerusalem: the authorities – the temple and imperial figures at the top of the domination system in the Jewish homeland – will kill him.

The texts do not say that he is going to Jerusalem to die for the sins of the world. No. Rather, he will be killed there. He will “undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed” (Mark 8.31). He will “be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him” (Mark 9.31). In the most detailed warning, he “will be handed over to the chief priests and the scribes, and they will condemn him to death; then they will hand him over to the Gentiles; they will mock him, and spit upon him, and flog him, and kill him” (Mark 10.3-34).

None of these is about Jesus dying to pay for our sins. All are about Jesus being killed by the powers that ruled his world. I add that a majority of mainstream New Testament scholars do not think that these warnings go back to Jesus himself, but are the post-Easter testimony of the early Christian movement. For me, that makes them even more impressive as testimonies to his death. Forty years after his crucifixion, Mark, the earliest gospel, still speaks of the cross as an execution by the powers that ruled that world, not as a payment required by God.

Though Jesus’s death was more than a martyrdom, it was not less. The Greek root of “martyr” means “witness.” A martyr, “witness,” is killed because she or he stands for something – which in early Christianity meant standing for God and standing against the powers that created a world of injustice and violence.

Imagine: what if Lent and Holy Week are not about Jesus as a divinely-ordained payment for sin but about protest against a world that makes martyrs of the prophets? And imagine: what if Easter is about God saying “yes” to Jesus and what he stood for and “no” to the powers that killed him?

Imagine that Christianity is not about an afterlife for those whose sins are forgiven. Imagine that it’s about participating in Jesus’s passion for the transformation of “this world” into a world of justice and peace. Imagine that it’s about a passion to change “this world.” What difference might that make for what it means to be Christian – and to be an American Christian?


Ash Wednesday: Death and Repentance

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

Ash Wednesday (this year, March 5th) is the first day of the season of Lent. In liturgical churches, it begins with a vivid reminder of death. As the words “Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return” are said, Christians are marked on their foreheads with ashes in the shape of the cross. The words echo language from the funeral liturgy, “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

Death is one of the primary themes of Lent. Each of us will die. None of us gets out of here alive. A friend told me that he thinks Ash Wednesday is the most honest service of the church year. My wife has talked about the difference between Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday. During the former, we indulge, party, cavort and sometimes even wear masks. At the latter, we take our masks off as we are reminded of – indeed confronted with – the fact that we are dust.

A second primary theme of Lent is repentance, commonly understood to mean repenting of our sins. The reality of death and the need for repentance go hand-in-hand for many Christians, especially those who believe in a post-death judgment and separation into heaven or hell or purgatory. None of us knows when we will die. Could even happen later today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe not for many years. We don’t know. Thus it is wise, prudent and necessary to repent. Death and post-mortem judgment might be near.

The themes of death and repentance and their linkage are powerful forces in the collective Christian psyche. They have been for a long time. Imagine the many centuries in which our spiritual ancestors took it for granted that heaven and hell (and perhaps purgatory) were real. That at death we would go to heaven or be condemned to punishment, eternal or time-limited (purgatory). Imagine what death and the imperative to repent would have meant. They were ominous, threatening, fearful. It’s important to be right with God when we die – for we risk divine and maybe eternal punishment.

I grew up with that understanding, even as I did not grow up in a hellfire and brimstone church. The threat of hell was not emphasized. But it was clear to me that Christianity was about going to heaven – and thus avoiding the alternative of postmortem divine punishment.

Death and repentance as themes of Ash Wednesday and Lent now mean something very different to me. I no longer think that the heart of Christianity is about our eternal fate in heaven or hell (or purgatory). And I do not think that repentance is primarily about contrition for our sins and the resolve to be good, or at least better, so that our postmortem state might be better.

Yet I also affirm that the themes of death and repentance are central to Ash Wednesday, Lent, Holy Week, and Christianity. But they are not about where we will spend eternity but about our lives here and now. And if some want to say, “Why is that an either-or? How about a both-and?” I am willing to say, “Fine – so long as we don’t ignore the here and now.”

Ash Wednesday, Lent. Holy Week and Christianity itself are about following Jesus on the path that leads through death to resurrection. They are about dying and rising with Christ. We are to follow him to Jerusalem, the place of death and resurrection. That is what the journey of Lent is about.

That journey intrinsically involves repentance. But repentance is not primarily about feeling guilty about our sins, or about doing penance (think of the common practice of “giving up” something during Lent – whether meat or chocolate or alcohol or shopping, and so forth). The biblical meanings of repenting are primarily twofold. On the one hand, it means to “return” to God, to “reconnect” with God. On the other hand, it means “to go beyond the mind that we have” – minds shaped by our socialization and enculturation.

The result: dying to an old way of seeing and being and living and identity, and being born, raised, into a new way of seeing and being and living and identity. Ash Wednesday, as we are marked for death, is the annual ritual enactment of the beginning of that journey.


Amos Continued

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

This blog supplements my previous “Amos and American Christianity.” If you read that first, this blog will make more sense to you.

Amos’s radical criticism of the way the powerful and wealthy of his time and place had structured their social world in their own self-interest got him in trouble with the powers that ruled his world.

Amos 7.10-17 contains one of the Bible’s most vivid encounters between the ruling elites of the ancient world and “the Word of the Lord.” Only the stories of Moses and Pharaoh, Elijah and Isaiah and Jeremiah and the kings of their time, and, especially, Jesus and the powers of his time are serious rivals.

The encounter begins with Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, one of the two major temples in the northern kingdom, sending a message to King Jeroboam charging Amos with conspiracy against the king and the kingdom, including threatening the king with death.

Then Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, sent to King Jeroboam of Israel, saying, “Amos has conspired against you in the very center of the house of Israel; the land is not able to bear all his words. For thus Amos has said, ‘Jeroboam shall die by the sword, and Israel must go into exile away from his land.’” (7.10-11).

Then Amaziah threatened Amos and ordered him to leave the Northern Kingdom:

And Amaziah said to Amos, “O seer [a term of contempt] go, flee away to the land of Judah, earn your bread there, and prophesy there; but never again prophesy at Bethel, for it is the king’s sanctuary, and it is a temple of the kingdom.” (7.12-13).

Amos defiantly responded with a further indictment, perhaps against Amaziah but equally as likely against the king. Amaziah had sent a message to the king about Amos. What follows in 7.16-17 may be Amos’s message back to the king:

Now therefore hear the word of the LORD. You say, “Do not prophesy against Israel, and do not preach against the house of Isaac.” Therefore thus says the LORD: “Your wife [the queen?] shall become a prostitute in the city, and your sons and your daughters [the princes and princesses?] shall fall by the sword, and your land shall be parceled out by line; you yourself [the king?] shall die in an unclean land, and Israel shall surely go into exile away from its land.”

A Jewish biblical scholar, Julius Morgenstern, suggested in his book on Amos published in 1941 that the authorities then killed him. We do not know that. There is no historical evidence for the martyrdom of Amos. But Morgenstern’s suggestion accurately reflects the danger that faced Amos. Imagine the courage that it took to be Amos. Imagine his passion for God and God’s passion for a different kind of world.

So far as we know, Amos is about “words.” We do not know whether he also did “deeds of compassion” – did he feed the poor, take care of lepers, minister to those with other diseases and infirmities? But I do imagine that Amos was not simply about anger but also about compassion.

Words are not unimportant. They can change the world. Think about Martin Luther King, Jr. Yes, he was a man of action. His campaigns of active non-violent resistance were instrumental in bringing about civil rights for African-Americans. If he had simply written books instead, we probably wouldn’t even know his name. But it was also his words that changed this country. Without his words, how much would have changed?

It is important not to reduce the passion of the prophets to being compassionate, important as that is. Mother Teresa is a classic example of devoting one’s life to compassionate care of those whom the Bible calls “the least of these.” She is much to be admired. But she was not a prophet. We need Mother Teresas. And we need prophets who criticize systems that intensify human suffering.


Amos and American Christianity

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

I have been thinking a lot lately about what I wish every Christian knew. On my list: I wish all Christians, especially American Christians, knew the book of Amos.

My reasons are both personal and more than personal. Amos was responsible for one of the three major conversions in my life. Two were intellectual and religious: a conversion to the study of religion and an experiential conversion to the conviction that God is real. The third was political: from the conservative political orientation I absorbed while I was growing up to what I have learned from the Bible and Jesus.

Amos was the trigger. In my junior year in college in a political philosophy course, we spent a week on Amos. The encounter stunned me. Speaking in the name of God, he passionately indicted the powerful and wealthy of his time because they had created an economic system that privileged them and inflicted misery and suffering on most of the population.

Prior to that class, I had no idea that there was anything like this in the Bible. Yet I had grown up with the Bible and had memorized more verses than anybody I knew. But nobody had ever asked me to read Amos or any of the prophets. I knew of them primarily through isolated verses that we understood to be prophecies of the coming of Jesus. The prophets were “predictors” of events centuries in the future from their point in time. It had not occurred to me that Amos and the prophets in general might have had a message for their own time and place.

The effect of Amos is best experienced by reading the whole book thoughtfully and slowly and with several awarenesses. He was speaking, not writing; his speeches (commonly called “oracles”) are short, seldom exceeding six verses or so; they have a poetic structure and use language designed to be memorable in an oral culture. A few more: he spoke in the time of the monarchy in ancient Israel; his oracles contain both indictments (the reasons for his condemnation of the wealthy and powerful in the name of God) and threats (what will happen to them as a result – not condemnation to an afterlife in hell, but loss of their privilege and exile.

Within the space limitation of a blog, I can only provide a few examples.

Amos paints a vivid picture of the leisurely life-style of the wealthy and powerful and their indifference to the impoverishment of the many: “Alas for those who lie on beds of ivory, and lounge on their couches, and eat lambs from the flock, and calves from the stall; who sing idle songs to the sound of the harp, and like David improvise on instruments of music; who drink wine from bowls, and anoint themselves with the finest oils, but are not grieved over the ruin of Joseph [the ruin of the many]!” (6.4-6).

“They sell the righteous [the innocent, those who have done no wrong] for silver, and the needy for a pair of sandals. They trample the … poor into the dust of the earth, and push the afflicted out of the way.” (2.6-7).

“Therefore because you trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain, you have built houses of hewn stone, but you shall not live in them; you have planted pleasant vineyards, but you shall not drink their wine. For I know how many are your transgressions, and how great are your sins [note what they are]— [ you who afflict the righteous, who take a bribe, and push aside the needy in the gate.” (5.11-12).

Perhaps the best-known text from Amos indicts the worship of the wealthy and powerful. As often in the prophets, the “I” is God, for the prophet speaks in the name of God. “I hate, I despise your [religious] festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies. Even though you offer me your burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them; and the offerings of well-being of your fatted animals I will not look upon. Take away from me the noise of your songs; I will not listen to the melody of your harps. But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everflowing stream.” (5.21-24). Note what God does want: justice and righteousness. They are not two different things, but synonyms. The last verse is a classic example of Hebrew synonymous parallelism: the second half says the same thing as the first half.

Amos also challenged the nation’s notion that they were especially chosen by God and especially blessed by God. “Are you not like the Ethiopians to me, O people of Israel? …. Did I not bring Israel up from the land of Egypt, and the Philistines from Caphtor and the Arameans from Kir?” (9.7).

Amos is not a solitary voice in the Bible. It is the voice of the exodus story of liberation from bondage to Pharaoh, of the laws in the Old Testament about land and debt, of Jesus’s passion for the Kingdom of God on earth. And of Paul’s proclamation of the lordship of Jesus over against the lordship of Caesar: a new creation, a way of being and living in this world brought about through life in Christ that is radically different from the lordship of Caesar, the lordship of domination.

For Christians, Amos and all of these voices are part of our sacred scripture. If we, especially American Christians, were to take them seriously, how would that affect our understanding, our vision, of what it means to be Christian?

They challenge much that is central to American Christianity and American politics today, especially our ethos, our ideologies, of individualism and exceptionalism.

Politically and economically, individualism is based on the conviction that the degree of our material well-being is primarily the product of how much we have applied ourselves and how hard we have worked.

But is that really true? Or is the decisive influence the way the powerful and wealthy have put the world together in their own self-interest? Is the cause of human misery and suffering primarily individual irresponsibility – or is it systemic? Have the powers that be, in the ancient world and our world, organized the system to create, enhance, and preserve their privilege? Is the cause of poverty in America and the rest of the world primarily individual failure – or is it systemic?

Amos and other voices in the Bible also challenge the notion of American exceptionalism – that we have been and are not only blessed by God but also chosen and favored by God. Polls indicate that more than a majority of Americans affirm that. So do a majority of American Christians, including those who are fearful that we might lose that status because of our deviation from God’s ways (fill in the blank as to what our sins are). The notion of exceptionalism means more than one thing, including that we are the best country in the world and that we would never use our power for anything other than legitimate purposes.

But, to use words from Amos, “Are you not like the Ethiopians to me?” We as a nation are not chosen, not exceptional. Like every nation, every society, our future depends upon our present and how we shape our life together here and now.


The Bible and Mysticism

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

I am very much enjoying and valuing the conversation about my recent blog about the Bible and what it is and is not. I am especially interested in the comments about mystical experiences and how they (or the lack of them) affect understandings of the Bible.

Mysticism and mystical experiences can be defined in a very narrow or broader sense of the word. In the narrow sense, they are relatively few and might be dismissed, by religious and non-religious people alike, as aberrations and not very important. In the broad sense, to use a medieval Christian definition, mysticism is about “the experiential knowledge of God.”

As experiences, they have been categorized in a number of ways. Some are “eyes open” experiences in which a one sees what one would ordinarily see, but it looks different: transfigured, suffused with light, filled with radiant luminosity (which is what the word “glory” most often means in the Bible. Moses saw a bush that burned without being consumed; a text in Isaiah proclaims that the whole earth is filled with the glory of God; a psalm declares that the firmament, the sky, proclaims the glory of God.

Some are “eyes closed” experiences. These include visions (of angels, Jesus, Mary, saints – and in other traditions, Kirishna and the Buddha and more). They also include experiences of union/communion in meditative and contemplative states of consciousness.

Some are experiences of the whole of creation suffused with God, the sacred. Some are experiences of God, the sacred, “within.” Mystical theology – in Christian forms and other forms – affirms both. Such experiences change the meaning, the referent, of the word “God” and “the sacred.” Instead of these words referring to a person-like supernatural being who may or may not exist, they refer to a presence, a glory, sometimes experienced – that is, known.

For skeptics as well as for dogmatic Christians, such experiences do not prove anything. The former dismiss them as weird states of consciousness that lead to unwarranted inferences. The latter distrust them because they seem to lead to conclusions incompatible with dogmatic understandings of Christianity. For them, only the Bible (and/or the teaching authority of the church) matters. Indeed, some conservative Christians think of mystical experiences as diabolic.

For me, because of several such experiences, and because of my study of mystical experiences in multiple religions, they are the reason that I continue to be Christian. And that I continue to think that the religions of the world at their best are sacraments of the sacred and vehicles of good.

Not all mystical experiences lead to good. It seems clear that many Germans at the Nurnberg rallies in the late 1930s entered a state of mystical ecstasy as they listened to Hitler in the midst of flags and goose-steeping troops and stirring music. So also it is easy to imagine that one or more of the 9/11 attackers were in a mystical state as the planes they had hijacked approached their targets. Ecstatic absorption in something beyond oneself is no guarantee of goodness.

The test, the criterion of discernment, as William James wrote more than a century ago, quoting a saying of Jesus from Matthew, is, “By their fruits, you shall know them.” If the result, the consequence of mystical experience, is compassion and growth in compassion, then it is of God, from the sacred.

To bring this back to the Bible: for me, the power and the authority of the Bible is not grounded in an alleged divine origin, as if God inspired the Bible as God has never inspired anything else.

How bizarre that would be – that the creator of the whole universe, the sacred that is present everywhere, chose to be revealed only in the Bible, and only in the religion that venerates the Bible – which just fortunately happens to be our own tradition. That notion is the product of Christian provinciality – easy to believe if one has never encountered anything else, but impossible to believe for those who have. Does Christian faith mean absolutizing the truth of Christian provinciality?

Rather, the power and authority of the Bible for me is that is the story and testimony of people in ancient Israel and early Christianity for whom God was an experiential reality – the sacred as disclosed, revealed, in the stories of the exodus from the land of bondage; in the prophetic protest against oppression within Israel itself; in the centuries of exile filled with longing for a world of justice and peace; in the passion of Jesus for the kingdom of God on earth; in Paul’s proclamation of “Christ crucified” (by the powers that ruled his world), “Jesus is Lord” (and thus the powers are not), and life “in Christ” (challenging the conventions of “this world”).

The central figures of the Bible – from Abraham through Moses and the prophets and Jesus and Paul and more – are all portrayed as people for whom God, the sacred, was an experiential reality. Without a grounding in such experiences, Christianity and all the religions of the world are “hypotheses.” And not very persuasive hypotheses.

Why should one take seriously the religious writings and thoughts of people who lived thousands of years ago? Only if they are speaking about experiences and not simply beliefs.

What the Bible Is

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

An alert to readers of the “Progressive Christian” Faith Stream who do not often read the “Evangelical” Faith Stream: if you are interested in Christian conflict about the Bible (what it is, and whether it is inerrant and to be interpreted literally), you should regularly visit Peter Enns’ blog.

From within the evangelical stream of Christianity, he often challenges both inerrancy and literalism. His blogs consistently draw a large number of responses that provide a window into how many conservative Christians think of the Bible.

A fine recent example is his blog “Conservative Baptist Leaders Defend Inerrancy at ETS: Is This a Parody?” It summarizes the remarks of a panel of conservative Baptist leaders at last year’s meeting of the Evangelical Theological Society. For them, biblical inerrancy is not one doctrine among many, but the foundation of all doctrines and thus of the truth of Christianity. In their minds, Christianity stands or falls on whether the Bible is inerrant. Many of the one hundred plus responses (maybe more than two hundred by now) illustrate the passion this issue arouses.

In one sense, biblical inerrancy is not an issue for progressive Christians. Not affirming biblical inerrancy is one of the defining characteristics of progressive Christianity. In another sense, it is an issue. Many of us grew up with an understanding of Christianity that implicitly or explicitly affirmed that the Bible is always right. We took it for granted that that’s what it meant to call the Bible “the Word of God” and to say that it was “inspired by God.” Many of us have had to deal with this issue in our own journeys. For some of us, it continues to be a source of conflict with family members, friends, and acquaintances who think of the Bible as inerrant. Moreover biblical inerrancy is a central issue dividing American Christianity, as well as elsewhere in the world.

The controversy about biblical inerrancy is ultimately a question about what the Bible is. Christians affirm that it is “the Word of God” and “inspired by God.” But do those phrases mean that it is inerrant and/or infallible? Some conservative Christians argue that there are important differences between “inerrancy” and “infallibility.” But functionally, the two terms are synonymous: for those who affirm either, the result is that the Bible has a divine guarantee to be true about everything that matters. As “the Word of God” and “inspired by God,” it is a divine product.

Within this framework, one of the common responses to the challenge to biblical inerrancy goes like this: if all of the Bible isn’t inerrant, how do we decide what parts are inerrant and what parts are not? If it’s not all “inspired by God,” how do we decide what parts are?

The question assumes the impossibility of a satisfactory answer. If the Bible as “the Word of God” and “inspired by God” isn’t completely inerrant, then some human authority is being elevated above the Bible, whether the teaching of the church, the verdicts of scholarship, or the preferences of individuals. Within this point of view, the authority of the Bible disappears, subjected to human authority.

But what if the options for Christians aren’t “All of the Bible is inerrant” or “Some of it is, and some of it isn’t”? There is another option. All of the Bible is a human product – it’s not that some of it is a divine product and some of it isn’t. Rather, all of it, Old Testament and New Testament alike, contains the voices of our spiritual ancestors in ancient Israel and early Christianity. It tells us about their experiences of God, their thoughts about God, their understandings of what life with God is about, their praise and prayers, their wisdom. We hear their voices, their witness and testimony. And their limited understandings, their blindness and conventions, their desires for protection and vengeance against their enemies. It’s all there.

My Christian journey has led me to the conviction that the Bible is, to use a phrase from Paul, “treasure in earthen vessels” (II Cor. 4.7). Paul was not referring to the Bible, but to the messengers of the gospel, including himself. The gospel, the good news of Jesus, comes to us in earthen vessels, “clay jars” to us the language of a recent translation. Earthen vessels, clay jars, are finite products, human products. It applies to the Bible as a whole.

So it’s not that the Bible is inerrant, or parts of it are and parts of it aren’t. It is all a human product. And yet it is “treasure” in an earthen vessel. It is the witness and testimony of our spiritual ancestors.


Memories, Conversions, and Convictions

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

The triad named in the title of this blog has been illuminating as I have reflected about the stages of my life as a Christian. The meaning of memories is obvious, especially our memories of growing up, going back to childhood and continuing into young adulthood and beyond.

Conversions are about major changes in our orientation toward life. Not just changes like a new job or geographical move or marriage or divorce or retirement. Those can leave us unchanged, even as they sometimes become the occasion for conversion. Rather, conversions are about fundamental changes in how we see things – our lives, what is real, and what matters most to us.

Convictions are settled and foundational ways of seeing that are not easily shaken. They are more than “opinions.” Ideally, they are open to change, even as they are not easily changed.

My memories of growing up more than half a century ago include an understanding of Christianity that I had absorbed by the end of childhood. If somebody had asked me at age 10 or 12 to state in a sentence what I thought the heart of the Christian message was, I would have said something like the following: Jesus died to pay for our sins so that we can be forgiven and go to heaven, provided that we believe in him.

Note what it emphasized: the afterlife; our problem as sin and our need for forgiveness; Jesus as the means whereby we can be forgiven; and the importance of believing. It also included the belief that Jesus and Christianity were “the only way.” My understanding was not idiosyncratic to my family or church but might be called “the common Christianity” of the recent past – what most Protestants and Catholics took for granted then and many still do. I took it for granted too.

My major conversions have been intellectual, political, and religious. The first two happened in college, the third in my early 30s. They have led to a very different understanding of Christianity and to the convictions that have shaped my life in the decades since.

My intellectual and political conversions were also religious in the sense that they changed my thinking about Christianity and the Bible. The first happened in a required religion course on the history of Christian thought. I had no idea how diverse it was and that there was no one universally accepted understanding of what it meant to be Christian. What I had absorbed as a child became one of many ways of understanding Christianity.

My political conversion occurred in a political philosophy course. We spent a week on the prophet Amos and his strident indictment of the wealthy and powerful of his time who had created a society radically unfair to the majority of the population. I was stunned. I had had no idea that the Bible had such passion for economic justice and fairness. The politics of my childhood changed.

My religious conversion happened in my 30s. It was much more experiential than the first two, both of which happened in academic settings. It was the product of a series of experiences that I have learned to call mystical experiences. They did not change me from being non-religious to religious or from one religious tradition to another. I have been Christian all of my life, even as my understanding of what that means has gone through changes.

Rather, they made God real to me. And they changed my understanding of the referent of the word “God.” Until then, I had thought that the word referred
to a supernatural person-like being who had created the world a long time ago as something separate from God. And as an authoritarian figure being who allegedly had revealed how we must live, the requirements (of belief or behavior or both) that we must meet in order to be saved (which had meant for me, to go to heaven). By my teenage years, I had begun to have doubts about whether God was real. By my 20s, I had become a closet agnostic.

The experiences of my 30s changed all of that. “God” no longer referred to a being who may or may not exist, but to a radiant presence, a glorious “more” that pervades everything that is and that in extraordinary moments is sometimes experienced. God became, in words attributed to Paul in Acts 17.28, “the one in whom we live and move and have our being.” Not a being separate from the universe who may or may not exist, but a reality all around us, everywhere present, and sometimes experienced, known.

The religious conversion of my 30s led to the convictions that have shaped my understanding of Christianity and religions and life ever since. These include not only that the word “God” refers to a reality, but also that no religion (including Christianity) has a monopoly on God. It has also shaped my understanding of major religious figures within Christianity (including the Bible) and within other religions: many of them were people for whom God, the sacred, was an experiential reality. From their experiences flowed their passion, insight, and courage.

Nothing in this blog is meant to imply that only people who have had mystical experiences are “really” or “truly” religious. There are many who have not who are not only devout but also transformed by their religious lives. But for me, experiences of “the sacred” have made all the difference.


Postscript to “Christmas, Jesus and Caesar”

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

I just posted a reply to some comments made in response to one of Peter Enns’ recent blogs on Patheos’s evangelical faith channel ( I believe it was called “Forgotten Jesus” – but I have not checked). For those of you who don’t know his blog, I commend it highly.

Because my reply is also relevant to the discussion of Jesus and Caesar that is happening on my blog-site, I post it here as well:

A brief response to those who have raised the question whether Jesus was “really divine,” “actually divine,” in contrast to Caesar who was not really or actually divine.

A respectful question: what do you mean when you say Jesus was “actually” and really divine? Does that mean really biologically conceived by God – whereas the story of Augustus’s divine conception is fiction? Do you mean that Jesus had a divine mind and divine powers like no human being has ever had? Or what do you mean? I am genuinely interested.

One more comment: is the conflict between Jesus and Caesar a conflict about “our guy is really divine and your guy isn’t”? Or is it a conflict about where to see the decisive revelation of God, the Word become flesh and embodied in a human life? Do we see that revelation, that Word, that embodiment in Jesus? Or in the powers that killed him? We can debate the sense in which Jesus was or was not actually divine, But isn’t the more important question – or at least equally important question – the competing visions that we see in Jesus as decisive revelation of God and in Caesar (and thus empire and domination) as the decisive revelation of God?


Christmas: Jesus, Caesar and Us

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

The conflict between “Jesus and Caesar” is a major even if most often overlooked theme of the Christmas stories in the Bible. In Matthew, King Herod the Rome-appointed ruler of the Jewish homeland seeks to kill the new-born Jesus. Luke emphasizes – especially but not only in Mary’s “Magnificat” – that what is happening in the advent of Jesus is the bringing down of the powerful from their thrones and the wealthy from their place of privilege.

Both stories announce the conflict that continues throughout the gospels and climaxes in Jesus’s execution by Caesar, that is, by Roman authority. Good Friday was Caesar’s “no” to Jesus – and Easter is God’s “yes” to Jesus and God’s “no” to Caesar.

Thus Advent and Christmas should be for Christians a time of reflection about the relationship between loyalty to Jesus and loyalty to Caesar.

To say the obvious, “Caesar” has a particular historical meaning: it referred to the emperor of Rome. Think of the most famous: Julius Caesar and Caesar Augustus. But even psychopaths like the emperor Caligula bore the title. And it has become a more universal term. In some languages, it continued to refer to emperors for more than a thousand years after the fall of the Roman Empire – for example, Kaiser and Czar as recently as a hundred years ago.

In its more than specific ancient Roman meaning, “Caesar” refers to domination systems, large or small. In the pre-modern world, they ranged in size from empires to small kingdoms and at the micro-level the family. All are about people of privilege- the powerful and wealthy and, at the micro-level of the family, men being in charge.

The Bible is a sustained conversation – indeed opposition – between those who challenged Caesar (and Pharaoh and the monarchy and the empires that followed) and those who accommodated themselves to Caesar and his ways.

For Christians, Christmas is about the Word becoming flesh, to use language from the magnificent prologue to John, one of the two gospels that do not have a birth story. And yet John does. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” is his one verse story of Jesus’s birth. Jesus enfleshes, embodies, incarnates, God’s Word, God’s revelation, God’s character and passion in a human life.

Christmas means that for Christians, Jesus is and should be decisive. What we see in him, the Word made flesh, is our revelation, our light in the darkness. And that revelation, that light, that embodiment, led to conflict with Caesar, Jesus’s execution by Caesar, and Jesus’s vindication by God.

Finally: in addition to referring to domination systems, “Caesar” for many Christians and others shaped by Christian language has become a symbol, a metaphor, for “government” – as if government, a central power, locally or nationally, were the problem. But the conflict between Caesar and Jesus (and other major voices in the Bible) is not about government being intrinsically bad. Government by itself is not the problem. We cannot live in ungoverned societies.

The issue is what kind of government. The record of Christians is not particularly impressive. Most Christians for 1500 years or so have supported the powers that be. In the last hundred years, more than a majority of German Christians supported the Third Reich in the time of Hitler. In the United States in the first decade of this century, the demographic group giving the largest support to our initiating – starting – the war in Iraq were white evangelicals who attended church once or more a week.

Neither uncritical support nor uncritical rejection of government is the answer. There are important differences between the powers that be. Some are more humane – and thus more consistent with “the Word become flesh” in Jesus, the passion of God revealed in a human life. And some are about the endorsement and preservation of power for the privileged.

So: Christmas – like Good Friday and Easter – is a time of reflection about Jesus and Caesar. How do we see the passion of God as revealed in Jesus? What should “this world” – our humanly constructed world – be like?

That is what Christmas is about. Of course it is also about light in the darkness, reconnection with God by returning from our exile, and the fulfillment of our deepest yearnings. But those yearnings, according to the Old Testament and the birth stories and the gospels are not primarily about life beyond death. They are about a different kind of world, here below, here and now.

Why are many Christians – probably more than half of American Christians -unwilling to embrace that? The reason might be Caesar or Jesus. To whom does our loyalty lie?


Two Christmas Pageants

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

Most – perhaps all – Christmas pageants combine the stories of Jesus’s birth in the first two chapters of Matthew and Luke. From Luke: the announcement to Mary that she will conceive a son through the Holy Spirit, the journey to Bethlehem where there is no room in the inn so that Jesus is born in a stable, the angelic message to shepherds who then visit the new-born Jesus. From Matthew, wise men (typically portrayed as kings) following the star and bringing gifts to the infant Jesus. So also Christmas crèches typically combine the two stories in a static tableau: a stable, Jesus in a manger, shepherds, and wise men.

But what if we were to do two Christmas pageants, one based on Matthew and one based on Luke?

The two stories are very different in both length and content. Matthew’s is much shorter. Without the genealogy of Jesus with which he begins his gospel, his story is 31 verses long. Luke’s is 130 verses, four times as long.

Their content is also very different. Matthew’s is dominated by King Herod’s effort to kill the new-born Jesus. The story of the wise men following the star is part of that plot. When they arrive in Jerusalem, they visit Herod who asks them to tell him when and where they have found the new-born king of the Jews so that he might also worship him. Not what he intends. They decide not to, and so Herod orders the killing of infants under the age of two in and near Bethlehem.

Matthew’s story echoes Pharaoh’s decree of death for infants born to the Hebrew slaves in bondage in the time of the exodus. Joseph, warned by an angel, flees with Mary and the infant Jesus to escape Herod’s murderous decree.

Imagine a Christmas pageant based on Matthew alone. Dominated by Herod’s plot, it would be ominous, threatening. Imagine what kind of music might appropriately accompany it – perhaps the Darth Vader theme from “Star Wars” or the theme from “Jaws.” Matthew’s story anticipates the end of Jesus’s life when another Pharaoh, the Roman governor of Judea, would succeed where Herod had failed.

Imagine a Christmas pageant based on Luke alone. The content and mood are very different. There is nothing about Herod’s plot to kill Jesus, and no wise men who tell Herod that they have seen a star that heralds the birth of a new king of the Jews.

Instead, an angel appears to Mary and tells her she will become pregnant through the Holy Spirit. Her response: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Luke also narrates the story of the birth of John the Baptizer to aged and barren parents, Elizabeth and Zechariah. That story climaxes in “the Benedictus,” a hymn of celebration. Then, when Mary visits Elizabeth, she sings “the Magnificat,” another hymn of rejoicing. When Jesus is born, angels sing in the night sky to shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night. Finally, when Mary and Joseph bring the 40 day old Jesus to the temple, the aged prophet Simeon sings “the Nunc Dimittis.”

The mood of Luke’s story is not ominous but filled with joy. If we were to imagine appropriate accompanying music, neither Darth Vader’s theme nor “Jaws” would work. Instead, Handel’s “Messiah” might be perfect.

Imagine a Christmas pageant that did each story separately rather than combining them. Imagine the observance of Christmas if we took each story separately and seriously. From Matthew, we would learn that the rulers of this world always seek to destroy the one who proclaims a world in which the Pharaohs and domination systems are no longer lords. From Luke, we would learn that God’s passion is for a very different kind of world and that hope and confidence in God are to replace resigned acceptance of the way things are.

Both stories are true, even as I do not imagine that the purpose of either is to report what happened. Christmas is cause for celebration, even as we recognize that the conflict between the kingdoms of Pharaoh and the kingdom of God continues. Christmas and Jesus are not just about the past.


The Real War on Christmas

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

There is a lot of silliness in the contemporary (and now perennial) and largely conservative complaint that there is a “war on Christmas.” Often cited as evidence is the common replacement of “Merry Christmas” with “Happy Holidays” and the use of “Xmas” instead of “Christmas.”

The former is a recognition that Christmas has become more than a Christian holiday in increasingly pluralistic and secular Western societies. The latter should not bother Christians: “X” has been a Christian abbreviation for Christ from at least the third and fourth centuries (see Ben Corey’s recent blog, “Keeping the X in Xmas”).

More seriously, today’s lamentation about the war on Christmas misses the real war on Christmas. Its subversive and revolutionary meanings have been co-opted for many centuries by the Christian emphasis on sin and our need for a savior who will pay for our sins. More recently, it has been co-opted by commercialization.

To begin with the latter: for many people, including many Christians, Christmas and the weeks leading up to it (Advent, for Christians) have become the most frantic and harried and busy time of the year.

Consider the two most common contemporary Christmas customs: sending Christmas cards and buying Christmas gifts. So it was in my family until about fifteen years ago when my wife and I decided to cease sending cards and shopping for Christmas gifts. But until then, the weeks before Christmas were dominated by the need to get our Christmas cards sent (often with a Christmas letter) and to figure out what to purchase for those on our gift list. The decision to stop giving gifts was made easier by the fact that our children had become adults. If they had still been children, we would have continued buying gifts for them.

Both of these customs are recent innovations. The first commercially-produced Christmas cards appeared in 1873. So also buying Christmas gifts is a product of the late 1800s and took awhile to become widespread. Until then, Christmas gifts were simple and largely homemade. Imagine for a moment the weeks before Christmas without the need to send cards and buy gifts.

Perhaps the most glaring example of the co-optation of Christmas by commercial culture is “Black Friday,” which has now invaded Thanksgiving. People lining up to get bargains. Even violence among shoppers. And consider: for the most part, it is relatively poor people competing with each other, but all driven by the cultural convention and compulsion to buy Christmas gifts.

To continue with the former: the co-optation of Advent and Christmas by Christianity itself. For many centuries – now almost a thousand years – the most common forms of Western Christianity have emphasized that Jesus’s primary significance is that he died to pay for our sins. This notion affects the meaning of Christmas: Christmas is the birth of the one who will save us from our sins so that we can go to heaven. It results in a radical domestication and individualization of the story of Jesus and Christmas.

To say the obvious: Christmas matters for Christians because Jesus matters for Christians. And what was Jesus about? His message, his passion, was about the coming of the Kingdom of God. It was about the transformation of this world into a different kind of world. It was about the downfall of domination systems and the birth of a world of justice and peace. Of course, the Kingdom of God is also about our individual transformation through loving the Lord our God with all our heart and mind and strength. It is about our transformation and the transformation of the world.

The muting of this message by common Christianity and by the commercialization of Christmas is the real war on Christmas. Imagine that Christians were once again to realize that Christmas – the birth of Jesus and the coming of the Kingdom of God – are pervasively subversive and revolutionary. Christmas and Jesus are about God’s passion, God’s dream, for a different kind of world here below, here and now.


Thinking about Advent

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

I begin with the obvious: Advent is a season of preparing for the coming of Jesus. For many centuries in Western liturgical churches, it has (like Lent) been a penitential season. Though it is about remembering his first coming 2000 years ago, it has also been about his second coming at the last judgment and the need for us to be prepared through earnest repentance.

Thus, like Lent, the liturgical colors for Advent have been (and for the most part still are) violet or purple, the color of penitence. Recently, in some churches, the liturgical color of Advent has become blue, reflecting a change in emphasis.

Seeing Advent as a penitential season strikes me as unfortunate. It is the product of a seriously distorted and yet widespread understanding of Christianity: namely, that the central issue in our lives with God is our sinfulness (commonly understood as disobedience and/or failing to measure up to what God requires from us) and thus our need for repentance and forgiveness. Within this framework, that’s the reason Jesus was born. As the divinely-conceived Son of God, he was sent by God to be the perfect sacrifice, the payment for our sins, so that we can be forgiven. Provided, of course, that we believe in him.

That is a serious impoverishment of Christianity and Advent. Christianity and Advent are about so much more. The central themes of the stories of Jesus’s birth (about which I will say more in my blogs about Advent in the next few weeks) are hardly at all about sin and our need for forgiveness.

Rather, they and the texts from the Old Testament that they echo are about a much more robust, attractive, and compelling vision of what Christianity, Advent and Christmas are about. Their themes, which will be explored more fully in future blogs, include:

*Liberation from bondage – from the Pharaohs and Herods and Caesars who dominate us and the world. These include oppressive political and economic systems and also psychological-spiritual agents of oppression.

*Return from exile – from life in Babylon. As a biblical metaphor, Babylon has political and economic meanings as well as psychological- spiritual meanings. The latter refer to the separation and estrangement that most often mark our lives. “Estrangement” is an especially resonant word: it means to be separated from that to which we belong. Return from exile is about re-connection to that from which we have become estranged.

*Light in the darkness – the stories of Jesus’s birth are full of light imagery. In Matthew, the star in the night sky that leads the wise men to Jesus; in Luke, angels singing to shepherds in the middle of the night. Like liberation from bondage and return from exile, light in the darkness is an archetypal image of human yearning. It is no accident that when Christians in the fourth century formally decided on the date of Jesus’s birth, they chose the winter solstice: the time when light begins to vanquish the darkness.

*Yearning and fulfillment –not so much a separate theme, but built into the previous themes. We yearn for liberation from bondage in Egypt, for return from exile in Babylon, for the coming of the light. But it deserves to be named as a major theme because of the way that the birth stories (and the gospels and the New Testament as a whole) emphasize that what happened in Jesus is the fulfillment of our deepest longings.

Advent should be about all of this. It is a season of anticipation, yearning and longing for a different kind of life and a different kind of world. To reduce it to a penitential season of preparing for the second coming of Jesus, or a season of remembering that Jesus was born so that he could pay for our sins, is a tragic travesty of Advent, Christmas, and Christianity.


Gratitude: One of the Most Important Virtues

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

Perhaps the most striking sentence I have read in the last few years is in Huston Smith’s most recent book, And Live Rejoicing. Published in 2012 when he was 93, I call it his “most recent book” rather than his “last book” because he is still with us. Who knows if this is his last?

Smith may be the best-known religion scholar of the past half century. Not only is he the author of the best-selling book in the history of American academic religious publishing, but well-known for more than one public television series. For me personally, he habeen a mentor, friend, and a bit of a guru. I read the book with joy.

The sentence that struck me was almost at the end. Right before “last words,” he said, “the two categorical, unconditional virtues… are gratitude and empathy.”

Naming “empathy” as one of the two categorical virtues (with its synonym “compassion” and close relative “love”) is not particularly surprising. But naming gratitude as a virtue of equal importance is. And as I thought about it, it made complete sense to me.

This season is a fruitful time to reflect about the relationship between gratitude and thanksgiving. Sometimes they are the same, but not always.

One of the best-known prayers of thanksgiving is in a parable of Jesus (Luke 18.9-14). A devoutly religious person prays, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.” His thanksgiving was about his difference from others.

Less well-known is the table grace prayed by Jimmy Stewart’s character in the 1965 movie Shenandoah. For almost fifty years, it has remained with me (you can look it up on the Internet):

Lord, we cleared this land. We plowed it, sowed it, and harvest it. We cook the harvest. It wouldn’t be here and we wouldn’t be eating it if we hadn’t done it all ourselves. We worked dog-bone hard for every crumb and morsel, but we thank you Lord just the same for the food we’re about to eat. Amen.
A thanksgiving prayer? I suppose so. But it’s mostly about self-reliance and deservedness.
Gratitude is very different. It is both a feeling and an awareness. As a feeling, it is often accompanied by a sensation that is at least metaphorically physical: a virtual breaking open of the ribcage, an opening of the heart, a flooding of the self with sheer gratefulness.

As an awareness that persists beyond the feeling, it is the realization that life, all of life, our lives, are a gift. Indeed, the words “gratitude” and “grace” have the same root. None of us created ourselves. None of us is self-made.

If our lives have turned out well, how much of that is the product of our own individual achievement? And how much is the product of the genes with which we were born that gave us a level of physical vitality, intelligence, health and longevity? How much is the product of the family we were born into, with its values and economic level? How much is the product of the country and time in which we were born?

Yes, individual responsibility and achievement matter, and there are people whose lives are triumphs over adversity. But how much of our lives have depended upon circumstances that we did not create? The notion of “self-made persons” who deserve all the success and wealth they’ve received is simply wrong. Indeed, “deservedness” is the opposite of gratitude, even if it occasionally produces prayers of thanksgiving.

As both a feeling and an awareness, gratitude is a virtue with ethical consequences. When we feel most grateful, it is impossible to be cruel or callous, brutal or indifferent. And gratitude as the awareness that life is a gift precludes the hard-heartedness that often accompanies the ideology of “the self-made person.” The latter often leads to, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.”

Gratitude and transformation go together. Sometimes it is the experience of deep gratitude that changes us. Sometimes gratitude is the product of transformation. Thanksgiving can leave us unchanged. Gratitude does not – it changes us.

Finally, gratitude and doxology – the exclamation, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow” – go together. There are also secular forms of doxology. Not only theists can sing doxologies. But grateful people, whether religious or secular, understand that our lives, and all that is, are a gift. Life is not about tenaciously holding on to and justifying what we have. It is about living as grateful people, aware that all that we are and have is a gift.


The Cultural Captivity of Christianity: The Poisoning of the Church

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

In the first third of the 300s, as the Roman emperor Constantine legalized Christianity and then became its patron, Pope Sylvester, the bishop of Rome from 314-335, had a dream. He understood it to mean, “Now is poison poured into the church.”

I owe my awareness of Sylvester’s dream to a lecture by Douglas John Hall, one of the most important theologians of our time. Delivered at Emmanuel College in the University of Toronto in October of this year, its title was “The Future of the Church.” The story, Hall notes, is a later Christian legend. Sylvester may never have had such a dream. But it reflects a realization on the part of whoever created the legend and those who repeated it that something poisonous began to happen to Christianity when it became allied with dominant culture.

The image of a poisoned church, a poisoned Christianity, is striking. It refers to what might be called “the cultural captivity of the church” – namely, Christianity co-opted by and conformed to the conventions of culture, which most often have been about dominance, power, and wealth.

The conformity of Christianity with the values of dominant culture in much of its history since the 300s and into the present is obvious. When slavery was a cultural convention, most Christians accepted it – in the United States, as recently as 150 years ago, even in the North. So long as patriarchy was a cultural convention, most Christians were patriarchal as well. Indeed, it was less than 50 years ago that most mainline denominations began to ordain women.

When cultural convention condemned same-sex relationships, most Christians also did, and many still do. And when Christian countries went to war and proclaimed that God was on their side, most Christians did too. The wars of Europe for a thousand years have been fought between Christian countries.

The cultural captivity of Christianity – the poison of Sylvester’s dream –continues to shape American Christians (and Christians in many other countries). We cannot avoid being shaped by the culture in which we grow up and live. But we can be more or less conscious of the way we have been shaped by our time and place, and more or less conscious of how Christianity’s vision of the way things should be may be quite different.

In the rest of this blog, I name a major American cultural value that has pervasively affected American Christianity: the ethos and ideology of individualism. We are, according to many studies, the most individualistic country in the world.

Individualism as an ideology should not be confused with the value of individuals. Individuals matter. It is a central affirmation of the Bible and Christianity: we all matter to God. Individuals and progress in individual rights, human rights, matter.

But individualism as an ideology is quite different. It is the notion that how our lives turn out is primarily the product of our individual achievement. Those who do well do so because they have made the most of their opportunities. It is the notion of the “self-made” person.

This ideology generates a politics and economics that privileges the successful: they deserve the fruits of their achievement. It dominates the political right, Christian and non-Christian alike. Most often absent or minimized is a concern for “the common good,” except perhaps when it is alleged to be the product of maximizing individual opportunities.

The effects of American individualism on American Christianity go beyond politics. For many Christians, morality is understood primarily to be about personal behavior. In comparison, what might be called “social morality” (economic fairness and a concern for the common good) receives short shrift.

So also Christian understandings of salvation are often individualistic. When Christians identify salvation with a blessed afterlife, with going to heaven, salvation becomes about the salvation of individuals. In a crude and clichéd phrase, Christianity becomes the ultimate life insurance policy – for those individuals who believe and/or behave in the right way.

Perhaps the most blatant even if not the most widespread example of Christianity co-opted by the ideology of individualism is the prosperity gospel. At its center is the promise of “doing well” in this life if only we as individuals believe and act accordingly.

All of this is very different from “the dream of God” as we encounter it in the major voices of the Bible and earliest Christianity. Of course, Christianity is about individuals and our relationship to God as individuals. But when it is most authentic, it is also about God’s dream for a world of fairness (justice) and peace. It is about “the common good” and not just my individual good.


What is the Gospel?

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

For a number of years I have asked Christian groups what they think the Christian gospel – the “good news” – is. I ask them to begin with memory – to think back to how they would have answered that question at the end of childhood, at age twelve or so – and in not more than a sentence. What had they absorbed by then? I give them a few minutes to think about that, and then put them in small groups of four or five for about fifteen minutes to share what they came up with.

Sometimes I then ask how they would answer that question now (also in not more than a sentence) and how much continuity or discontinuity there is with their end-of-childhood answer.

This blog is about my responses, then and now, to that question. At the end of childhood, I would have said that the heart of the gospel, the Christian good news, is that Jesus died for our sins so that we can be forgiven and go to heaven if we believe in him. That was the impression that I received growing up in a “mainline” Protestant denomination.

Note what it emphasized. The afterlife: if you had been able to convince me at age twelve or so that there was no afterlife, I would have had no idea why I should be Christian. The afterlife was what it was about. Note also that it emphasizes sin as the primary issue in our life with God and thus our need for forgiveness. That is why Jesus was necessary: he died to pay for our sins so that we can be forgiven. And believing that Jesus did that for us was what mattered. Indeed, believing was what would save us.

Not every Christian internalized this while growing up. But many – Protestants and Catholics alike – did. So widespread is this understanding of the Christian message that it can be called the “common Christianity” of our time, shared not only by many Christians but also by many who reject Christianity.

I turn to “now.” Beginning many decades ago, I have come to understand the gospel, the heart of Christianity, very differently. The rest of this blog describes how I see it and why and why it matters. It involves both history and imagination.

History. Back to the first century. How did the first followers of Jesus, and Jesus himself, answer the question, “What is the gospel, the good news?” The historical answer is clear: it is about the coming of “the kingdom of God.”

In Mark, the first gospel to be written, Jesus’s first words are about the coming of “the kingdom of God” (1.15). The verses is Mark’s advance summary of what the gospel and story of Jesus are about. A virtually universal consensus of mainstream New Testament scholars agrees: at the heart of Jesus’s message and passion was “the kingdom of God.”

The phrase combines religious and political language, as so much of the Bible does. Religious: it is about God and God’s kingship, lordship. It is about “the Great Commandment”: to love the Lord our God with all heart, soul, mind, and might. Political: in the first century, “kingdom” was a political term. Jesus’s hearers knew about the kingdoms of Herod and Rome (in eastern parts of the Roman Empire, Rome referred to itself as a “kingdom” and not as an empire). If Jesus had wanted to avoid the political connotations of “kingdom” language, he could have spoken of the family of God or the community of God or the people of God. But he didn’t. He used “kingdom” language.

Importantly, “the kingdom of God” was not about life in the next world, not about heaven, but life on earth. Though Christians have not always recognized this, they should not be surprised by it. Every time we pray the Lord’s Prayer, we pray for the coming of the kingdom of God on earth. To use one of Dom Crossan’s great one-liners: heaven’s in great shape – earth is where the problems are.

The coming of the kingdom of God on earth was about justice and peace. Justice: that everybody should have enough (“daily bread”) of the material basis of life. Peace: the end of war and violence. Jesus’s passion – what he was passionate about – was God and the kingdom of God. It involves a twofold transformation: of ourselves and of “this world.”

Imagination. Imagine that most Christians thought this. Imagine how Christianity today would be different. Imagine how American Christianity would be different. Imagine how America might be different.

Imagine that we no longer thought that Christianity was about heaven or hell. Imagine that we no longer thought that it was about prospering in this life. Imagine that it is not about God taking care of us and protecting us, in this life or the next.

Imagine instead that Christianity is about transformation – of ourselves as individuals (that it is about being born again by dying and rising with Christ to a life centered in Christ and moved by compassion). And that it is about transforming the humanly-constructed world of unjust and violent systems (that it is about the kingdom of God on earth).

The latter is, of course, a utopian ideal, impossible for us to achieve. But we can work for greater approximations of it. Reinhold Niebuhr, one of the most important Protestant theologians of the 20th century and known as an advocate of “Christian realism” nevertheless spoke of the political relevance of an impossible ideal: it is the goal toward which Christians are called to shape political systems..

So, having described how I see the Christian gospel, I invite conversation: what is the Christian gospel, the Christian good news? Is it primarily about what we must believe and/or do in order to go to heaven? Or is it about transformation – being transformed into the likeness of Christ, to use language from Paul, here and now? Both? If so, in what proportions? Or?

What Is a Christian?

From Dr. Borg’s blog on Patheos:

What does it mean to be Christian? What makes a person a Christian? An important prologue: my purpose in this blog is not to provide criteria for deciding who is and who is not a Christian, not to separate sheep from goats, not to suggest who is in and who is out. Rather, it is a series of reflections about what is at the heart of being Christian. What matters most in seeing what being Christian is about?

I begin with a negative. Being Christian is not very much about believing in the sense of believing the right things, even though the notion that it is about believing a set of teachings or doctrines is widespread. That is a relatively recent distortion of Christianity.

It began with the Reformation of the 1500s and the Enlightenment of the 1600s and continues today. Protestants distinguished themselves from Catholics by what they believed compared to what Catholics believed. Then Protestantism divided into many churches, each distinguishing themselves from others by what they believed.

So also the Enlightenment heightened the emphasis on believing. Characterized by the birth of modern science and scientific ways of knowing, the Enlightenment called into question many conventional Christian ideas: the earth as the center of the universe, creation as having happened in six days and not all that long ago, a world-wide flood that killed every land creature even more recently, and more generally that miraculous supernatural interventions sometimes occur.

With those notions challenged, the response in much of Western Christianity was to believe in spite of evidence to the contrary. This was the birth of modern biblical literalism with its emphasis on the literal-factuality of biblical narratives: from creation through the exodus from Egypt to the birth, life, and resurrection of Jesus. Add to that popular Christianity’s emphasis on the afterlife, and being Christian became believing the right things now for the sake of heaven later.

Of course, the language of “believing” has been part of Christianity from the first century onward. But it didn’t refer primarily to believing the right theological beliefs. It meant something like the English word “beloving.” To believe in God and Jesus was to belove God and Jesus. Namely, it meant to commit one’s self to a relationship of attentiveness and faithfulness. Commitment and fidelity are the ancient meanings of faith and believing.

Even the two most frequently heard Christian creeds, the Apostles’ Creed and the Nicene Creed, reflect this understanding. They both begin with the Latin word credo, most commonly translated into English as “I believe.” But the Latin roots of credo mean “I give my heart to.” Of course, both creeds include a list of central Christian convictions. But saying the creed does not mean, “I believe the following affirmations to be literally true.” Rather, it means “I give my heart to God” – and who’s that? The creator of heaven and earth, of all that is. “I give my heart to Jesus – and who’s that? The one we say these things about.

Moreover, believing as “believing the right things” does not intrinsically lead to a changed life. It is possible to have strongly-held beliefs, even more or less right beliefs, and still be unchanged: fearful, self-preoccupied and self-concerned, angry, judgmental, mean, even brutal and violent. Christian history and the history of other religions are filled with examples. Believing has little transformative power.

But Christianity is not about “right beliefs.” It is about a change of heart. It is about the transformation of ourselves at that deep level that shapes our vision (how we see), our commitment (our loyalty, allegiance), and our values (how we live).

At the center of being Christian are:

*A yearning and passion for God. About 1600 years ago, Augustine wrote that our hearts are restless until they find their home in God. Yearning and passion are closely-related, even though the former can mean seeking without yet having found.

*A passion for Jesus. Jesus is for Christians the decisive revelation of God – the decisive epiphany, disclosure, of the character and passion of God embodied in a human life. The centrality of Jesus is what makes Christians Christian. To explain by comparison: Jews find the decisive revelation of God in the Torah, Muslims in the Quran. Christians find it in Jesus – in a person, not in a book. That is not about superiority, but about definitional difference. For Christians to affirm that we find it in Jesus does not require denying that God is known elsewhere. Of course, a book, the Bible, is also revelation for Christians. But for Christians, Jesus trumps the Bible.

*Compassion. Compassion is the central virtue of a life centered in God as known in Jesus. When Jesus in a few words summarized theology and ethics, the character of God and how we should live, he said, “Be compassionate as God is compassionate” (Luke 6.36; most English translations read “Be merciful as God is merciful,” but that is misleading given the common modern English meaning of “merciful”).

Compassion and love in the Bible often mean the same thing (for example, when Paul names the greatest of the spiritual gifts as “love”), but compassion has a richer metaphorical meaning. In Hebrew and Aramaic, it is related to the word for “womb.” God is “womb-like,” giving birth to us, nourishing us, and feels for us (and the whole of creation) as a mother feels for the children of her womb: willing our well-being, and sometimes becoming fierce when our well-being (and the well-being of creation) is threatened. We are to be compassionate as God is compassionate. Importantly, compassion is not only a feeling but a doing. The imperative is not simply to feel compassion but to “be compassionate”- to act in accord with the feeling.

*A passion for the transformation of this world. Compassion – love – in the Bible has a social form. It is about participating in God’s passion for a world of justice and peace. Together, they are “the dream of God,” God’s dream for what the humanly-constructed worlds of societies and nations and cultures should be like. Justice is not about punitive or criminal justice, but about the fair distribution of God’s earth, for the earth belongs to God (Psalm 24). It is about economics: everybody should have enough of the material necessities of life, not simply through charity but as the product of the way the social system is put together. Peace is about the end of violence and war.

Being Christian is about being captivated by these passions. They are not beliefs as much as they are convictions and commitments. That’s what being Christian is about. It is about the heart and its convictions and commitments.

So, what do you think? What might you want to challenge? What might you want to add? Looking forward to the conversation.

Reflections on Easter

Today I read a poll of American Christians about the resurrection of Jesus. It reported that more than 90% of American Christians say that the resurrection of Jesus matters greatly to them. I agree – without the affirmation of Jesus’ resurrection, Christianity makes no important sense.

But I was disappointed because the poll reported that these Christians responded with “Yes” to the question whether Jesus’ resurrection was “physical” and “bodily.” I think that way of understanding Easter is a distraction.

To think that Easter intrinsically involves the transformation of Jesus’ corpse turns it into an utterly spectacular event that happened once upon a time long ago. This emphasis most often goes with the message that death is not the end for us, at least for those of us who believe in Jesus. As commonly understood, Easter it is about the promise of an afterlife.

But Easter is not primarily about Jesus’ triumph over death and a future for us beyond death. Rather, the meanings of the Easter stories in the gospels and the affirmation of Jesus’ resurrection in the rest of the New Testament are much more significant. Moreover, their meanings are not dependent upon whether a spectacular miracle happened to the physical body of Jesus.

In the gospels and the New Testament as a whole, the meaning of Easter is twofold. First, Jesus lives; and second, Jesus is Lord. Both convictions flow out of his followers’ experiences of him after his death.

I begin with the first. Some of his followers had experiences him as a living reality of the present, not just as a figure of the past. Some of these experiences were visions. The best-known is Paul’s vision on “the road to Damascus.” It happened a few years after the traditional Christian chronology of forty days of appearances between Easter and Ascension Day, often understood as the day that Jesus’ body ascended into heaven, thus ending his bodily appearances. Paul experienced Jesus, though not as a physical bodily reality. It happened in a vision. And in I Corinthians 15.3-8, his language is most naturally understood to mean that the experiences of Peter and Jesus’ other disciples, and others as well, were visions. He uses the same language to refer to their experience as he does for his own: Jesus “appeared” to them – and to Paul.

To those who might say, “You mean these were only visions?”, I respond: anybody who has ever had a vision would not say “It was no big deal – it was only a vision.” Of course, some visions are hallucinations, an encounter with something that is not real. When this is the case, they are most often dysfunctional. But some visions carry a deep sense of an encounter with reality, and they are life-changing and not dysfunctional at all. For Jesus’ followers, their visions led to the conviction: Jesus lives – he is a present reality, not just a much-beloved figure of the past.

In addition to visions, I think his followers experienced him after his death in other ways. They continued to experience the same Spirit – the Spirit of God – they had known in and around him during his historical lifetime. This is the central meaning of Pentecost: the Spirit that had been present in Jesus returned to his community of followers. They also continued to experience the same power they had known in Jesus: the power to heal, change lives, and create a new form of community. They spoke of life “in Christ,” in the living Jesus.

That’s the first conviction: “Jesus lives.” He is not simply dead and gone. The second conviction is equally important: not just “Jesus lives,” but also “Jesus is Lord.” Experiences of Jesus after his death were not the same kind of experience that a good number of people have of somebody who has died. Surveys suggest that about half of surviving spouses have at least one vivid experience of their deceased spouse. And, of course, there have been many Elvis sightings. But these experiences do not lead to the conviction that the deceased spouse (or Elvis) is “Lord.”

There was something about the post-death experiences of Jesus that did lead to this conviction. In language from the New Testament, God has made Jesus both Lord and Christ, has raised Jesus to God’s right hand, has made Jesus one with God. This meaning is expressed in John’s gospel when the risen Jesus appears to Thomas. Thomas does not simply say, “You’re alive,” but exclaims, “My Lord and my God!”

So it was for early Christians. “Jesus is Lord” is the constant affirmation of the New Testament. It has even been called the earliest Christian creed. “Jesus is Lord” – and the lords of this world are not. Indeed, the lords of this world crucified him, publicly executed him to make a statement: “This is what we do to those who oppose us.” But God has vindicated Jesus, said “Yes” to Jesus and “No” to the powers that killed him.

Consider the earliest story of Easter in the New Testament. Though Paul’s seven genuine letters from the 50s are earlier than the gospels and refer to the resurrection, he does not tell the story of Easter. The first Easter narrative is the climax and end of Mark’s gospel, written around the year 70, forty years after the end of Jesus’ historical life.

In Mark’s story of the first Easter, three women followers of Jesus go to his tomb on Easter morning in order to anoint his body. They expect his body to be there. Instead, they discover that the tomb was empty. Then an angel asks them why they seek the living among the dead and proclaims that he is not here – he is risen. The risen Jesus does not appear in Mark’s gospel. Instead, the angel promises the women that they will see him in Galilee – where the story began.

What does this story mean? Is it meant to report a spectacular miracle, maybe the most spectacular miracle ever? That God literally raised Jesus from the dead in physical bodily form? And if so, what does that mean for us? That death is not the end, and that God has shown us through Jesus the way to everlasting life?

Or does it mean something else and more? Set aside the question of whether the tomb was really empty. Believe whatever you want about that. And hear Mark’s Easter story as a parable of the resurrection. Think about what parables are.

Parables are meaningful, meaning-filled, truthful and truth-filled, independently of their literal factuality. I don’t know any Christian who insists that there really had to be a good Samaritan who acted the way he did, or else that story is false. So also I don’t know any Christian who insists that there must have been a father who received his prodigal son in the way narrated in that parable, or else the story isn’t truth-filled. Parables are about meaning. To confuse them with factual reporting is to miss their point.

As a parable of the resurrection, what does Mark’s story of the empty tomb mean? And the story of the empty tomb is found not only in Mark, but in the later gospels in the New Testament.

You won’t find Jesus in the land of the dead. He is still with us.

The powers killed him – but they couldn’t stop him. They crucified him and buried him in a rich man’s tomb. But imperial execution and a tomb couldn’t hold him.

He’s still loose in the world. He’s still out there, still here, still recruiting people to share his passion for the Kingdom of God – a transformed world here and now. It’s not over.

Easter is about all of this. To reduce it to a spectacular miracle a long time ago and a hope for an afterlife is to diminish it and domesticate it. It is not about heaven. It is about the transformation of this world. Jesus was killed because of his passion for a different kind of world. Easter is about God’s “Yes” to what we see in Jesus. Easter is not about believing in a spectacular long ago event, but about participating in what we see in Jesus. Crucifixion and the tomb didn’t stop him. Easter is about saying “Yes” to the passion of Jesus. He’s still here, still recruiting.


Courtesy and Joy at Nashotah

Friday, May 2, 2014–Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori joined in Morning Prayer, attended classes, held a discussion session, and delivered an Evensong sermon during a visit to Nashotah House Theological Seminary on May 1. It was the first time since Jefferts Schori was invested as Primate of the Episcopal Church in November 2006 that she has been to the historic Anglo-Catholic institution.

Courtesy and even joy prevailed, especially among Nashotah House’s growing presence of women students. The Rt. Rev. Edward L. Salmon, Jr., dean and president of Nashotah House, encouraged all students and faculty to attend unless their sponsoring bishop forbade it.

While serving mostly aspirants to priesthood in the Episcopal Church, Nashotah House has also opened its doors to other Anglican groups, a number of whom have broken away from the Episcopal Church amid theological disputes. In recent years Nashotah House has also promoted itself as place where mutuality, cooperation, and theological diversity are part of the school ethos, which it calls Pax Nashotah.

Three Nashotah House students — Izgy Saribay and Tanya Scheff, and the Rev. Terry Star, a 40-year-old deacon of the Diocese of North Dakota who was studying for the priesthood — were primarily responsible for prompting Nashotah’s board of trustees to discuss a possible invitation to the presiding bishop.

The presiding bishop’s visit to Nashotah House was already scheduled and announced when Star died overnight on March 4, making a tribute more appropriate than a more general homily.

“You could not say no to Terry,” Saribay, said adding that Star convinced her to write to the Rt. Rev. Daniel Martins, Bishop of Springfield and president of Nashotah’s board.

Saribay grew up in a nominally Islamic household in the Middle East until the age of 17, when she concluded that she was a Christian. She was baptized soon after and moved to the United States. Even after Saribay joined discussion about the invitation, Saribay said she felt the idea was a “lost cause.”

“[Star] knew that it would happen,” she said, “and it taught me a valuable lesson: don’t give up on lost causes.”

In addition to his work with youth on Native American reservations, Star also served on the Episcopal Church’s Executive Council, which functions as the church’s executive officers when General Convention is not in session. He already had developed a warm personal relationship with Jefferts Schori when he confided in her some years ago that he had his heart set on attending Nashotah House Seminary. Knowing Star, Bishop Jefferts Schori said, she expressed mild surprise at his choice. It was then that Star began urging her to welcome an invitation if one came.

With the possible exception of light rain, events throughout the day at Nashotah House went off without a glitch, but the decision to issue the invitation did not come without controversy. The 31-member Nashotah House board of trustees includes bishops from the Episcopal Church as well as bishops from a number of traditionalist Anglican groups that have split from the Episcopal Church. The Rt. Rev. Jack L. Iker, Bishop of Fort Worth, resigned from the board in protest, and the Rt. Rev. William C. Wantland, retired Bishop of Eau Claire, said he would not support the seminary under its current leadership.

In a statement released in February after the resignations became public, Bishop Salmon wrote: “We take no joy that folks who love the House are disturbed by the invitation and it was not issued in any other spirit than that of engaging in mission. The ‘Pax Nashotah’ is not going to go away. The commitment to the Anglo-Catholic vision of the ‘faith once delivered to the saints’ is not going to go away. The mission of the House, the direction of the House, the theology of the House is not changing. A visit, even one involving a sermon, will not change what has been bought at a price.”

Commenting on the unusual geology of the region of Wisconsin in which the seminary is located, the presiding bishop said that the bowl-shaped lakes, created by retreating boulders, reminded her of primitive baptismal fonts. “It’s a wonderful Easter image of stone moved and a baptismal pool remaining, in the midst of God’s wild creation,” she said. “Terry’s study here only added to his conviction about the path he was on, and he continued to push the boundaries outward, so that more might hear deeper truth. He spoke the Word with unforked tongue, challenging the comfortable and comforting the challenged.”

Saribay, who is completing the second of three years of seminary study, said she and some of the other approximately 60 students have already begun discussing how they might procure an invitation for a woman to celebrate Holy Eucharist at Nashotah House before her graduation.

Steve Waring (Image by Steve Waring/TLC)

Seminary Invitation to Episcopal Presiding Bishop Sparks Uproar

by   February 21, 2014

Katharine Jefferts Schori

Guess who’s coming to chapel?: An invitation to Episcopal Church Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori by the dean of Nashotah House caused a stir among the orthodox Anglican seminary’s supporters and triggered the resignation of one of its trustees.

An invitation to the primate of the Episcopal Church (TEC) to preach at an upcoming chapel service of an orthodox Anglican seminary has prompted one of the school’s longest serving trustees to resign in protest.

Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori will visit the Nashotah House campus in Wisconsin for the first time on May 1 at the invitation of Dean Edward L. Salmon, Jr.

The resignation of Bishop Jack Iker of the Episcopal Diocese of Fort Worth (Anglican Church in North America) “was taken in protest of the Dean’s invitation to the Presiding Bishop of TEC to be a guest preacher in the seminary’s chapel,” read a statement distributed to Fort Worth clergy. Iker cited lawsuits initiated by Jefferts Schori against his Diocese and notified the Nashotah House Board that he “could not be associated with an institution that honors her.”

Bishop Jack Iker of Fort Worth, who was in Kenya at the Global Anglican Future Conference when an invitation to Jefferts Schori was discussed by the Nashotah House board, resigned (Photo: Episcopal News Service)

The statement was widely shared on Facebook and clergy blogs.

Iker was joined by honorary board member retired Bishop William C. Wantland of Eau Claire who sent notification that he “will not take part in any functions at Nashotah” nor continue “to give financial support to the House as long as the present administration remains.”

Diocese of Fort Worth Director of Communications Suzanne Gill told IRD that reaction from clergy to Iker’s resignation from the Nashotah House board has been overwhelmingly supportive.

“This is a tragic and unwise decision that threatens the future of Nashotah House,” ACNA Archbishop Robert Duncan told IRD in a statement. Duncan also serves on the Nashotah House Board of Trustees.

Nashotah House is one of two accredited seminaries affiliated with the Episcopal Church that are regarded as theologically orthodox. In addition to training Episcopalians, many Nashotah House students are from other Anglican churches. Founded in 1842, it is the oldest existing institution of higher learning in the state of Wisconsin.

Former South Carolina Bishop Ed Salmon has defended the invitation of Episcopal Church Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori to speak at the seminary's chapel service (Photo: Nashotah House).In a phone interview with IRD, Salmon explained that the invitation to Jefferts Schori originated when Deacon Terry Star of North Dakota, a student at Nashotah and member of the Episcopal Church’s Executive Council, shared that Bishop Jefferts Schori had advised him against attending the seminary.

Star was joined by two other female Episcopal students at Nashotah who indirectly received the same advice.

“All three said she [Presiding Bishop Jefferts Schori] should be invited to come and see ACNA and TEC in harmony,” Salmon explained. “No one here is fighting with anybody.”

The retired bishop of South Carolina said that the invitation would give the seminary the opportunity to witness to the Christ-centered life.

People think that inviting her here is an endorsement,” Salmon said. “We are a clearly rooted orthodox community – rooted in Jesus.”

Jefferts Schori has repeatedly garnered criticism for making statements outside of the church’s traditional understanding of Christ. As Presiding Bishop-elect in 2006, Jefferts Schori stated “Our mother Jesus gives birth to a new creation — and you and I are His children.”

At Episcopal General Convention in 2009 the Presiding Bishop denounced “the great Western heresy: that we can be saved as individuals, that any of us alone can be in right relationship with God.” In 2013, Jefferts Schori baffled some in the Anglican Communion over her claim in a sermon on the island of Curaçao that St. Paul of Tarsus’ was wrong to cure a demon-possessed slave girl as described in the Bible.

Salmon, a former bishop of South Carolina, asserted that the seminary is not like a parish church with congregants having various degrees of spiritual rootedness. Instead, the Nashotah House Dean insisted “this is a deeply rooted community” and because of that rootedness, “we are not concerned about the direction of the power.”

Data provided from the Association of Theological Schools shows a total 2012-2013 enrollment of 143 at Nashotah House, with 110 full-time students taking classes. According to Salmon, between 30 and 35 percent of enrolled seminarians are from Episcopal Church dioceses, while “a significant number” of students are from other Anglican churches and many more are non-Anglicans “on the Canterbury trail.”

Top Episcopal Church leader promotes unity at Nashotah House

May 1, 2014 Nashotah — The presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church toured Nashotah House Theological Seminary for the first time on Thursday in response to an invitation so controversial it prompted the school’s longest running trustee to resign in protest.

The visit by Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori, whose church has been roiled by schism over theological debates in recent years, came at the request of three Nashotah seminarians who wanted their bishop to see this campus where disparate parts of the fractured Anglican Communion strive to live in peace.

One of them did not live to see it happen. Deacon Terry Star, who had worked with Jefferts Schori as part of the Episcopal Church’s Executive Council, died unexpectedly in March. He was 40.

“This was an act of reconciliation, and Terry was a big influence in that relationship,” said Ezgi Saribay, one of the three seminarians who asked Nashotah House Dean, Bishop Edward L. Salmon, and Board of Trustees President Bishop Daniel H. Martins of Springfield, Ill., to tender the invitation.

“Terry was a great conciliator,” she said, “and he would have loved every second of this.”

The Episcopal Church, with about 2 million members, mostly in the United States, is among the more liberal of the 39 provinces in the Worldwide Anglican Communion. And the Anglo-Catholic Nashotah House is one of the more conservative Episcopal seminaries.

Among its trustees are members of the newly formed Anglican Church in North America, a breakaway group founded in 2009 in a split over longstanding theological issues, including the ordination of women, and gays and lesbians.

But the seminary works to nurture an ethos — something it calls Pax Nashotah — in which individuals with theologically diverse views live and work respectfully together.

“The idea that no matter where you come from, we are all one in Christ, and that’s all that matters,” said Father Steven Peay, Nashotah’s dean of academic affairs, who teaches homiletics and church history. “We don’t want to let the daily politics get in the way of trying to live as Jesus intended.”

Schori, who received a gracious welcome at Nashotah on Thursday, said that is true of all Episcopal seminaries, but that she was grateful to experience it firsthand at there.

“That’s one of the gifts of bringing students together from different parts of the church. But it has been wonderful to see it with my own eyes and hear it with my own ears,” said Schori, who met with students, faculty, clergy and bishops throughout the day and took part in an Evensong service at which she delivered the sermon.

“This place has such a long tradition in the Episcopal Church,” she said. “I value that, and I want to see that it continues. The witness of this place is important to who we are as Episcopalians.”

The decision to extend the invitation to Schori prompted the resignation of Nashotah House’s longest-serving trustee, and an honorary trustee, both founding members of the Anglican Church in North America.

Bishop Jack Iker of Fort Worth, whose diocese broke with the Episcopal church and has been sued over church property, resigned, saying he “could not be associated with an institution that honors her.”

Retired Eau Claire Bishop and honorary trustee William Wantland severed ties with the seminary, saying he would no longer participate in its functions or contribute financially while the current administration was in place, according to news accounts.

Salmon, who took over as dean in 2011, defended the decision to welcome Schori, saying no matter what he did it would have been “problematic.”

“I’m interested in inviting people to see Nashotah House and what it stands for,” Salmon said. “If we stay here, off to ourselves, how can we extend the mission of the house?”

Terry Martin preaches at funeral

Terry Martin preaches at funeral

Dcn. Star continued in this faithfulness of following God’s call first begun by the House’s founders. On Thursday morning, March 13, the community of Nashotah House gathered in the Chapel of Saint Mary the Virgin to sing the Burial Office for the Reverend Deacon Terry Star. The celebrant for the office was the Reverend Thomas Buchan, PhD, Associate Professor of Church History, assisted by the Reverend Deacon Richard Moseley, and other student servers and musicians. Deacon Star’s parents, Woodrow and Charlotte, and two of his brothers joined the community for the office, as we commended our brother to God.
His eulogy will be delivered in May by the Most Reverend Katharine Jefferts-Schori when she visits the campus. Deacon Star served with the Presiding Bishop on the Executive Council of the Episcopal Church.

The history of Nashotah House Theological Seminary has a rich and detailed history among the oral tradition of the Lakota and Dakota Sioux tribes. In August 2012, Terry left Standing Rock, North Dakota to attend Nashotah House where he was seeking his licentiate in theology.

Dcn. Star had many memories of early founder, James Lloyd Breck (1818 – 1876), a priest, educator and missionary of the Episcopal Church. In Dcn. Star’s oral tradition, Breck who ministered to the Indians of the Plains, was known in their language as the ‘Man in the Cassock.’

Mr. Breck was….a deacon in the Episcopal Church, (and)  went to the frontier of Wisconsin with two classmates, under the direction of Bishop Jackson Kemper, to found Nashotah House, intended as a monastic community, a seminary, and a center for theological work. It continues today as a seminary. One-hundred-seventy years later, a member of the Lakota tribe Terry Star, a deacon in the Episcopal Church, answered God’s call to attend as a seminarian.

In 1850 Breck moved to Minnesota where he founded schools for boys and girls such as Breck School in Golden Valley, Minnesota, and the Seabury Divinity School at Faribault, Minnesota. He also began mission work among the Ojibwa.On June 23, 1850, on top of Grandad Bluff, Breck celebrated the first Episcopal[5] Eucharist in the La Crosse area. In 1867 he moved to Benicia, California to build another two institutions. Breck was known as “The Apostle of the Wilderness.”

Breck died in Benicia in 1876. He was buried beneath the altar of the church he served as rector but later his body was removed and reinterred on the grounds of Nashotah House in Nashotah, Wisconsin. Breck is commemorated on April 2 on the Episcopal calendar of saints.

In a letter dated, April 2, 1850, Breck wrote:

The students boarding with us are all theological. They are Chiefly young men, sons of the farmers, and all communicants of the Church. Our students, like ourselves, are poor, but not the less worthy for all that. They seek the Ministry, but are unable to attain it without aid. We have a house; for this we pay no rent; it belongs to the Church, and so do we. We have land. They work four hours a day for their board and washing, and we give them their education without cost. Thus their clothing is their only expense, and to enable them to purchase this, we give them six weeks vacation during the harvest, when they can earn the highest wages….” 

Dcn. Terry is survived by his parents, Charlotte and Woodrow Star Jr., Pendleton, Ore.; one daughter, Kayrose; one son, Preston; three sisters, Melissa (Marlon) Mason, New Town, Elizabeth Star, and Alyssa (Jamarr) Breazeale; all of Pendleton, Ore.; five brothers, Woodrow Star III, Eagle Butte, S.D., Richard (Leilani) Star, Jesse Star, Carlisle Star, all of Pendleton, and Brandon (Angela) Mauai, Fort Yates; and numerous nieces and nephews.

Terry was preceded in death by his grandparents, Richard (Lillian Iron Bull) Martinez, Theresa Eagle, and Woodrow Star Sr.; four aunts; and two uncles.

The faculty of the House has decided to confer Deacon Terry Star a licentiate in theology posthumously. It will be conferred at Nashotah House’s graduation on May 22, 2014.

and here:

Star will be buried at Red Hail’s Camp at St. Gabriel’s Camp in Solen, North Dakota, where he served as a youth minister and camp director for many years. A meal will follow Star’s burial at the Red Gym in the middle of Cannon Ball, which is on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation.

Red Hail, a Sioux warrior who donated land so that a church could be built among his people, was Star’s maternal great-great-grandfather, according to information posted on St. James’ Facebook page. Red Hail fought at the Battle of Greasy Grass, which also is known as the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

The St. Gabriel’s church that was built on Red Hail’s donated land burned in 1970, and the congregation joined St. James in Cannon Ball. The land at Solen grew into a church camp in the mid-1990s. The camp has been the site of the Diocese of North Dakota’s training of local members for ordained ministry. Seven, including Star, were trained there and later were ordained.

Star, whose council term would have ended after General Convention in 2015, was also a convention deputy. He belonged to the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. Star served as a deacon for the Standing Rock Episcopal Community.

White Mountain, shining face: Remembering Deacon Terry Star 

As the Rev. Terry Star is buried March 10 out of his home church of St. James Episcopal Church in Cannon Ball, North Dakota, we share the following article from fellow seminarian Benjamin Jefferies from Nashotah House who reflects on the memories and the legacy Star leaves behind.Star died of a heart attack the morning of March 4 at Nashotah House, where he was studying for ordination to the priesthood. He was 40.

ens_031014_terryStar[Nashotah House Theological Seminary] Truly, Nomen est Omen — the name determines the man: The brightness in Terry’s gentle eyes really did shine like a Star in the night sky. And what image is more apt to describe our peaceful, giant friend than his Lakota name :“White Mountain”. The impression of his calm, thoughtful, big, guileless, and playful presence is permanently etched into my memory. Although this memory-mark is indelible, how much fresher and warmer was the man himself, how much I would prefer to have him, and not just the memories.

We, here at the House, are missing him sorely. And we will miss him, indefinitely.  Although cliché, and although it seems like a small thing to say, “missing him” is the best way to put it. His faith in Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord was manifestly evident in his life, carriage, and vocation as deacon. We thus have every available assurance that he is with the blessed souls in paradise, being drawn ever nearer to our God. We miss him like one who has gone away for a little while, but who we will see again before too long, when our time comes. After the shock, this was my second thought upon hearing the news of his death: Lucky him – who now gets to see Jesus face to face.

In his life and ministry, Death was no stranger to Terry. Although from our vantage there is a horrible, horrible, horrible suddenness to his own departure from this earth, Terry himself had no pretenses about the End that comes to us all. Three weeks ago, Terry and I were pall-bearers at a funeral of an old Son of the House. The celebrant remarked that he had buried nearly a thousand people in his time. Terry whispered to me that he had buried about that many in his time as a deacon. “Really?” I exclaimed, to which he replied that it was probably more like several hundred. Terry had mentioned to me before (We lived in Kemper hall together for a year and a half) that he had buried more of his “kids” – the teenagers he ministered to back home – than he would ever have liked. These, coupled with his parochial ministry generally, as well as recent passings in his family, brought death frequently before his eyes. I had no idea of the numbers though. But it made sense – of the light in his eyes. Only someone who has looked Death so squarely in the face could be that peaceful in Life. The next day, after he had told me about his hundreds, I told him as much, “Hey Terry, now I understand where that light in your eyes comes from – from having done all those funerals.” He smiled in that Terry way and nodded in agreement.

Deacon Terry Star (front right) serves as a pallbearer at one of the many funerals he'd attended.

I don’t know all the details of Terry’s life, but I have a few strong pictures from what he told me: There’s Terry as kid in his very tight-knit family. Upon showing me a piece of bead-work he was given as a gift, he told me that as a child he remembered sorting tens of thousands of these tiny beads with a pin at his grandparents house. As a Christian in the Native American community, Terry’s life was often one of living on borders, of liminality. In his travels throughout a predominantly White country, Terry was very frequently met with the full spectrum of racism – ranging from ignorant language-use, to stereotyping, to flat-out animosity and disrespect. In his Native community, he was sometimes eyed with a little suspicion for being a disciple of a religion not ancient to  Native people. Sometimes these two worlds would get mixed-up in odd ways: Terry once told me that at a ceremonial Native gathering, a White person who had “gotten into Native religion” approached Terry—who was wearing his alb and deacon’s stole—and started yelling at him that he was a ‘sell-out’. Upon telling me this story, before I could be empathetically appalled, he just started chuckling. It was a soft but unstoppable chuckle that revealed the outlook which Terry always had, as long as I got to be witness to his life: An outlook which was abounding in patience. In both senses of the word: A quiet suffering, which he shared with our Lord, and an understanding of the ignorance and folly of his fellow human beings, which he did not quickly hold against them.

Death. Liminality. Staples in Terry’s life which he had accepted. Lesser souls would have become depressed by such things, but Terry used them like the proverbial oyster uses the irritating sand, and it blessed us: The calm comportment he gained was a welcome blessing in a dorm hall where we young men were often losing our composure under the stress of life and school-work. He was a ballast to us – helping to keep us emotionally upright in times of trial. This ministry of presence was far from passive. About once a week Terry would make one of his marvelous stews or soups for we Kemper guys, and anyone else who happened to be passing through at dinner time. He brought his TV out to the common area, so we could all watch movies together (on weekends only, of course) – an activity that, no matter how mundane, did much to build community on the floor.

Beyond domestic life, the experiences Terry had engendered a profound intellectual life. Although classroom work was sometimes a struggle for Terry, compounded by how often he was called-for off-campus (for funerals back home, to Executive Council on the East Coast,etc.), Terry had profound perspicuity into the relationship between Christianity and Culture, arising from his reflections on ministering within a Native context. Many things he shared with us about his vision for ministry were paradigm molding. In the spirit of Justin Martyr, he wrote a paper outlining how the pre-incarnate Logos had directed the religious thought of the Dakota people to be congruous in form to the Christian message. He spoke of using Sage – an herb used by the Dakota in religious ceremonies – in a thurible, to connect Christian worship with the senses of the people-group from whence he came. And many other things like this. Terry was a paragon of keeping the difficult balance between recognizing Christian identity as first and trump, but not neglecting the riches that culture affords, nor overlooking the oppressive facts of history.

We will miss Terry. We will miss his calm. His ministry. His keen intellect. More than these we will miss his smile, that warm, generous smile, with those bright eyes. But more than all of this, we just miss him. I keep thinking of these lines from John Updike:

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop…
…The whole act.
Who will do it again? That’s it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren’t the same.
         — from “Perfection Wasted”

Now, I know Terry wasn’t perfect, but by earthly lights, it still sure seems to be a waste—that his life and ministry are so soon over. But we trust God, nevertheless. Trust that this whole thing – Terry’s whole life, and death, are subject to Him, even though it doesn’t appear to be in subjection sometimes. And we trust that our loss is Terry’s gain, as he looks on the master, whose service he imitated, face to shining face.”

– Benjamin Jefferies is a senior student at Nashotah House Theological Seminary.

and here

Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori said in a statement that “the Episcopal Church has been much blessed by the ministry of Deacon Terry Star, on Standing Rock, as a member of Executive Council, and through the many relationships he had built throughout the church and beyond.”

“We give thanks for his life and witness, his prophetic voice, and his reconciling heart. All his relatives are grieving, and we pray that his soul may rest in peace and his spirit continue to prod us all in continuing the ministry of healing we have from Jesus.”

At the most recent council meeting, Star helped lead an effort that resulted in the council joining what has become a nationwide effort that has reached to the White House to convince the National Football League’s Washington Redskins team to change its name.

Star was born in Seattle, Washington. He lived on 10 Indian reservations, in part because of his father’s career in tribal law enforcement, according to information on Star’s LinkedIn page.

Lillian Ironbull-Martinez, his maternal grandmother, raised him in the Episcopal Church and, according to his LinkedIn biography, he and other members of the Standing Rock Episcopal Community liked to joke that they are “cradle-board Episcopalians.”

Sioux Episcopalians celebrate new church arisen out of arsonist’s ashes

St. James comes home to a ‘place for new memories’


Episcopal News Service – Cannon Ball, North Dakota] On a brilliantly bright but frigid late Nov. 23 morning here on the Standing Rock Sioux Indian Reservation, the people of St. James Episcopal Church officially came home to a new church that echoes a teepee and feels as if the worshippers are gathered in a dream catcher.

The temperature hovered around 6 degrees Fahrenheit and a slight wind was blowing off the nearby Missouri River as congregation members and visitors stood in the gravel parking lot for the beginning of the service.

They sang “Many and Great,” a hymn that the Rev. John Floberg, St. James rector, said was believed to be the first Christian hymn written in Lakota. It was sung, he told the congregation, by 38 Dakota men as they walked to the gallows Dec. 26, 1862 in the largest one-day execution in U.S. history after they were convicted on allegations that they were part of an uprising that year.

“Let the door be open,” said North Dakota Bishop Michael Smith, wearing an Indian feather headdress in place of a miter and loudly pounding on the door.

When the Rev. Neil Two Bears and acolyte Mia Two Bears opened the door, Smith announced “Peace be to this house, and all who enter here,” using his pastoral staff to mark the threshold with the sign of the cross.

….The sole visible reminder of that night is the cross that hangs in front of a star quilt above the pulpit. It is made of two rugged and charred pieces of timber from the floor of the St. James Guild Hall, the only wood that was not reduced to ashes in the fire.

“It feels like a homecoming,” said Senior Warden Florestine Grant before the service began. “We’re dreaming about the things we can do here for the children, for the elders and for the culture.”

One of her daughters, Alex Spotted Elk, said that it was too bad that a fire caused the congregation to have to build a new building. But, looking up to the opening at the top of the roof, she said, “This is a place for new memories.”

The Rev. Terry Star, a deacon who grew up in St. James and is a seminarian at Nashotah House, preaches Nov. 23 during the consecration of the new St. James. Behind him is a cross made of two rugged and charred pieces of timber from the floor of the St. James Guild Hall, the only wood that was not reduced to ashes in the July 25, 2012 arson fire. Photo: Mary Frances Schjonberg/Episcopal News Service

The Rev. Terry Star, a deacon who grew up in St. James and who is now a seminarian at Nashotah House in Wisconsin, recalled during his sermon how nearly 100 years ago an Episcopal bishop told the Sioux in the area they had to put away their Indian adornments in order to be Christian. That attitude is changed, Star said, as evidenced by the adornment of the new St. James.

“We can be a Dakota people; we can be who we are – that God made us to be – and still follow Jesus Christ,” he said.

Star said he hoped that the beautiful and colorful church would become a strong symbol for the people of the area.

He recalled a story that his grandmother told him of Iya, a great monster whose name literally means “mouth,” who was eating up the people, and Ikto, the trickster who flattered the monster to get him to trust him. Ikto pretended to be Iya’s big brother and asked what the monster feared. Iya said he was afraid of loud noise, of singing and drumming. Ikto went ahead to the next village and told them to start celebrating with songs and drums.

The trick worked; Iya was paralyzed by fear and Ikto killed him. When Iya’s stomach was cut open, all the people the monster had swallowed came back to life.

“We have a darkness eating up our people,” Star said. “It’s something swallowing up our people.”

A drive around Cannon Ball, Star said, shows a lack of “artwork and colorfulness,” other than the “marshmallow-colored housing” whose tints were not the choice of the occupants.

“We have an opportunity in this building and through the Gospel and through our worship in this building to bring color and celebration back into the community,” he said. “We can chase away the Iya that’s eating up our people.”


Midwife for the Holy

by Emma M. Churchman on December 31, 2013

A Journey into Hospital Chaplaincy

Hands2When I was a child I never dreamt of being a hospital chaplain. I generally detest hospitals, and I don’t trust medical professionals. Hospitals can be giant cesspools for infection and disease; they smell funny. The souls of the dead roam hospital hallways, and I see dead people. Personally, I wouldn’t consider myself to be a “real” Christian; I couldn’t imagine qualifying to be a chaplain.

So when a Christian friend from my Quaker seminary recommended I train as a hospital chaplain through a Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) program, I honestly laughed in her face. Eventually, about a year into her pestering, I flittingly agreed and applied to one program in the middle of rural Appalachia, because I couldn’t think of anything better to do during my last year of seminary, and the idea of leaving the Midwest plains and being in a paid training program in the midst of gorgeous mountains and a temperate climate was appealing. Ah, isn’t that how most ministers find their paths? Mine is a default ministry.

My background is in teaching Quaker young adult spiritual leadership development, which I have done at both Pendle Hill and Earlham College. In my 30s, I trained as a Reiki practitioner, an energy healer, and a shamanic practitioner. As a Quaker minister, I participated in the School of the Spirit’s Way of Ministry program. I helped to found Quaker Voluntary Service (QVS) a few years ago. I also directed Arch Street Meetinghouse in Philadelphia. After almost a decade of working for Quaker organizations, I found myself at Earlham School of Religion in a master’s of divinity program, discerning what it means to be a Quaker minister and a healer/shaman. During this time, I officially launched a private practice as the Quaker Shaman, and have since met with hundreds of clients to help them discern God’s will in their lives.

These days spiritual discernment for me is pretty straightforward. I just ask God yes-no questions. It took me a decade of practice to recognize that I can actually feel a “yes” or a “no” from God in my body. First, I had to be willing to be in relationship with my own body. Eventually I was able to recognize that my body is my prayer stick: my Truth teller. God’s “yes” feels like a lifting in my chest; God’s “no” feels like a weight in my abdomen. My own will or ego feels like a strain in the back of my neck and my shoulders.

Driving to my CPE interview, I said to God: “I’m going to need a real clear sign that you want me to do this, because I (my ego) don’t want to.” I felt both shame and arrogance driving to interview at a hospital catering to southern Evangelical Christians. What did I have to offer to these people? I had even called a member of my peer ministers’ support group en route to the interview to proclaim just how much I didn’t want to be a hospital chaplain. This was my desperate attempt to set the stage for an easy release from this particular ministry.

But I got a clear “yes.” My theory is that I get clear answers from God because after years of tension, I’m actually now willing to listen to Spirit when the answer is different from what my ego desires. I had to be willing to release control, trust that God’s got the bigger plan, and recognize that I might only be given the immediate next step of that plan. My first CPE supervisor, the man who interviewed me, was that “yes” from God. He is a Southern Baptist who participates in native rituals with the local Cherokee population and is a recovering alcoholic and twelve-stepper. My heart leapt when I met him. My fear of not being Christian-enough, ministerial-enough, able-to-pray-out-loud-enough, compassionate-enough, or mainstream-enough dissipated when I met Don.

Don showed me that you don’t have to fit into a particular box in order to be a “real” hospital chaplain. He was excited to have a Quaker minister and shamanic practitioner train as a hospital chaplain. On top of that, my being psychic didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. Don taught me that I was born to be a chaplain, and that all are on a spiritual journey, whether they call it that or not.

At the hospital I discovered that I am a trauma junkie. The world made sense to me the first time I was paged to the Emergency Department for a dying patient. I was hooked. Since I started working as a chaplain, I have come to understand that most people who work in trauma (doctors and nurses, emergency service personnel, police, firefighters, sheriffs, etc.) are drawn to it because they come from trauma. My own family of origin is a unique, foul pit of trauma. I viscerally understand what it’s like to experience physical, sexual, emotional, and spiritual abuse and have spent my entire adult life trying to survive and overcome my childhood trauma. In chaplaincy, I have been given an opportunity to utilize the coping skills I developed in response to that trauma, and get paid a salary (as opposed to shelling out money for therapy to overcome my ingrained coping skills). The deep shame I have carried from my trauma has transformed itself into hope.

It is oddly comforting and familiar to be with others during their trauma experiences. When I am standing in a bay with a screaming patient lying on the table surrounded by doctors and nurses shouting orders, and with family members in the waiting room wailing for God, I am at peace. I know how to breathe in that reality. I am calm and cool in the midst of the storm. My idea of a good day at work involves spending 8–24 hours hanging out in the Emergency Department and Intensive Care Units of a Level One Trauma Center attending to patients and their family members who have suffered significant emotional, spiritual, and physical trauma from altercations with other people, weapons, cars, trees, or natural disasters.

Afew weeks ago within a three-hour afternoon stretch, six people from five incidents came into the emergency room, including two drivers who had hit each other in a motor vehicle collision, a young boy who had been physically and sexually abused by his older cousin, a man hit in the head and spine by a tree in a logging incident, a young man with a brain injury from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, and a female patient in cardiac arrest. Can you imagine just how hectic it was in the ER with all of those patients, family members, and medical personnel trying to address these critical incidents? The level of anxiety and fear was palpable.

By the time I left the ER that afternoon, I still had 15 hours left of my 24-hour shift. On days like that, I try to pace myself, because I literally have no idea what will happen when I’m at work. I pray into those days, asking God to guide my ministry when I am too spent to think clearly. When the pager goes off yet again after my fifth attempt to lie down in my on-call room to sleep, I pray that God will show me how to be present to the patient and family I am about to encounter in the middle of the night. I also pray that God will wake me up enough to be able to find the back door to the ER at 3:00 a.m. Then I pray that God will ease my heart enough to be able to fall back asleep again. Sometimes I leave the hospital feeling faith-filled and well-used. Other days I just go straight to bed and don’t get up until I have to go to work again.

As a chaplain, I hold hands, pray, find warm blankets, and bring hot coffee to those who need it. I cry; I laugh; I remain silent when there are no words that could bring comfort. I am the person that staff, patients, and families turn to when they feel alone, afraid, overwhelmed, happy, excited, exhausted, or worn out. I am the witness and the accompanier. I lay my hands on those who are suffering, and weep with them. Sometimes I pray verbally, but often silently. I wipe away tears, and I hug equally into grief and joy. I place my hands on the heads of doctors, nurses, emergency workers, helicopter pilots, and police officers, and bless them. I ask God to protect them and keep them safe. I ask that their hearts remain open to those they serve.

Iam a midwife for the Holy.

I wait for the coroner to arrive. I sit with the body of a patient who has died, because the family doesn’t want them to be alone. I hold a dead baby when its mother cannot.

In my own awkwardly unprogrammed way, I lead chapel service on Sunday morning, standing at the front of the room offering whatever gift God has given me that day to share.

I help interpret medical jargon and figure out how to address the questions families are too scared to ask doctors. I coach surgeons to communicate simply with patients and families. I sit in family consultations with medical teams. I make the rounds visiting patients with doctors and medical personnel.

I gather medical and non-medical staff together to debrief particularly challenging traumas—those cases that haunt them, cases that they unceasingly relive in their minds. This often happens to our staff members who handle pediatric physical and sexual abuse cases. The staff crowds in and around the trauma rooms when these children are brought into the hospital; they want to protect these children and help them heal. The staff takes it personally if these children die on their watch. I take it personally.

Gracious and loving God, you know everything about us. You know us from the tops of our heads to the bottoms of our feet. You know us and you love us. Be with us here now. Help us to feel your love, your comfort, and your strength. Abide with us in our time of need. Release our bodies, minds, and hearts from suffering and fear. Cradle us in the unknown.

As a life-long Quaker, I was taught to find that of God in all people. As a result, I try to be open to all spiritual possibilities. My biased belief, however, is that too many hospital chaplains assume that people want Christian-centered ministry, and assume prayer and salvation should be offered. In my role as chaplain, my goal is never to convert patients to Christianity, to save them, or to baptize them. Personally, I don’t believe that Jesus died on the Cross for my sins; I am not baptized and don’t believe I need to be saved in order to be closer to God. I am a follower of Jesus’s teachings, but I would not call myself a Christian. My theory is that the Apostle Paul suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder and was more focused on streamlining and managing Christian churches than on following God’s will. The Bible is a helpful reference guide for me but certainly not the Word of God. Prayer can be verbal, but it can also be nonverbal for me. I believe that God created us, but that God also gives humans the choice to live into God’s will for us. I don’t believe that God causes suffering; I do believe that God suffers alongside us. I don’t know if heaven or hell exist, but I’m open to that possibility.

I don’t particularly care whether or not those I serve go to church, believe in Jesus, read the Bible, or pray to a Heavenly Father. Mainly I care about whether or not they are able to express what they believe and find comfort and relief in doing so.

My intention is to listen to patients, families, and staff deeply, and to help them articulate their own theological truth—I strive to meet them theologically. If a patient wants to pray to a male God and ask Jesus to release him from sins, then I offer prayer in that way, but I don’t assume that will be a part of our interaction. The other day a nurse practitioner in the ER asked me what he should do if a patient requests a satanic priest (apparently this had happened to him recently). I told him to page me immediately. When he asked what I would say to the patient, I told him I would ask the patient to tell me more about why she or he desired a satanic priest. A nurse manager, overhearing the conversation, asked how I would pray with that patient. I said that I would ask the patient how he or she wanted to pray.

My job as chaplain is not to judge someone else’s theology, but to help them understand it more fully. Many trauma patients who come into the hospital do not self-identify as spiritual or religious. I have found, however, that theology rears its head when people experience a life-altering trauma or illness. All of a sudden they want to understand why they are suffering, and they want to look back on the trajectory of their lives and question their choices. Theology 101 happens all the time in the middle of the night in the trauma bay, and I get to be a part of those discerning conversations.

God is the Great Physician and Teacher, the Source of all that is and all that shall be, the Eternal Spirit, Creator, the Pain Bearer, the Great Mystery, the Holy, and the Mother and Father of us all. God is with us in our most trying moments, our deepest sorrow. God celebrates with us, and wraps us in loving arms while we weep. God hears our prayers. God offers healing, but not always in the ways we imagine healing to be possible.

God’s hands are our hands. God’s heart is our heart. I see this every day with my colleagues, some of the most generous, empathetic people I know, who deeply feel the pain and grief of those they serve at the hospital. Our housekeepers, engineers, registrars, security officers, respiratory therapists, pharmacists, surgeons, nurses, and house supervisors offer excellent spiritual care to patients. I feel honored to walk alongside these good people, many of whom have different theological frameworks than those I claim. What we do hold in common are willing hearts and minds, and a deep desire to know God’s presence in our midst.

I am a child of God. I am a trauma survivor, a compassionate listener, an empathic healer, an intuitive Truth teller. I am a death doula, a minister to souls, a discerner of God’s will, a witness and a guide: a midwife for the Holy. I walk alongside those who are suffering and afraid. I help others to discern God’s will in their own lives, and I serve as a reminder of God’s presence in each moment. I am the Quaker Shaman. This is my path.

Emma M. Churchman is a life-long Quaker and member of Swannanoa Valley Meeting in Black Mountain, N.C. She has a MDiv from Earlham School of Religion and a private practice as a spiritual director and transformational coach ( She is currently in a chaplain residency program at Johnson City Medical Center in Johnson City, Tenn.

Submitted by Paul N. in response to reading her work…

The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless’d;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes . . . – Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice

O love, O pure deep love, be here, be now
Be all; worlds dissolve into your stainless endless radiance,
Frail living leaves burn with you brighter than cold stars;
Make me your servant, your breath, your core – Rumi

from the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, Sogyal Rinpoche

Peggy D also said the following:

Santa Fe, NM

“This article strikes me as amazing, coming from a woman who has enough openness to let texts and titles move aside, and thereby get to the direct trauma of whatever person is before her in the hospital. As a Buddhist practitioner, it would never occur to me to request a chaplain if I were hospitalized, but this article shows me that there are chaplains out there who have room for complexity and Christain doubt. I’m glad she’s in the world.”


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Joan of Arc

I know this now. Every man gives his life for what he believes. Every woman gives her life for what she believes. Sometimes people believe in little or nothing yet they give their lives to that little or nothing. One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it. And then it is gone. But to sacrifice what you are and live without belief, that's more terrible than dying.--

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May 2020



On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

John O'Donohue, Echoes of Memory