Evangelicals Head East

A recent article in the New Republic - strangely entitled “The Iconoclasts” - discusses the growing number of American evangelicals who have converted to Eastern Orthodoxy. While the author of the piece, Jason Zengerle, expects us to be amazed by his findings, nothing in the article will come as a shock to those who pay attention to the religious scene in America. The Orthodox Church has gained a number of high-profile converts from Protestantism over the past few decades and it appears that the trend is only accelerating. Not surprisingly, when asked to explain their decisions, most of the coverts in the article cited their dissatisfaction with the insipid liturgies and anti-intellectualism of American evangelical churches, as well as their belief that the Orthodox Church comes closest to replicating the early church.

The article is most interesting when it discusses the trend towards Orthodoxy from a political angle:

Although the culture wars seem like a staple of evangelical life, the converts suggest that there is a growing fatigue with this worldly fight. One of the more striking things about the Orthodox Church is that it's not very political. That's not to say it isn't conservative. "As Orthodox, we don't believe that being gay is a legitimate alternative lifestyle, we believe it's an aberration. We also say abortion is murder," says Gillquist. But, unlike in many evangelical churches, these views--while strongly held--tend not to come up in the course of worship. As Daniel Larison, a conservative writer and Orthodox convert who attends a Russian Orthodox Church in Chicago, says, "As a general rule, the sermons are going to be related to the gospel and that's about it. Political themes and political ideas don't come into sermons directly. That's not why people are there. They want to keep that as far away as possible."

And, by keeping it far away, the Orthodox Church has been immune to the social and political conflicts that frequently flare up in the Anglican and Catholic Churches, where disaffected evangelicals once typically sought refuge. "In the Roman Catholic Church and the Protestant Church, there's a lot of dialogue with the culture: For instance, what do we do with the whole creation versus evolution thing? Where does science play in?" says Andrew Henderson, an evangelical-turned-Anglican who recently converted to Orthodox Christianity and worships at Holy Transfiguration. "In the Orthodox Church, with that Eastern mindset that's just so ancient, those questions haven't really arisen. It just isn't a concern."

I’m intrigued by that last statement – “those questions haven't really arisen.” Does he mean to say that things move so slowly in the Orthodox Church that issues like homosexuality, evolution, and women’s ordination just haven’t come up? If this is the case, I can understand the appeal of a church that is so isolated and so consumed with the gospel that it hasn't gotten around to fighting the culture wars. But with so many outsiders moving in, I wonder how long this "splendid isolation" will last.

Mother Theresa and Doubt

As the Guardian regularly makes sport of religion (and Christianity, in particular), I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by the inane column that appeared today, where Andrew Brown asks the question, “Was Mother Theresa an Atheist?”. The basis for this provocative title are some recently publicized letters in which the saint describes her crisis of faith. Brown writes: “Even as she was receiving the Nobel prize, she asked her confessor to pray for her because she could feel nothing when she prayed herself and no longer had any experience of God.” He cites the following letter, written at her confessor's request, in which he claims that Mother Theresa “sounds like an adolescent Dawkins”:

‘I call, I cling, I want ... and there is no One to answer ... no One on Whom I can cling ... no, No One. Alone ... Where is my Faith ... even deep down right in there is nothing, but emptiness & darkness ... My God ... how painful is this unknown pain ... I have no Faith ... I dare not utter the words & thoughts that crowd in my heart ... & make me suffer untold agony.

'So many unanswered questions live within me afraid to uncover them ... because of the blasphemy ... If there be God ... please forgive me ... When I try to raise my thoughts to Heaven there is such convicting emptiness that those very thoughts return like sharp knives & hurt my very soul. I am told God loves me ... and yet the reality of darkness & coldness & emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul.’"

(How does this sound like Dawkins at all? Dawkins has never experienced the “dark night of the soul” – his faith in Reason is far too strong for that. Who could ever imagine him saying, “If there be God ... please forgive me”?). Regardless, from this quote Brown concludes that Theresa was a full-blown atheist, and thus nothing but a hypocrite and a fraud (although he admires her determination to stick with an institution that she no longer believed in). He even mocks her earlier professions of faith, saying that her talk of a “union” with Christ “seems to have come from a bodice-ripper.” Clearly, Brown is aroused by his irreverent tone and shocking language; he perhaps imagines himself brave, although he is merely engaging in adolescent iconoclasm.

Brown is most surprised that “the letters have not been revealed by one of her avowed enemies, like Christopher Hitchens, but by the man who is responsible for promoting her canonization, the Rev Brian Kolodiejchuk.” Shouldn’t the Catholic Church be scandalized by these professions of doubt? After all, it turns out that one of their star players was really a double-agent, working for the other side. But apparently the Church is taking it all in stride; indeed, some in the Church say that "it will give a whole new dimension to the way that people understand her." Brown concludes: “Only the most hardened atheists will not be shocked by the ease with which the Catholic church has assimilated the news that its most famous saint thought of herself as a hypocrite when she talked about the love of God.”

But this goes to show that Brown understands nothing about the nature of real faith. For him, any expression of doubt indicates that the so-called believer is really just an atheist who is lying to themselves. The slightest wavering and your faith is a lie, as true faith necessarily excludes doubt. But Christians have always understood doubt to be a integral part of faith (see my previous post on this topic here). Mother Theresa continued to trust Christ even when she couldn’t trust herself. This is not so unusual. God’s hiddenness has been experienced by nearly all “great” Christians through history (just think of Luther, to name one), and, most significantly, Christ himself felt forsaken by God on the Cross. So why should it be any surprise that this saint was granted the opportunity to follow Him into the darkness of faith?

Oswald Bayer: Faith and Lamentation

In my last post, I mentioned that for Luther faith means "against God to force its way through to God and call upon God, ... to break through to God through his wrath, through his punishment, and through his disfavor." I take this to mean that one must strive with God, wrestling with him until he gives us a blessing. As the Lutheran theologian Oswald Bayer writes in Living by Faith: "Faith does not conduct a debate about God and God's righteousness, as does the natural, the redeemed, or the presumably already glorified reason before its own forum. It conducts a dispute with God in prayer and lament." Indeed, Bayer understands lament against God as one of the most profound expressions of faith. This is because the foundation of lament is belief in the essential goodness of God and his creation:

"Lament is only possible because of the promise that it will be heard. Without promise there is no cause for lamentation... Lament is an eminent way of perceiving and experiencing the world. For it never surrenders the faith that the creation is 'very good,' nor does it make evil and suffering harmless, regarding them as nothing. In lament pain is felt in all its profundity. Our most profound testing is that God, who has promised us life and external communion, who has guaranteed them, is still the God who does not lament death or destroy it, but who is at work in life and death and all things."

Faith allows space for lamentation, but comprehensive systems do not. Here, Bayer contrasts the theodicies of Hegel and Luther. Hegel's "contemplative theodicy" tries to rationalize evil, to locate its place in the larger picture in such a way that it serves the greater good. In the System, "the misery and suffering of this world are ultimately regarded as irrelevant. This contemplative theodicy supposes the painful difference between the promise of life and all that contradicts it to be already resolved. The passion of lament, which perceives this difference, dissolves and gives way to 'the passionless stillness of knowledge that only thinks'." Suffering is not real or serious for Hegel - it's merely a principle. By contrast,

"Luther never downplays or treats as harmless the situation of temptation and testing when God withdraws and conceals himself. He confronts it in all its depth and sharpness. He does not ignore experiences of suffering. Yet he refuses to accept their finality. He flees from the hidden God to the revealed and incarnate God. He presses on 'toward God and even against him calls upon him.'"

It seems to me that the spirit of striving and lamentation are sorely lacking today. Not that there is no suffering in the world -there surely is, often on an unprecedented scale. It's just that most people, whether they believe in God or not, have their preferred method of explaining away evil and suffering. Even in the church, there is a sense that we should never protest against God, that God is our friend and he only wants the best for us. Like Hegel's system, our theologies absolve God and try to erase the pain by explaining that "it's all for the best." But this is simply not biblical (just read the book of Job!).

Bayer's book reminds us that "Luther's Reformation theology does not mean to justify the world as it is." Honest Christians are compelled to admit that "we cannot demonstrate the goodness and the love of God... The nexus of the world [is] no nexus at all, but foremost an embattled and lacerated world in which creation is 'rent and torn from top to bottom.' There is no agreement, no harmony in the world. It rings out like 'cracked bells.'" Such a world requires faith and lamentation. It requires that we strive with God, holding fast to existence and remaining in the flux, accepting both joy and suffering from his hand, and trusting his promises in Christ.

"God Against God" in Luther's Theology

In an effort to get back to basics, I'm currently reading Paul Althaus's The Theology of Martin Luther. I would recommend this book for two reasons. First, Althaus was a Luther scholar of the first rank and he presents the various facets of Luther's theology in a clear and comprehensive manner - no easy task given the notoriously complex and unwieldy nature of Luther's thought. Secondly, he always supports his statements with extensive quotations from the Reformer's writings and sermons, both in the main text and in footnotes. Thus, the book serves as a sort of condensed version of the Weimar Edition, and is a handy reference for anyone (like me) who is always saying, "I know that Luther said such and such, but I'm not exactly sure how or where...".

Reading this book has certainly heightened my admiration for Luther's theology, but it has also reminded me of some of its problematic aspects. I found the chapter "Man Between God and Satan" particularly difficult, not because my modern mind has trouble believing that the devil exists, but because of what it implies for Luther's doctrine of God. Althaus stresses that Luther took the devil seriously in a way that exceeded the medieval tradition: "Luther's devil has, one might say, more hellish majesty than the medieval devil; he has become more serious, more powerful, and more terrible." This was borne out of his personal experience; Luther once remarked that "by the grace of God, I have learned to know a great deal about Satan." Althaus makes it clear that Luther conceived of the world as a battlefield between God and Satan, with humanity as the prize: "God and the devil are fighting for men, for humanity and for the lordship. Here there is no neutrality, no buffer state."

Thus "the devil stands in opposition to God." But this isn't the end of the story. Althaus continues:

"Although [Satan's] power and his claim are so great that he can be called the 'god of this world,' there is never any doubt that only the true God is God. Luther holds dualism within the boundaries set by God's omnipotence, which works all in all. This means that the devil must still serve God's will for men and for the world - in spite of the fact that his will and activity are directed against God. God keeps him in his service and uses him for his own work. He uses him primarily as the tool of his wrath. As Luther wrote, "God indeed uses the devil to afflict and kill us. But the devil cannot do this if God does not want sin to be punished in this way." What God's wrath does and what Satan does frequently appear to be one and the same. The devil is 'God's devil.' And yet at the same time he remains the devil, the enemy of God, who wants the opposite of what God wants."

It's passages like these that set my head spinning. Althaus himself admits that this aspect of Luther's thought is highly contradictory. Yet we dare not back away from the implications of God being God. "It is God himself who lets us die: 'Thou causest men to die.' In death man has to do with God. Under no circumstances may he attribute misfortune and death to some other demonic power. To do that would be to deny the unity of God."

But it is precisely the unity of God that seems to be compromised by this line of thought. Luther seems to require a dualism in the nature of God. This is evident is his distinction between the "alien" and "proper" work of God: "God uses Satan for his 'alien work' (opus alienum) but in so doing is always aiming at his proper work (opus proprium)... God uses misfortune, suffering of body and soul, and death in order to humble those who belong to him and to lead them from trust in something earthly to trust in him alone." Thus, God often acts in a manner contrary to his own nature. Indeed, although "wrath is the undeniable reality between God and [man], it is false to speak of God's wrath as though it were an essential part of God's true being." But this begs the question: how can God act in manner contrary to his own being? Is his wrath real, or is his love only perceived as wrath by a sinful humanity?

This is the "God against God" motif in Luther's thought. And like all aspect of Luther's theology, it is situated in a christological framework. It is Christ who reconciles the division within God: "Christ acts in the name and in the power of God in such a way that he not only deals with humanity and the powers to which it has succumbed but also with God himself. He acts also in relationship to God; he 'reconciles' God, or we may also say, he reconciles humanity with God (Luther uses the expression interchangeably). God in Christ deals also with himself, in himself, and in an inner trinitarian relationship." Luther makes this very clear in a dramatic passage from Bondage of the Will. Reflecting on Christ's weeping over the lost in Jerusalem (Matt 23:37: 'O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often would I have gathered thy children together and thou wouldst not'), Luther writes:

"Here, God Incarnate says: 'I would, and thou wouldst not.' God Incarnate, I repeat, was sent for this purpose, to will, say, do, suffer, and offer to all men, all that is necessary for salvation; albeit He offends many who, being abandoned or hardened by God's secret will of Majesty, do not receive Him thus willing, speaking, doing, and offering.... It belongs to the same God Incarnate to weep, lament, and groan over the perdition of the ungodly, though that will of Majesty purposely leaves and reprobates some to perish. Nor is it for us to ask why He does so, but to stand in awe of God Who can do, and wills to do, such things."

Here, Luther seems to be teaching that the will of God Incarnate is opposed to the will of God in his Majesty; or, said another way, that the revealed God and the hidden God are not necessarily the same thing. God the Son wants to save all, while God the Father condemns many. Such comments, if understood metaphysically (that is, as objective statements about the nature of God), would be highly unorthodox.* But it would be wrong to construe Luther this way. As I have discussed elsewhere, Luther is (usually) not interested in providing a comprehensive doctrine of God or a system that nicely resolves the thorny problems of free-will, evil, predestination, etc. Instead, he gives us a theology "from below", one that, through faith, is able to live with the paradoxes. Luther writes in BotW that "God in His own nature and majesty is to be left alone; in this regard, we have nothing to do with Him, nor does He wish us to deal with him. We have to do with him as clothed and displayed in his Word, by which He presents himself to us." Faith means "against God to force its way through to God and call upon God, ... to break through to God through his wrath, through his punishment, and through his disfavor." The God that is against God and humanity is ultimately the God "for us" in Christ. Only faith in Christ is able to perceive this.

* With regards to this matter, I recommend an old post by Chris Atwood at Three Hierarchies in which he defends Luther's position against a Calvinist critic.

The Lutheran Canon

Last week, Edward T. Oakes wrote an interesting article for First Things about the nature and role of canons. He made the valid point that canons are indispensable in any field, despite efforts by postmodernists to dismiss the very idea of the canon as hegemonic and imperialist. He also mentioned his candidates for various canons - theological, philosophical, and literary - and remarked on their differing criterion for admittance (style is crucial for the literary canon, whereas orthodoxy is decisive for the theological). It's a fascinating subject, one that appeals to my need to classify and delimit, to formulate my "best of" list.

Of course, Oakes's piece got me thinking about the Lutheran canon. What theologians (other than Luther) and books (other than the Book of Concord) are central to Lutheran self-understanding? Who is on the Lutheran All-Star team? At first I thought it would be easy to answer such questions, but I soon realized that it was no easy task. Indeed, it became apparent that the composition of the Lutheran canon would be a contentious issue, one that would easily divide along denominational lines. We can all agree, of course, that Luther is the standard-bearer of our theology, but who are Luther's true successors? Questions like these have divided Lutherans from the very beginning.

After writing down a few names, I concluded that "canonical Lutherans" can essentially be divided into two lineages, with Luther as their common ancestor. Here's my preliminary list,* which includes Lutherans from every century except our current one (the verdict is still out on living theologians). Please feel free to suggest additions and/or subtractions:

Group 1: Melanchthon (1497-1560), Martin Chemnitz (1522-1586), C.F.W. Walther (1811-1887), Werner Elert (1885-1954).

Group 2: Philip Jacob Spener (1635-1705), Johann Georg Hamann (1730-1788), Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), Paul Tillich (1886-1965), Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-1945).

The two groups can perhaps be labeled "insiders" and "outsiders", although some may call the latter group "confessional". Another distinction might be "pietist" (or "existential") versus "orthodox", although this is also imperfect. Regardless, members of Group 2 were typically devout Christians raised in Lutheran countries who often clashed with the established church of their day (Kierkegaard is the classic example). These thinkers were unmistakably Lutheran in their theological orientation, but they were in no sense trying to repristinate Luther's theology. They admired Luther but did not feel beholden to him. In contrast, those in Group 1 were determined to preserve the "pure doctrine" of the Reformation. They viewed their task as principally one of expounding upon what had already been perfectly revealed in Scripture and the confessions - style was less important than a clear and forceful exposition of the faith.

Readers of this blog should not be surprised to learn that I am most drawn to the "outsiders" wing of the Lutheran canon - Kierkegaard and Hamann are particular favorites of mine. It is also this group that has received the most attention from non-Lutherans, perhaps because they better capture the boldness and excitement of Luther's theology, if not always the exact content. But I really believe that the two groups need each other, since they represent the tension that is always present in Lutheran theology between radicalism and conservatism. As I've mentioned before, this tension can be traced back to Luther himself, who led a very conservative Reformation with one foot in the Catholic Church and one foot outside. But it's my belief that this incongruity has contributed to the incredible richness of Lutheran theology.

* I have deliberately left Lutheran church historians and biblical scholars off the list, although Bultmann and Harnack would probably make many people's list of most influential Lutherans. I also omitted philosophers that had been heavily influenced by Lutheran theology, such as Hegel and Nietzsche. Finally, I did not include musicians, although some would say that J.S. Bach is the greatest Lutheran to have ever graced our planet.

Tunnel of Love: An Appreciation

Sorry for the lack of posts, but I've been in Vienna for the past 11 days attending a scientific conference. I could write about my trip, but since I generally find peoples' travel stories quite boring, it would be hypocritical of me to do so. Suffice it to say that Vienna is lovely town, albeit somewhat staid - almost like a fine museum.

Instead, I'll write about something completely different. Before heading off to Europe, I loaded Bruce Springsteen's Tunnel of Love onto my mp3 player and I listened to it repeatedly during the trip. I've owned this album for a long time, but it had been awhile since I'd given it close attention. Simply put, I had forgotten how masterful this album is, and I feel compelled now to sing its praises. Released a few years after the mega-success of Born in the USA, ToL was greeted with coolness from critics and disappointment from fans. The songs were too inward, too stripped-down. Where were the rock anthems? But the album has aged well. If nothing else, ToL proves that Springsteen is not only a great singer and artist, but a great human being. No other album so clearly displays his compassion and sincerity, his depth of feeling, his desire to do good.

It's important to remember that the album was written during Springsteen's falling-out with his first wife. Yet we hear none of the angry rants so typical of break-up albums. Instead, Springsteen puts the blame squarely on himself. He thought he knew himself, he thought he knew what committed love was all about. But it has all turned into a hall of mirrors, where "the house is haunted and the ride gets rough" ("Tunnel of Love"). In "Brilliant Disguise" he sings:

Now look at me baby, struggling to do everything right
And then it all falls apart, when out go the lights
I'm just a lonely pilgrim, I walk this world in wealth
I want to know if it's you I don't trust,
'cause I damn sure don't trust myself...

Tonight our bed is cold, I'm lost in the darkness of our love
God have mercy on the man, who doubts what he's sure of

The last verse is simply heartbreaking, and the same theme is repeated in "One Step Up" (the highpoint of the album, in my opinion):

I'm sittin' here in this bar tonight, but all I'm thinkin' is
I'm the same old story same old act, One step up and two steps back

It's the same thing night on night, who's wrong baby who's right
Another fight and I slam the door on,
another battle in our dirty little war
When I look at myself I don't see the man I wanted to be
Somewhere along the line I slipped off track
I'm caught movin' one step up and two steps back

There's a girl across the bar, I get the message she's sendin'
Mmm she ain't lookin' to married, And me well honey I'm pretending
Last night I dreamed I held you in my arms, the music was never-ending
We danced as the evening sky faded to black
One step up and two steps back

Notice the abrupt transition in the last verse from the temptation of the "girl across the bar" to the longing for a fading love. This is real despair from a man who is not sure if he can find his way back to the man he wanted to be. Indeed, the pervasive emotion expressed by Springsteen in ToL is existential fear - fear of losing his marriage, fear of losing himself. His psyche is fractured and confused (see "Two Faces") and he prays for "the strength to walk like a man." Given all this, it's not surprising that the album is filled with religious overtones. In "Valentine's Day", for example, Springsteen has an experience of God's light that grants a rebirth from darkness to new life:

They say if you die in your dreams you really die in your bed
But honey last night I dreamed my eyes rolled straight back in my head
And God's light came shinin' on through
I woke up in the darkness scared and breathin' and born anew
It wasn't the cold river bottom I felt rushing over me
It wasn't the bitterness of a dream that didn't come true
It wasn't the wind in the grey fields I felt rushing through my arms
No no baby it was you
So hold me close honey say you're forever mine
And tell me you'll be my lonely valentine

In my humble opinion, ToL conveys the grief of a lost marriage in a way surpassed only by Dylan's Blood on the Tracks (which also contains plenty of Christian/religious imagery). Given that few albums treat love and marriage with such maturity and insight, I'm amazed that it remains somewhat overlooked in the Springsteen corpus.

Fourth of July

In Garrison Keillor's book We Are Still Married, there is a short essay that has always been a special favorite of mine. It's entitled "Laying on Our Backs Looking Up at the Stars" and I try to read it every Fourth of July. Given our current situation, I think it's especially important to do so this year.

The story recounts a Fourth of July that Garrison spent with friends and family at his rented farmhouse in central Minnesota:

On the Fourth of July, 1971, we had twenty people come for a picnic in the yard, an Olympic egg toss and gunnysack race, a softball game with the side of the barn for a right-field fence, and that night we sat around the kitchen and made pizza and talked about the dismal future.

America was trapped in Vietnam, a tragedy, and how could it end if not in holocaust? We were pessimists; we needed fear to make us feel truly alive. We talked about death. We put on loud music and made lavish pizzas with fresh mushrooms and onions, zucchini, eggplant, garlic, green pepper, and drank beer and talked about the end of life on earth with a morbid piety that made a person sick, about racial hatred, pesticides, radiation, television, the stupidity of politicians, and whether Vietnam was the result of strategic mistakes or a reflection of evil in American culture. It was a conversation with concrete shoes.

No doubt similar conversations will be taking place all across America this Fourth of July. But Garrison did not indulge his "morbid piety". Instead, he snuck outside with his son and a few friends to lie in the grass and look at the stars:

The sight of the sky was so stunning it make us drunk. I felt as if I could put one foot forward and walk away from the wall of ground at my back and hike out toward Andromeda. I didn't feel particularly American. Out there in the Milky Way and the world without end Amen, America was a tiny speck of a country, a nickel tossed into the Grand Canyon, and American culture the amount of the Pacific Ocean you bring home in your swimsuit. The President wasn't the President out there, the Constitution was only a paper, and what the newspapers wrote about was sawdust and coffee grounds. The light I saw was from fires burning before America existed, when my ancestor John Crandall lived in the colony of Rhode Island. Looking out there, my son lying on my chest, I could imagine my grandchildren, and they were more real to me than Congress.

I imagined them strong and free, curious, sensual, indelibly cheerful and affectionate, open-handed - sympathetic to pain and misery and quick in charity, proud when insulted and modest if praised, fiercely loyal to friends, loving God and the beautiful world including our land, from the California coast to the North Dakota prairie to faraway Manhattan, loving music and our American language - when you look at the stars you don't think small. You don't hope your descendants will enjoy your mutual fund portfolio, you imagine them as giants of the earth.

Looking into the great beyond, Garrison gains perspective, and his attitude towards America passes from ambivalence to deep affection. Yes, in the grand scheme of things America does not matter much, and it certainly has its sins, but it's the only land that he can imagine for his grandchildren. For their sake, he will not abandon hope.

Perhaps in 1776 our ancestors, too, were rattled by current events and the unbeatable logic of despair and had to go out and lie in the weeks for a while and think: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Indoors, the news is second-hand, mostly bad, and even good people are drawn into a dreadful fascination with doom and demise; their faith in extinction gets stronger; they sit and tell stories that begin with The End. Outdoors, the news is usually miraculous. A fly flew into my mouth and went deep, forcing me to swallow, inducing a major life change for him, from fly to simple protein, and so shall we all be changed someday, but here under heaven our spirits are immense, we are so blessed. The stars in the sky, my friends in the grass, my son asleep on my chest, his hands clutching my shirt.

These days, it's tough to avoid the "unbeatable logic of despair". Iraq, Guantanamo, global warming, our broken politics and coarsening culture - the list is almost endless. But tonight my wife and I will sit in a field with a few thousand of our fellow Americans and watch the fireworks overhead. We will sing that corny Lee Greenwood song ("From the lakes of Minnesota to the hills of Tennessee") and eat some greasy cheese curds. And we will count our blessings.

The Death of Adam

Lee at Thinking Reed has an interesting post regarding presidential-candidate Sam Brownback's op-ed piece in the NY Times where he clarifies his position on evolution. As Lee points out, Brownback's opposition to Darwinism has more to do with safe-guarding the dignity of human beings than with defending the literal truth of the Bible, which mirrors my own concerns regarding Darwinist philosophy. Too often the evolution debate is portrayed as God vs. Darwin, when really the issue is Adam vs. Darwin (Adam being humanity as created in the imago Dei, possessing intrinsic worth and occupying a unique place in the cosmos). This point was driven home to me as I read Marilynne Robinson's* essay "Darwinism", which appears in her collection The Death of Adam: Essays in Modern Thought. As the title implies, Robinson is not happy with the state of modern thought, which she perceives as impoverished and dark, lacking any sense of the grandeur of humanity that fostered civilization through the ages. Indeed, "Darwinism" ends with this heartbreaking eulogy to the old Adam:

"There is no place left for the soul, or even the self... Our hypertrophic brain, that prodigal indulgence, that house of many mansions, with its stores, and competences, and all its deep terrors and very rich pleasures, which was so long believed to be the essence of our lives, and a claim on one another's sympathy and courtesy and attention, is going the way of every part of collective life that was addressed to it - religion, art, dignity, graciousness. Philosophy, ethics, politics, properly so called. It is a thing that bears reflecting upon, how much was destroyed, when modern thought declared the death of Adam."

Robinson makes it very clear that her target is not evolution as a scientific theory. Neither she nor I are anti-science, and neither of us has anything at stake in a literal reading of Genesis. As Robinson points out, "[Darwin's] theory, as science, is irrelevant to the question of the truth of religion. It is only as an inversion of Christian ethicalism that it truly engages religion. And in those terms it is appropriately the subject of challenge from any humane perspective, religious or otherwise." It is in the realm of ethics where Darwinism makes its most serious assault upon humanity, as its vision of nature is one where the weak are discarded and the only ethical imperative is to preserve our "selfish genes." Robinson sees it as no coincidence that Darwin's theory arouse at a time when the European aristocracy was tiring of "the irksome burden of extending charity to [the poor] - a burden laid on the back of Europe by Christianity." Robinson provides a great deal of evidence that a form of Social Darwinism was already widespread in 19th-century Europe even before Darwin's advent. Malthus, after all, had paved the way by demonstrating "the harmful consequences of intervening between the poor and their death by starvation." Thus, "Darwin's work was rightly seized by antireligionists who had other fish to fry than the mere demystification of cosmology. I am speaking, as I know it is rude to do, of the Social Darwinists, the eugenicists, the Imperialists, the Scientific Socialists... and, yes, of the Nazis."

Of course, reputable Darwinists have long since disavowed the ugly ways in which Darwin's theory has been employed in the past, but Robinson wonders if they're being intellectually consistent. Daniel Dennett, for example, has argued that a distinction must be drawn between Darwinism as applied to nature and its implications for politics, economics, social programs, etc. But "if, as Darwin argues, the human and nonhuman worlds are continuous and of a kind, then Dennett implies a distinction that is in fact meaningless." That is, if culling is beneficial for animals in the wild, or for a herd of cattle, then it must be beneficial for the human race. There is no way to escape this implication without invoking a radical discontinuity been humans and other species, which is the one thing that Darwinists will never do. Moreover, Darwinists at all times have never been shy about extending their theory to humans (Darwin himself did it frequently), and "Darwinism is still offered routinely as a source of objective scientific insight on questions like the nature of human motivation and the possibility of altruism." It is only when Darwinism is taken to its logical conclusion (that is, eugenics) that its adherents claim that it's not meant to be applied to humans.

Robinson is aware that many proponents of Darwinism have tried to soften its hard edges by showing how altruism and social behavior could have arisen by natural selection. But she is very skeptical of this band-aid, since selfishness and survival remain the supreme virtues. Here, Robinson quotes an article by Robert Wright published in Time magazine: "Wright says, 'Such impulses as compassion, empathy, generosity, gratitude and remorse are genetically based. Strange as it may sound, these impulses, with their checks on raw selfishness, helped our ancestors survive and pass their genes to future generations.'" To which Robinson mockingly replies:

"To whom on earth would this sound strange except to other Darwinists? Most humans beings live collaboratively and have done so for millennia. But Darwinists insist that 'selfishness' is uniquely the trait rewarded by genetic survival. So while Wright does concede a biological basis to the traits we call humane and civilized, he puts them in a different category from the more primary traits (in his view) of selfishness and competition... This kind of thinking makes all experience that contradicts its assumptions into the product of illusion and self-deception. A splendid way to win every argument. The idea of illusion is very important to Darwinian thinking... It is often used to reinterpret behavior to make it consistent with the assumptions of the observer."

As long as selfishness is considered the most fundamental trait of life, all of our human virtues will only be interpreted as masked aggression. Such a position is an "expression of the belief - for which no proof is imaginable - that human goodness is not natural, and therefore is neither beneficial, nor, if the truth were known, even truly good." Robinson wonders how we got to this point, where our scientists "to this day watch for murder in baboon colonies" and hope to find it!

"For the old Adam, that near-angel whose name means Earth, Darwinists have substituted a creature who shares essential attributes with whatever beast has been recently observed behaving shabbily in the state of nature. Genesis tries to describe human exceptionalism, and Darwinism tries to discount it. Since Malthus, to go back no further, the impulse has been vigorously present to desacralize humankind by making it appropriately the prey of unmitigated struggle. This desacralization - fully as absolute with respect to predator as to prey - has required the disengagement of conscience, among other things. It has required the grand-scale disparagement of the traits that distinguish us from the animals - and the Darwinists take the darkest possible view of the animals."

Even Adam in his fallen state is infinitely grander that the vision of our species offered up by Darwin, Dennett, Dawkins, and Gould. The Darwinian human represents the death of Adam, and this is what Robinson makes so clear. Unfortunately, this post cannot do justice to the scope and power of her essay, and I encourage anyone interested to read it themselves. There are few works with which I agree on such a visceral level.

* Most of you are probably familiar with Robinson from her award-winning novels, Gilead and Housekeeping.

Do Lutherans Have Bad Karma?

Thursday's Star-Tribune carried a review of Broders' Pasta Bar, a restaurant in south Minneapolis that my wife and I have enjoyed on several occasions. The review is generally positive, with the critic (Rick Nelson) praising the owners for "the giving communal dining a shot... For taking pasta seriously. And for accomplishing the near-impossible and creating a casual neighborhood restaurant that genuinely merits the cross-town drive." But while I agree with his assessment of Broders', one paragraph in Nelson's review struck me as strange:

"Watching all the animated conversation bubbling around my perch at the bar - where, trust me, each seat is as premium a piece of real estate as a potential Lake of the Isles teardown - one thought raced through my cortex: Can all this conviviality really exist in buttoned-up Minneapolis? OK, closer observation revealed that the social interaction was running true to form, with conversation obviously reserved to parties with a prior connection. God forbid a Minnesotan -- present company included -- would actually spark up a spontaneous chat with the stranger to their right. Maybe it's karmic: After all, the restaurant lives in the shadow of the city's Protestant epicenter, Mount Olivet Lutheran Church." [For those of you who don't know, Mount Olivet is a (very) large Lutheran Church in south Minneapolis, with two campuses, nine pastors, and about 13,600 members.]

What is Nelson trying to say here? Is he implying that Lutherans (or Protestants in general) are so dull and pleasure-hating that simply locating a restaurant near one of their churches poisons the atmosphere? It appears that Nelson is blaming Lutheranism for what he perceives as the "buttoned-up" nature of Minneapolis residents. And why the reference to karma? Karma is not a Christian concept, but perhaps it's well known in certain circles that Lutherans have the bad variety of karma, and therefore those looking for conviviality had better avoid even the ominous "shadow" of a Lutheran church.

Although I may be wrong, I suspect that Nelson's comments can be attributed (at least indirectly) to the massive influence of Garrison Keillor, who has convinced much of the nation that Lutherans are dark, bland, and guilt-ridden, incapable of enjoying the good things of life. Of course, there is much truth, and a great deal of humor, in Keillor's depiction of Midwestern Lutherans. But it is obviously a caricature, ideal for getting easy laughs from any audience. So it's not surprising to see others in media pick-up on this theme, since the term "Lutheran" has now become short-hand for a whole set of cultural and psychological attributes. Thus, a restaurant critic can contrast "conviviality" with "Lutheran church" and assume that everyone will get his meaning immediately.

The Brewers and the Suffering Servant

Well, it has been a month since my last post. I'm not sure why, but I haven't felt like saying much lately. There are times when I want to share all of my thoughts with the world, and other times when I just want to live inside my own head. This past month has fallen under the latter category. Regardless, I'm going to try to post more often. If only I could master the art of the short post instead of always writing essays, then it wouldn't be so darn hard to muster the energy.

Along with all the usual stuff, I've spent a good deal of the past month following baseball - listening to it on the radio, reading about it in the paper, and going to games.* Unlike football, which comes around only once a week, baseball is a daily companion. It's a steady presence, without the hype, and that's one of the reasons why I love it so much. Also, the baseball season is in full blossom right now. Gone are the early days of spring, when every team is equal; now is the time for differentiation. My team, the Milwaukee Brewers, started the season hot (at one point, their record was an unbelievable 24-10), but they have cooled-off considerably, losing 14 of their last 19 games. Thankfully, they are playing in the weak NL central, where 85 wins might be enough to take the division. But given that the BrewCrew hasn't finished above .500 since 1992 and hasn't been to the playoffs since 1982, we Brewers fans are trying to keep our expectations low.

On a related note, I highly recommend Kim Fabricius's recent post at Faith and Theology "Ten Reasons why Baseball is God's game." However, I must quibble with his claim (in #8) that baseball's "Suffering Servant" is the Chicago Cubs. While the Cubs certainly have a long history of losing, they play in gorgeous Wrigley field and have a large, nation-wide fan base (thanks in part to season-long coverage on WGN). On the contrary, the pathetic Brewers - who are just as adept at losing as the Cubs - play in almost total obscurity, followed by Wisconsinites only until the beginning of Packer season, after which they are ignored by everyone. Like the suffering servant, the Brewers have "no beauty or majesty to attract us to [them], nothing in [their] appearance that we should desire [them]." They are a team "despised and rejected by men", full of "sorrows", and "familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces [they are] despised, and we esteemed [them] not." Clearly, these words are more applicable to the Brewers than the Cubs.

* Unfortunately, now that I live in Minnesota I'm forced to attend games at the sterile, soul-sucking bubble called the Metrodome, perhaps the worst stadium in all of major league baseball (only Tropicana Field in Tampa Bay can rival its bleakness). I miss Miller Park - hell, I even miss the old County Stadium. And I certainly miss tailgating and those crazy racing sausages!

Neurobiologists "Find" Religion (and then lose it)

When I saw the stupid headline - "This Is Your Brain on God" - at Slate.com, I thought here we go again. Another ridiculous article purporting to "explain" religion as the by-product of Darwinian evolution or neurobiology. We've been here before (both Slate and the NYTimes seem to have soft-spots for such articles - just recall "Darwin's God"**). But George Johnson's article on the emerging field of "neurotheology" is a refreshing rarity: an article in the popular press that actually expresses skepticism about the ability of science (in this case, neurobiology) to explain every facet of human existence. Thank heavens!!

Johnson makes it clear that the findings of neurotheology will never satisfy either believers or atheists - in the end, the results will always conform to one's metaphysical presuppositions:

In the neurological search for the spiritual, there is no shortage of data. But pile it as high as you like, and you're left staring across the same divide. Depending on your predisposition, you can interpret all these experiments in two different ways. The believers take them as scientific evidence for the reality of their visions, while the atheists claim more proof that God is all in your head.

Johnson isn't afraid to say that many of the neurotheological findings - which are often hyped by the popular scientific media - are actually rather banal and "reductive". This isn't surprising, since much of modern neurobiology simply involves hooking patients up to brain-scanning devices and then observing which parts of their brains "light up" when they do something unusual or interesting (like play ping-pong, pray, look at naked women, etc.). As Johnson remarks, such "high-tech imagery has a way of stating the obvious." For instance, a study at UPenn "found that praying Franciscan nuns and meditating Buddhist monks generate similar brain scans: The frontal lobe, associated with focus and concentration, lights up. At the same time, the parietal lobe, which integrates sensory information, goes dim... As you fix your thoughts on the otherworldly, you lose contact with your immediate surroundings." Surprise, surprise!!

A major limitation of neurotheology, which Johnson doesn't really address, is that it's forced to study religious behaviors (like deep praying, mediation, or ecstatic visions) since it can't really probe religious thought or belief as such. But such behaviors are merely one aspect of the religious life, and are in no way determinative of religious practice as a whole. I, for one, have never experienced an ecstatic vision, and while I do pray, I doubt that it moves my brain into a dramatically altered mental state. For me, praying is not that different than ordinary thinking. So why do I still believe? The emphasis on religious ecstasy also ignores the fact that such experiences have historically been regarded with suspicion by religious authorities themselves. Even in biblical times, it was widely understood that not every vision or prophecy was legitimate; such experiences had to be verified with other criteria. Thus, the basis for religious faith does not lie in such altered mental states, although these can complement previously held beliefs.

So it matters not one bit that "Michael Persinger of Laurentian University can induce [mystical experiences] by scrambling the brain with magnetic fields." Humans have known since prehistoric times that various substances and foods can cause visions. So who cares that they can also be caused by magnetic fields? Regardless, Persinger's device serves as the occasion for my favorite paragraph in the article:

After donning [Persinger's] helmet wired with electromagnets, some subjects reported experiences they described as mystical, or at least misty. When Richard Dawkins, author of The God Delusion, put on the hood, it only made him a little dizzy. Persinger was quick to note that Dawkins had scored way below average on a psychological questionnaire measuring temporal lobe sensitivity—hints of a neurobiological correlate for atheism.

Johnson's last line here is brilliant. After all, if theism is simply a product of neurochemistry, then so is atheism - something that the "explainers of religion" all too often forget. Perhaps, in the end, the neurotheologians will show that it is atheism, not theism, which is caused by a mental defect (this would be the logical conclusion, of course, since the vast majority of the world's current and past inhabitants have been theists). If so, will Slate.com then treat us to articles that attempt to explain the "atheism meme" and the "agnostic delusion"?

** Remember that silly "Darwin's God" article? Hopefully not. But if you're still interested, and still annoyed, the blog Adventus has a brilliant response.

Kierkegaard on the Imago Dei

The perfect passage for a beautiful Sunday in Spring:

"How glorious it is to be a Human Being!... Now how should we speak about this glory? We could go on speaking for a long time without ever finishing, but this is not the place for that. Let us therefore speak briefly instead and concentrate everything on that one single verse that Scripture itself uses with authority: God created the human being in his image, but again for the sake of brevity let us understand this verse with regard to only one thing.

God created the human being in his image. Must it not be glorious to be clothed in this way! In praise of the lily, the Gospel declares that it surpasses Solomon in glory. Must it not be infinitely more glorious to resemble God! The lily does not resemble God - no, it does not do that. It bears a little mark by which it reminds one of God; it has a witness, since God has not let himself be without witness in anything created, although the lily does not resemble him...

To be spirit, that is the human being's invisible glory. Thus when the worried human out in the field stands surrounded by all these witnesses, when every single flower says to him, "Remember God!" he replies, "I will indeed do that, my children - I will worship him, and you poor little ones cannot do that." Consequently the erect, upright one is a worshiper. The upright gait of the human is the sign of distinction, but to be able to prostrate oneself in adoration and worship is even more glorious; and all nature is like the great staff of servants who remind the human, the ruler, about worshiping God. This is what is expected, not that the human being is to come and assume the command, which is also glorious and assigned to him, but that worshiping he shall praise the Creator, something nature cannot do, since it can only remind the human being about doing that. It is glorious to be clothed as the lily, even more glorious to be the erect and upright ruler, but most glorious to be nothing by worshiping!

To worship is not to rule, and yet worship is what makes the human being resemble God, and to be able truly to worship is the excellence of the invisible glory above all creation. The pagan was not aware of God and therefore sought likeness in ruling. But the resemblance is not like that - no, then instead it is taken in vain... The human being and God do not resemble each other directly but inversely; only when God has infinitely become the eternal and omnipotent object of worship and the human being always a worshiper, only then do they resemble each other... The ability to worship is no visible glory, it cannot be seen, and yet nature's visible glory sighs; it pleads with the ruler, it incessantly reminds the human that whatever he does he absolutely must not forget - to worship. Oh, how glorious to be a human being!"

- From Upbuilding Discourses in Various Spirits, "What we learn from the lilies in the field and from the birds of the air", pg. 192-193.

David Hart: Arrogant or Brilliant?

Due to frequent travel and general busyness, I've haven't had much time to post lately. It's strange, but I often feel guilty when I go for long periods of time without posting, as if I had neglected to call my mom or ignored a letter from a close friend. I wonder if any other bloggers feel the same way....

Regardless, my travels have given me the chance to really dig into David Hart's much-discussed The Beauty of the Infinite. This book has attracted considerable praise from bloggers and real theologians alike, as well as some criticisms. I, for one, am thoroughly impressed. Hart's prose is fantastic, and his theological insights have given me a new appreciation of the importance of Christian aesthetics (something that my reading of Kierkegaard had taught me to distrust). The book has also clarified my understanding of the Trinity, for which I am grateful.

That said, I agree with Patrik that Hart's harsh treatment of modern theologians and philosophers is somewhat at odds with his frequent assertion that the Christian proclamation is one of "peace" (although I wouldn't claim, like Patrik, that his rhetoric is the equivalent of American foreign policy!). There's little doubt that Beauty of the Infinite would have been better without Hart's snarky dismissals of almost every major Protestant theologian from Luther and Calvin up to Tillich and Jüngel. Indeed, it's hard to disagree with Halden's comment that Hart has an irrational prejudice against anything German and Protestant (he seems to subscribe to the popular notion that there has been a "German captivity of theology").

It's worth noting, though, that there are two German Lutherans that Hart cannot praise highly enough: J.S. Bach and Johann Hamann. He refers to Bach as "the greatest of Christian theologians", saying that "Bach's is the ultimate Christian music; it reflects as no other human artifact ever has or could the Christian vision of creation" (282-3). By comparison, Hart's adoration of Hamann is more restrained, but not by much. He writes that "for [Hamann], to a degree perhaps unparalleled in Christian thought, the true knowledge of God in creation - the true analogy - lay in a childlike rapture before the concrete and poetic creativity of God" (254) Elsewhere, Hart employs all of his rhetorical gifts to hail Hamann as "most amusing philosopher" of all time, possessing "a truly Christian mirthfulness".

The connection between Hart and Hamann in interesting for me, since I have been reading them somewhat in tandem. While I consider Hamann to be superior both aesthetically and theologically, there is undoubtedly a close affinity between the two authors. In fact, it has proven beneficial to read Hart in light of Hamann, since the latter provides a corrective to the excesses and omissions of the former (call it a "Lutheran corrective"). It seems to me that Hamann might serve as useful mediator between Hart and the Protestant theologians he so often criticizes. After all, given that both Hamann and Bach understood themselves as no more than orthodox Lutherans, Hart's praise of these two men may signify a closer affinity to Lutheran theology than he realizes. If nothing else, it gives me hope that Hart's theological insights can be separated from his brash rhetoric and employed for truly evangelical purposes.

Pope Benedict and the European Intelligentsia

The German magazine Der Spiegel has an interesting special issue devoted to the "Power of Faith" - an acknowledgment that religion remains a major force in the world, if not in Western Europe. Particularly interesting is the article "Sexy for the Intellectuals", which examines the strange attraction between Pope Benedict XVI and Europe's secular intellectuals. According to the article, "The secular intelligentsia's curiosity is piqued; it is flirting with the una sancta, the 'One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church.'" Benedict has struck a chord because he does not use piety to shield religion from scrutiny, but instead understands that faith and reason must walk together:

Pope John Paul was into images; Benedict is a man of words. He sympathizes with the nonbelievers. He does not say, as his predecessor did: Kneel down and say the rosary. He says: Enlightenment must be enlightened. He is an intellectual who does not replace reason with mysticism, but instead deploys it in the service of God...

Ratzinger has mulled all his life over these unequal siblings, faith and reason, which explains the leniency and interest with which German cultural critics have received this pope. He is one of us. He refuses to be defined in terms of the laical trinity, i.e. the triple threat of condoms, women priests and abortion...

Man encounters the self at the level of thought. That is why believers can communicate with non-believers. That is why the Frankfurt philosopher Jürgen Habermas and Joseph Ratzinger harmonized so perfectly when they discussed the "Dialectics of Secularization" at the Catholic Academy in Munich. If the Word is a gift from God, then the theorist who champions communicative action can but nod agreement.

As the article points out, Benedict's academic style has allowed him to make some of the Church's controversial teachings intellectually respectable:

Benedict XVI knows how to maintain a level of abstraction so far removed from earthly toils that it has all the appearances of compassion. Deus caritas est, Benedict's first encyclical in January 2006, was a meditation on love - and not the widely anticipated reactionary harangue against homosexual unions, unmarried cohabitation, inchastity and other works of the Devil.

Mum was the word on all of these issues. The encyclical was a eulogy, extolling love, eroticism in marriage, and social work. He simply switched the level of abstraction and made himself more unassailable. This pope doesn't talk about condoms; he talks about exploiting people (even if it's only for a one-night stand). This pope gets to the bottom of things. This pope is a radical - another trait that makes him sexy to the intellectuals.

The intellectuals also like style, his undramatic demeanor during public appearances. "He prays with a fixed stare and barely moves his lips, like an altar boy whose thoughts are somewhere else entirely." He's a nerd, and intellectuals love their fellow nerds:

The library is the Holiest of Holies. The professor pope pens page after page: letters, sermons, speeches, epistles, books. Several hundred theological works already make him the most published pontiff in church history. He seizes every opportunity to put systematic theology into practice and into print. Benedict XVI is even capable of working a reference to fundamental theology into a letter of accreditation to the Andorran ambassador.

Importantly, the article ends on a hopeful note for those us who long to see a Christian revival in the heart of Christendom:

In October 2006, a star-studded colloquium at the University of Münster discussed "The Return of the Religions" - and identified an "ego weariness" in Germany, a post-modernist upward valuation of the concept of truth: "Man cannot survive on doubt, irony and deconstruction alone." What is left for us to believe in, if everything is open to discussion? And who is going to take us seriously? This is the fundamental question addressed in Germany by numerous bestsellers and talk-show debates on "values," "the new Kulturkampf," "the parenting challenge" and so on.

In the post-modern age, everything was somehow OK; values were relative, and we believed that was a good thing. By September 2001 at the latest, this belief was called into question. There was no more room for irony.

How can truth exist in a pluralist society? Joseph Ratzinger has pondered this question all his life. And it has never been more relevant than today.

A today that is perhaps not the hour for prayer, not the age for ritual, but rather a time for introspection, for self-examination, for thought. And in that context, the man in the Papal Palace is right for his role. Benedict XVI is not a comfortable pontiff, because he can communicate eye-to-eye with the secular world. He already sees eye-to-eye with the spiritual one.

(Final Note: While I found the article very well written, one sentence struck me as odd: "Something has happened: The country of Luther, Marx and Nietzsche has lost faith in godlessness." Why is Luther included here alongside Marx and Nietzsche? Is he "godless" simply because he disagreed with the Catholic Church of his day? Perhaps this sentence reflects the habit - common in Germany - of viewing Luther not as a religious figure but as a liberator and revolutionary. Regardless, Luther should not be blamed for the current state of godlessness in Germany).

More about Marburg

(Note: The first part of this post can be found here). At Marburg, Zwingli felt he had a sure-fire argument against Luther’s belief in the Real Presence in the Sacrament of the Altar: If Christ’s body, after his ascension, sits at the right hand of the Father in heaven, then it cannot possibly be found on the altars of the church. It is ironic that Zwingli, who insisted upon a figurative understanding of the words “This is my body”, interpreted the phrase “the right hand of the Father” in such a literal sense. Modern Christians, of course, are more likely to understand heaven in a metaphysical sense, and thus Zwingli’s objection probably carries much less force today. But since both sides of the Marburg debate, Lutheran and Reformed, thought of heaven as a physical place where Christ’s human body resides, this was not a matter that the Lutherans could take lightly. In response, they provided an explanation of how Christ can be both in heaven and on earth – a doctrine known as “ubiquity” – that also yields compelling insights into the Incarnation and Creation.

The doctrine of ubiquity is based on a key element of Lutheran christology: the communicatio idiomatum, or exchange of attributes. This teaches that the human nature of Christ participates in God’s divine attributes (his omnipotence, omnipresence, etc.) and vice versa. Thus, Lutherans can speak of God suffering, even dying, because the divine Son of God participates in the human suffering of Jesus Christ. Moreover, because the humanity of Christ shares in God’s omnipresence, Luther could teach that “Christ can be present in heaven and on earth and in fact everywhere, not only in his divine nature but also in his perpetually human body” (Braaten, Principles of Lutheran Theology). This explains how Christ’s true body and blood can be present on the altars of the world in the sacrament.

To the Reformed, the doctrine of ubiquity has always seemed like blatant pantheism. After all, if Christ’s body is everywhere, then it’s in every piece of bread and the sacrament is meaningless. To this charge, Luther replied “that there is a difference whether Christ’s body is there or whether it is there for you; whether it is there or whether you can find it. You can find it only where Christ Himself has promised that He would be found, and that is in the sacrament” (Sasse, This is My Body).

It goes without saying that Lutheran and Reformed positions are based on two dramatically different understanding of the relationship between God and Nature. The Reformed, with their assumption that the “finite cannot carry the infinite”, conceive of God and Nature as mutually-incompatible opposites. But the Lutherans doctrine of ubiquity makes it clear that all of Creation participates in the Incarnation, since it was only through Christ that “all things were made.” Every rock, tree, and bird shares, not just in “being” or “being-itself” (to quote Tillich), but in the triune life of God. Thus, the sacrament (and the incarnation itself) should not be viewed a miraculous deviation from the natural order, but instead as the culmination and fulfillment of God’s eternal dealings with the world.