A fairly quiet month. I’m diving into a paper on the topic of “Badges of Membership” in the Pauline Epistles and so the vast majority of my reading time has been dedicated to paper research. Anyway, here are October’s books:
1. Perspectives Old and New on Paul: The “Lutheran” Paul and His Critics by Stephen Westerholm.
This book is an exceptional and quite comprehensive introduction to the so-called “New Perspective on Paul” — one of the hot button issues in contemporary biblical studies. Westerholm begins by surveying the more traditional interpreters of Paul who have largely paved the way for what has come to be known as the “Lutheran” school (these formative exegetes are Augustine, Luther, Calvin, and J. Wesley. He concisely surveys a vast number of Pauline scholars (Wrede, Schweitzer, Montefiore, Schoeps, Sanders, Kummel, Stendahl, Bultmann, Wilckens, Sanders (again), Drane, Hubner, Raisanen, Wright, Dunn, Donaldson, Cranfield, Schriener, Das, Thielman, Seifrid, Laato, Thuren, Aletti, Martyn, and Becker) before providing his own perspective on Paul and the key themes that dominate this discussion: righteousness, law, justification by faith, grace, and questions of ethnicity. I don’t always agree with Westerholm’s conclusions (I find Dunn and Wright to be more convincing and comprehensive) but I can’t think of a book that would better orient a person to this discussion.
2. Barth by John Webster (Outstanding Christian Thinkers Series).
When it comes to introductory secondary literature about Karl Barth this book seems to get mentioned more than any other work. After reading it, I can understand why. Webster obviously knows Barth’s material well (he is, arguably, the best Barth scholar living today within the English world) and he is able to succinctly cover vast amounts of Barth’s material without creating a disjointed, cut-and-paste type of summary. This book is very readable and has made reading Barth seem more exciting than ever — which, I suppose, is precisely Webster’s purpose in writing this book.
3. Notebooks 1914-1916 by Ludwig Wittgenstein.
Wittgenstein had this nasty habit of destroying his unpublished notebooks, and various collections of thoughts. However, after his death the notebooks and journals that survived Wittgenstein were collected and, as these have become increasingly available to the contemporary reader, they have become indispensable aids in deciphering what the hell Wittgenstein is talking about in his best known works. These notebooks, written between 1914 and 1916, are a precursor to the Tractatus and are especially helpful in orienting the reader to the picture-theory of language developed therein. However, what I found especially interesting about this work is the way in which it seems to pave the way for Wittgenstein’s later work on language-games. I am increasingly convinced that the split between the “later Wittgenstein” and the “earlier Wittgenstein” is more imagined than actual (just as the split between the “later Barth” and the “earlier Barth” seems to be over-exaggerated — a point Webster makes in his book). This book also has some interesting, albeit brief, reflections on the relation of God and suicide to meaning.
4. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison by Michel Foucault.
I didn’t mean to read this book this month but then I picked it up and couldn’t put it down. There is an incredible amount of stimulating, provocative, and subversive material to be found here. Using the history of the prison as his prime example, Foucault argues that the transformation in society’s way of punishing criminals is not actually part of a process of increasing humanisation; rather, it is a part of a process by which the powers gain a greater amount of control over an increasingly self-disciplining general population. I really think this should be a required text for anybody interested in pursuing restorative justice. In fact, I hope to blog through this book in more detail with one of my brother’s who has done a Masters in Restorative Justice (with Howard Zehr) and so I will leave any further reflections for later.
5. The Natashas: Inside the New Global Sex Trade by Victor Malarek.
Right off the bat Malarek lets us know that next to the sale of drugs and arms, the sale of women and children is the leading international money-maker. Over $12 billion (that’s $12,000,000,000+) is made annually from this global sex trade that sees 800,000-900,000 women trafficked across international borders and an additional 1,100,000-1,700,000 women trafficked within their own countries. All of these women are survivors of violence and rape. The stats, like the stories, are staggering, and both are gathered here in Malarek’s book (although Malarek, as a journalist, favours stories). Not for the faint of heart, I had to put this book down a few times. It made me feel sick and angry, but mostly it made me feel broken-hearted. This is especially so because Malarek does a fine job of showing how our countries are either too apathetic or completely complicit in this trade. Everybody is involved, from the U.S. soldiers, to Canadian peacemakers, from the G8 governments, to the UN, and everybody knows it, but nothing is really getting done about it. At the end of the day, money speaks louder than the cries of millions of women on the “breaking grounds.”
Oh, and just in case you were wondering, the Church in general falls into the category of “too apathetic/complicit.” I know this because I work with some of these women and children, and although some Christians tend to think that this is admirable, they sure as hell aren’t about to do anything themselves. Although I have been told that when I “grow up” I won’t care as much either so you can pardon this rant.
6. Narziss and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse.
Well, sometimes it’s nice to just escape into fiction. I really quite enjoyed this tale about two friends: one a monk and an ascetic scholar, and the other a lover and a Dionysian. Hesse does a good job of painting a picture of life on the road and life in the monastery and it certainly gave me the travel itch. I think I’ll go to Australia.
Rejecting False Judgments: Lk 6.37a
I was doing a bit of work in Lk 6 with an interlinear Greek/English New Testament and I was struck by an alternate translation of verse 37a. Generally, in our English translations, the verse reads something like this:
“Do not judge, and you will not be judged; and do not condemn, and you will not be condemned” (emphasis added).
Now, the thing is, the verb that is translated into English as “will” can also be translated as “may.” Thus, an equally valid translation of the text would read like this:
“Do not judge, and you may not be judged; and do not condemn, and you may not be condemned” (emphasis added).
I believe that this translation better captures what Luke has Jesus saying in this passage. While the first translation (“will”) captures the future-element of what Jesus is saying, the second translation (“may”) captures the present-element of what Jesus is saying (while also retaining the future-element). In light of the Lukan emphasis upon the poor, the oppressed, and Jesus' solidarity with socio-religious outcasts, this second translation means that Jesus is essentially saying this:
“If you do not buy into the popular way of judging others, if you refuse to judge others by the social standards that continually dehumanise and marginalise others, then you too can refuse to be judged by those who wish to marginalise and dehumanise you. You can reject those judgments because you may not be judged and condemned — so long as you do not then impose such judgments on others. Do no judge and any judgments of you are invalid; do not condemn and it is not permissible for you to be condemned. You can refuse to give such judgment and condemnation any authority over you.”
This reading ties in well with Jesus' proclamation of forgiveness to sinners as sinners (and not as penitent sinners).
The Church today would do well to think on how these thoughts tie into the way in which she journeys and speaks with those who are judged, condemned, and called “sinners” today.
Moses and Joshua in Luke-Acts
I was reading Luke the other day and was struck by the parallels that exist between Jesus and Moses. Jesus, like Moses (only more so), is the great liberator of Israel. Jesus provides the people with a New Torah, he provides them with nourishment in the wilderness, and, ultimately, on the cross, he brings an end to exile and the wilderness wanderings of Israel. Of course, the fact that the bondage of exile has ended is confirmed at the beginning of Acts with the outpouring of the eschatological Spirit.
However, I was struck by this idea: if Jesus, in Luke, is like Moses yet greater than Moses, surely Paul, in Acts, is like Joshua, yet greater than Joshua. After Moses liberated the Hebrews and led them through the wilderness, Joshua conquered the land that God had promised them. However, with Paul as Joshua things are significantly revised. The land is now the world, and the means by which one conquers are radically different. Whereas Joshua conquered by the sword, Paul conquers by the Gospel proclamation — by the sword of the Word. Whereas Joshua conquered by inflicting violence on others, Paul conquers by allowing violence to be inflicted upon himself. Whereas Joshua conquered by force, Paul conquers by serving others in the power of the Spirit.
Furthermore, I suspect that those who wish to appeal Old Testament conquest narratives in order to justify Christian violence today have not sufficiently grasped the way in which Paul's model of conquest completely subverts and replaces any and all violence with cross-shaped living.
What would you do?
Two encounters I had recently made me do some soul-searching, and made we wonder how others would handle these situations. So, I’ll relate the scenarios with the hope that others might share how they would respond. I’m curious about this in part because I wasn’t entirely satisfied with how I responded to either one, and in part because I think that it might be such day-to-day encounters that reveal to us just how seriously we take our faith. Of course, as with any encounter in life, what we hope we would do, or what we say we would do, can often be quite different than what we actually end up doing. All the same, I am curious as to what others think they might have done in these situations.
(1) I was sitting on the back of the bus one night next to three other fellows who were on their way to a downtown club. They looked like the frat sort and they were all quite a bit larger than me. They had obviously had a few drinks before heading out and were all acting tough. In the midst of their banter one fellow declared: “Yo, man, I’m gonna rape a girl tonight!” Immediately a series of thoughts ran rapidly through my mind.
I thought about saying and doing nothing. I mean, these fellows were big and they were drunk and they were acting aggressively. I didn’t particularly feel like getting my ass kicked. But is it possible to ignore that sort of comment? What if this fellow wasn’t just “talking tough,” what if he actually did rape a girl that night? Wouldn’t I share in the responsibility if I sat by silently and said nothing when he announced his intentions? Or maybe I shouldn’t say anything, maybe I should just jump in and start swinging. I’ve known too many people that have encountered sexual violence and I know how absolutely horrible and shattering sexual violence is. Maybe it would be worth getting my ass kicked just to break that fellow’s nose and show him he can’t go around glorifying or trivializing rape. Yet wouldn’t I then just be perpetuating and embracing just another manifestation of the male violence that I claim to hate?
So, if you were me sitting next to these fellows at that moment, what would you do?
(2) I sometimes enjoy going for late night walks around my neighbourhood and I always make sure I carry a lighter when I walk (lighters make for great conversation starters — plus it’s good to have something in your pocket to hold onto when you’re walking around the ghetto late at night, but that’s a different story). Thus, when a fellow stopped me and asked if I had a lighter I didn’t hesitate to say that I did. However, I quickly realized that this fellow wasn’t interested in smoking cigarettes. As I pulled out my lighter, he pulled out a glass pipe and a ten dollar crack rock. I was taken a little off guard. It wasn’t that I was unaccustomed to being around people smoking crack — I see enough of that in the alleyways and streets around my house — it’s just that I didn’t expect the fellow to start smoking right there and then with my lighter. If I let him use my lighter wouldn’t I be supporting his addiction? Yet wouldn’t he find a light in the next few minutes anyway? If I let him use my lighter couldn’t I use that as an opportunity to share a few much needed good and gentle words with him?
So, if you were me standing on the sidewalk that night holding a lighter, what would you do?
Volf and the Language of the Church
Well, over the last two days I have had the privilege of attending a series of lectures presented by Miroslav Volf. The lecture series, offered as the 2006 Laing Lectures at my school, was called “A Voice of One's Own: Public Faith in a Pluralistic World.” The first lecture was entitled, “The Malfunctions of Faith: Idleness and Coerciveness,” the second lecture was called, “A Faith that Makes a Difference” and the final lecture was called “A Peaceable Faith.” Part of what made the lectures so interesting was the fact that a few profs from my school were able to respond to Volf's lectures and then engage in a panel discussion with him.
There was one exchange between Volf and my professor Hans Boersma that I find particularly interesting. Volf had concluded his first lecture by emphasizing that the Church must exist as a counter-culture for the common good. Boersma challenged the term “counter-culture” and argued that the Church should be understood as a complete and unique “culture.” Volf then expressed some discomfort with the notion of the Church as a culture and the example that he provided was intriguing. “For example,” he said, “I do not think that the Church speaks her own language.”
This caught my attention, given the fact that “postliberal” theologians, in light of Wittgenstein's notion of “language-games” and Lyotard's notion of “petit recits [small stories],” have been emphasizing the uniqueness of the language of the Church.
Consequently, at the end of the third lecture when I had an opportunity to speak with Volf I pressed him on this point. If the Church does not speak her own unique language, what language does she speak? Indeed, could it not be argued that a further “malfunction” of the contemporary Church in the West is precisely the fact that she has lost her own unique language and capitulated to other language-games, allowing her world to be shaped by words and meanings that are foreign to her?
Unfortunately, Volf did not have time to respond in full. He began by expressing his discomfort with any approach that understands language as strictly functional and then went on to affirm the argument that the Church is, inevitably, caught speaking the language of those around her — how can she not?
I then attempted to take the question from another angle and asked, taking Barth as a guide, whether or not the Word of God could be described as the truly unique Language of the Church; indeed, is it because the Church is ever only a witness to the Word, that the language of her proclamation is not unique?
Volf began by expressing his discomfort with Barth's approach to language (analogy in particular) and, alas, this is about as far as we got. He noted that this topic is one that is particularly important today, but also noted that such things were difficult to discuss briefly and the night was late and others were coming and going, getting books autographed and expressing their thanks.
So I am left hanging. Anybody want to pick up on these questions?
The Faith of Jesus Christ and the Righteousness of Believers
A few thoughts inspired by dialogue with the New Perspective on Paul.
Properly understood, it is not my faith in Jesus that saves me. Rather, it is the faithfulness of Jesus that saves me.
My faith does not defeat the power of sin, nor does it atone for my sins. Rather, it is the faithfulness of Jesus that has defeated sin and atoned for the sins of us all.
My faith does not recapitulate humanity, nor does it inaugurate the new age. Rather, it is the faithfulness of Jesus that recapitulated humanity and birthed the new age.
Therefore, it is the faith of Jesus that is salvific, not my faith in Jesus. My faith in Jesus simply shows that I have been saved by Jesus. My faith is not what gets me into the covenant people of God, it is that which shows that I am already in the covenant people of God. Faith in Jesus is not that which saves Christians, rather it is that which is an identity marker of those who have already (in the here-and-now) realized that they have been saved by Jesus. Faith simply sets apart those who have already realized that Jesus is Saviour and Lord of all, until the day when Jesus returns and God becomes “all in all.”
However, there are another dimension to Christian faith in Christ. Indeed, Christian faith is perhaps better described as in Christ faith. That is to say, it is the faith of those who are in Christ. Indeed, one of the the most central elements of Paul's writing is the notion of Christian existence “in Christ.” Christians are those who members of Christ's body, they are baptized into Christ's death so that they will be resurrected with Christ, they share in Christ's sufferings so that they may also share in his glory, therefore Christian living can be summed up as “Christ” (as Paul says in Phil 1.21: “For me, to live is Christ”). Therefore, because all that we are and do is now “in Christ” this means that our faith is “in Christ faith.” Understood in this way, it is possible to see our faith as participation in the faith of Christ.
Realizing this also opens the door to revisit the notion of type of righteousness possessed by Christians. Certain New Testament scholars have raised a significant critique of the Reformed doctrine of “imputed righteousness.” This doctrine asserts that God gives his own righteousness to believers and thus considers them innocent. However, the critics of this doctrine have argued that to suggest that believers are granted God's righteousness is to make a category mistake. What they mean is this: righteousness language in the New Testament is best understood against two backgrounds, the forensic (i.e. law court) and the covenantal. Now, in the law court there can be more than one type of righteousness. There is the righteousness of the judge, who judges impartially and justly, and there is the righteousness that is granted to the defendant when he or she is vindicated. Thus, when righteousness language refers to God as judge and to humanity as the defendant, one must not suggest that one can share in the other's righteousness for that would confuse the categories. The defendant is not declared righteous in the same way that the judge is righteous. Furthermore, the same distinction holds within the covenantal context. Here God's righteousness is understood has his faithfulness to the covenant he made, and to suggest that human's receive this righteousness is to confuse the covenant partners with one another. This critique, I think, is quite convincing.
However, there is a sense in which the notion of “imputed righteousness” still holds true, but it does so in a significantly reworked manner. Stated succinctly: because the in Christ faith of believers is participation in the faith of Christ, believers also participate in God's righteousness because they then become the agents by which God remains faithful to his covenant with humanity and the rest of creation. The notion of “imputed righteousness” is therefore all about vocation, commission, and mission, and not about some sort of static status. One can be said to share in God's righteousness to the extent that one shares in God's mission. Indeed, this is also then a participation in God's righteousness as judge over the world, and perhaps this view of imputed righteousness makes good sense of Paul's enigmatic statement that “the saints will judge the world” (cf. 1 Cor 5-6). Christian's share in God's righteousness as judge when they go into the world with the embodied announcement of the forgiveness of sins.
The Police
I would like not to have this job. It has cost me my dreams.
~ Oleksander Mazur, an officer in the UN's international police force (CIVPOL) who works with trafficked women and children
A short time ago a scandal surfaced within Canada's national police force (the RCMP). A fellow named David Ramsay, a provincial court judge in the province of British Columbia, had been accused of engaging in sexual activities with aboriginal teen female prostitutes (some of whom had appeared in his court) and the police had engaged in a lengthy investigation. After a couple years spent gathering evidence and building an airtight case, Judge Ramsay was charged and he pleaded guilty in 2004 to doing such things as having sex with girls as young as twelve, and, in one case, smashing a child's face into the dashboard of his car and then forcing her to hitchhike naked from a rural area back into the city. Ramsay was sentenced to 7 years (of course, this means he'll probably only actually serve a few years of hard time).
However, in the investigation of this judge, information had surfaced that suggested that nine RCMP officers had also engaged in sexual activities with underage prostitutes.
Of course, for those of who journey alongside of women and youth who are sexually exploited this sort of thing is old news. I have lost count of all the stories I have been told by girls (yes, girls, not yet women) about the times they have been picked up and sexually exploited by police officers. Time and time again these girls are picked up and given the option of being charged with working the stroll as a minor or engaging in sexual activities with the officers and thus avoiding all charges. And I've known girls who have been raped because they refused to bargain with the officers (of course, to balance out the stories I have been told by girls, I have also been told countless stories by boys about being violently beaten by police officers — and I have seen the proof on their bodies).
Therefore, as a follow-up of the Ramsay investigation, I was not surprised to hear that Constable Justin Harris of the RCMP was being charged with engaging in sexual activity with prostitutes under the age of 18. Harris was also being investigated for assaulting one of the girls because she asserted that, when she refused to have perform oral sex without a condom, he hit her in the face. Another girl also described Harris as a “bad date” — a term used for johns that act aggressively or violently. Such stories are nothing short of horrific but I found it encouraging that the ongoing corruption within Canada's national police force was finally getting some attention. Perhaps a conviction in the Harris case (which, given the evidence, seemed like a rather done deal) would open the door to prosecuting other officers (like the 8 other officers implicated in the Ramsay case). Further, a conviction in the Harris case would, perhaps, encourage others who are raped and beaten by police officers (and a pretty regular basis) to gain the courage to come forward and press charges.
But there's a catch. You see, it is the police who police the police. Constable Harris sat before a panel of three senior RCMP officers from other provinces. And his case was thrown out. Not because evidence was lacking. Not because the Constable was innocent. Harris' case was thrown out because of the questionable usage of a technicality. You see, when the RCMP does internal reviews they have one year to build the case and press charges against an officer. If that year expires without charges being pressed, then that officer cannot be charged with the content of that investigation. Consequently, the panel determined that, even though the official investigation of Constable Harris had followed the proper internal protocol, the RCMP did have evidence of Harris' activities much earlier when Judge Ramsay was first being investigated. Thus, the panel determined that Harris could not be charged (nor, by implication, could any other officer implicated in the Ramsay investigation).
Harris walks away a free man, and if you follow the mainstream media, this is a good thing. Over and over reporters have stressed how difficult this process has been for Harris, how depressed it has made him, and how it has put such a strain on his marriage. We are lead to believe that it is the investigation that makes things hard for Harris' wife — not the fact that he assaulted, beat and had sex with children. You see, Harris is the victim, and the girls that he abused, well, they never get mentioned, and their voices are never heard. And so, we all learn an important lesson — don't bring charges against the police. Suffer in silence.
Do I really need to go into why this is all so infuriating?
Who Said It?
Hollywood's a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss, and fifty cents for your soul. I know, because I turned down the first offer often enough and held out for the fifty cents.
Ten Propositions on Hell (an alternate proposal)
A short while ago, I read Kim Fabricius' “Ten propositions on hell” which is quoted in full on Ben Myer's blog (cf. http://faith-theology.blogspot.com/2006/09/ten-propositions-on-hell.html). I thought I would provide 10 alternate (but not necessarily contradictory) theses on hell.
Let us begin by asserting that:
(1) Jesus saves us from hell in the same way that he saves us from death.
This can then be rephrased in a more provocative manner:
(2) Jesus does not save us from hell any more than he saves us from death.
Yet:
(3) Our salvation from death does not prevent us from dying. Rather, our salvation from death is a salvation that leads us through death.
Consequently:
(4) Our salvation from hell does not prevent us from “descending into hell.” Rather, our salvation from hell is a salvation that leads us through hell.
If this is the case then:
(5) What we mean by the word “hell” must be reconsidered.
As we do this we must note that:
(6) The references to hell in the early creeds (the Apostles' Creed and the Athanasian Creed) occur within the domain of Christology (and they are not a part of the assertions about the final end state of humanity — which only speak of the “resurrection of the dead” and the “life everlasting”).
Therefore:
(7) “Hell” must be understood within the framework of Jesus' mission.
When this occurs:
(8) “Hell” is best understood as the place where Jesus' ultimate, and salvific, solidarity with “sinners,” with the god-forsaken, and with those who experience the utter extremes of exile comes to its fullest expression.
Furthermore, it must be remembered that:
(9) Christians are called to participate in the mission of Jesus, not because Jesus' victory was incomplete, but so that Jesus' victory can be implemented in the present.
Therefore:
(10) Christian's are not saved from hell, if that is taken to mean a complete escape from hell. Rather, Christians are saved so that they can participate in Jesus' descent into hell, and share in his mission of salvific solidarity with the god-forsaken.
Coming to Grips with Separation (Part 1?)
About four months ago my parents separated. My parents had been “married” for nearly thirty-three years, when I received a call from my mother informing me that she had left my father. A great variety of emotions passed through me in those first weeks.
After speaking with my mom, I sort of broke down and had a good hard cry. It's not that the separation was entirely unexpected, it's just that the inevitable can still knock the wind out of us when it arrives. It's like watching a cancer patient get more and more ill: we still cry when that patient dies. We cry because of the thread of brokenness that runs through creation; we cry because death, even when we know it is coming, is still something worth mourning because God desires a world where death no longer has any power. And we cry because separation, even when it is inevitable, is still something worth mourning because God desires a world in which all of us are reconciled with one another. (Note that in all of this I am not saying that the separation was the event which broke my parents' relationship, I think that the relationship was broken year before, and that's why I use the analogy of a terminal illness that results in death [and that's also why I put the word “married” in quotes in my first paragraph]). And so my first response was to mourn our communal brokenness.
My second reaction, which is still ongoing, and which is the focus of this post, was to try and think through these things Christianly. To begin with, I quite firmly believe that separation can be a genuinely Christian event. I very much believe that separation can be exercised within marriage in a way that is analogous to the way in which excommunication should function within the Church.
Excommunication is not an action that kicks people out of the corporate body of Christ, rather it is a (last, desperate) action that reveals that the excommunicated person, through his or her own ongoing activity, has already separated him or herself from the covenant people of God. Excommunication thus makes that fact clear to all the parties involved (and to all those who observe people who call themselves “Christians”). Furthermore, excommunication is practiced with the goal of reconciliation. A person's self-chosen separation from the body of Christ is made manifest so that that person can become a true member of God's covenant people. Stated in an overly simplistic manner, excommunication reveals that a person who thought that he or she was “in” the people of God is actually “out” and thus it simultaneously shows that person what he or she must do to be truly “in” — indeed, it encourages that person to do precisely what it necessary to be truly “in” (note that my use of “in” and “out” language here does not refer to the status of a person's “eternal salvation.” Rather I am simply speaking of a person's membership within the confessing body of Christ as it exists in the here and now).
Similarly, I believe that separation can be a (last, desperate) action through which one person in a marriage reveals that the other person in the marriage has already separated him or herself from the marriage covenant due to his or her ongoing actions. Therefore, separation makes this clear and, like excommunication, is also simultaneously a (last, desperate) attempt at genuine reconciliation.
This is, of course, the ideal.
In reality, things are, alas, much more messy and, yes, broken. The Christian ideal is for the reconciliation of all creation and all people but that ideal will never be fulfilled until Christ returns and makes all things new. Alas, even the Church, God's new creation body, God's forgiven and forgiving people, will never perfectly manifest this ideal. Therefore, another part of thinking through this topic Christianly is recognizing that some threads of brokenness will always remain within us, some wounds leave scars and others never fully heal. This is true of us physically (or are all Christians in perfect physical health?), and it is just as true of us relationally and emotionally. Thus, although our ideal is for reconciliation in all things, we also embrace those who are unable to be reconciled with all people (who among is is truly reconciled with all people?). Sure, our ideal is to see all of creation reconciled, but that doesn't mean we are encouraging lions and calves to lie down together, and it also doesn't mean we're encouraging our children to play with vipers (cf. Isaiah's vision of the new creation in Is 11). Of course, I'm not saying that either person in my parent's relationship was “a viper” or “a lion,” I'm simply pointing to the fact that sometimes our ideal of reconciliation is impossible in the here and now.
This means that living Christianly sometimes means accepting that threads of brokenness and separation will always be present even within the people of God, and it means that sometimes we must accept that brokenness and recognize our desperation for (and distance from) the time when God will be all in all.
This conclusion is a difficult one for me to draw. Indeed, I don't think I would have been able to draw this conclusion were it not for my study of Miroslav Volf's writings (cf. Exclusion and Embrace and Free of Charge: Giving and Forgiving in a Culture Stripped of Grace). It is a conclusion I draw with some regret and with some hesitation. With regret because, even though this is the reality, it is a sad reality. With hesitation because I think too often people use this sort of argument as a way to avoid engaging in necessary reconciliations. Arguments, like this one, which are premised upon “realism” and “practicality” are too often used by those who look for the “minimum requirements” of a self-serving discipleship. We should never be looking for the “minimum” but should rather be asking how we can go deeper into a God-and-other-focused discipleship. I worry that people could read this argument and think “see, I knew I didn't have to forgive or reconcile with so-and-so” when really that's not what I'm arguing for at all. Forgiveness and reconciliation should be the de facto position of all Christians. Yet there are situations of brokenness that challenge that position, and that must be taken seriously. Of course, the objection can be made that God can heal all brokenness, no matter how deep, and this is true. The response to this objection is simply that God does not, here and now, heal all brokenness, and we must create room within the people of God for those God does not fully heal. We must welcome such people with open arms until such a time as God chooses to heal them fully — even if that time does not come until after the resurrection.
Of course, in making these observations there is a line I am drawing between brokenness and obstinance. Some are incapable of reconciliation because their wounds never fully heal, and such people should be welcomed in the way that I suggest. Others are incapable of reconciliation because they are obstinate, and such people should be challenged. Hence the need for discernment, and hence the reason why it may seem like, in this post, I am giving with one hand what I take away with the other.
So, these thoughts on excommunication, separation, brokenness, and our distance from God being “all in all” lead me back to the situation of my parents and one final thought.
I have come to the conclusion that the Church must more fully embrace the notion of separation as a form of excommunication. Because the Church, especially the Conservative streams of the Church (of which my mother is a part) is so opposed to divorce, and also tends to see the woman as subservient to the man in marriage, separation is rarely practiced in the way that it should be practiced. Instead, women (and men) end up staying in relationships that are destructive and consequently, when separation occurs, they do not separate with the goal of reconciliation — they separate because they are so shattered that they cannot possibly stay within that relationship. When this occurs, full reconciliation often becomes a remote possibility, or a complete impossibility. Thus, if we are really to hope to see broken marriages reconciled, we must embrace the place of separation instead of continually counseling women (and men) to stay within destructive relationships.
Finally, because I began by speaking about my reactions to my parents' separation, I should note one other reaction — one that shames me, and reveals my deeply rooted selfishness. Early on I could not help feeling angry at my mom. I was not angry that my mom separated from my dad (for reasons that should now be obvious) — I was angry that she separated for the reasons that she did! As I have mentioned before, I was kicked out of my parents' house by my dad when I was 17. Thus, when I heard that my mom had left, and when I heard why she left I thought: “what? You leave because of that, but you never left because of what happened to me? You never left when I got thrown to the wolves, so why are you leaving now?” Of course, I knew that there were all sorts of things in my mom's life that enabled her/drove her to leave when she did but I still felt that knee-jerk selfish reaction for a little while. I am ashamed of that reaction and thank God that I never said anything about it to my mom. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
And have mercy on all of us as we struggle to follow you, even as we discover old scars that still ache. And please, Lord, hasten the day when you will be “all in all” and we will live in shalom with one another. Amen.