As sand through the hour glass…
1. Theopolitical Imagination: Discovering the Liturgy as a Political Act in an Age of Global Consumerism by William T. Cavanaugh
This book is brilliant (I wouldn’t expect anything less from Cavanaugh. A recent student of Hauerwas he’s definitely a rising star). This book argues that all politics are esentially premised on theological categories and require particular ways of imagining space and time. Thus Cavanaugh explores three myths that are a part of the way that nation-states shape space and time: the myth of the state as saviour (particularly as saviour from religious violence), the myth of civil society as free space, and the myth of globalisation as catholicity. All three of these myths claim to bring peace to a fractured humanity — yet fail to do so. Cavanaugh shows how the Christian liturgy, especially the Eucharist, is the true road to peace.
2. The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Postliberal Age by George A. Lindbeck.
This book was the highlight of my month. This isn’t light reading but Lindbeck is careful enough to define his terms so that the attentive reader is able to follow his argument — and it’s well worth following. Lindbeck argues the the most common approach to religion sees it as an expression of a universal experience. All people somehow experience the divine and this common experience is expressed via various forms of religious systems. This is the view that has come to dominate the discussion where the notion of religions as propositions stating absolute truths (or falsehoods, since all religions cannot be true) has fallen into disfavour. Over against these two views (which Lindbeck calls the experiential-expressivist and cognitivist views) Linkbeck prefers to understand religions as languages which dictate the way in which the people who speak the language understand the world (this view is called the cultural-linguistic view). Thus religions are not various ways of expressing a universal experience but are languages that create their own unique experiences. With this understanding of religion doctrine functions as grammar. Doctrine lays out the rules of the language. The authorities are therefore not necessarily those who are well versed in the grammar (I, for example, now a hell of a lot about Ancient Greek grammar but am far from fluent in the language) but those who are immersed in the language itself and naturally see the world through the lens it provides (to continue to use myself as the example, I know far less about technical English grammar rules, but I am far more fluent in the language — and therefore more of an authority). Now if all of this sounds somewhat irrelevant or abstract it’s because I’m not doing Lindbeck justice. This book deserves to be read by anybody who seriously thinks about the cultural “relevance” of Christianity.
3. Good News in Exile: Three Pastors Offer a Hopeful Vision for the Church by Martin B. Copenhaver, Anthony B. Robinson, and William H. Willimon.
I’m very glad I read this book. These pastors pull primarily from the writings of Brueggemann, Lindbeck, and Hauerwas and present the material in a way that is both challenging and easily accessible. I can be something of an academic snob when it comes to pastoral material and it was quite a joyful humbling experience to read this.
4. Branded Nation: The Marketing of Megachurch, CollegeInc, & Museumworld by James B. Twitchell.
This book looks at the ways in which brands create narratives around overabundant goods and therefore differentiate products based upon the stories that they tell. Because the branding explosion is so related to an overabundance of very similar products Twitchell argues that it is only natural that branding has slipped into high culture — religion, education, and the fine arts. All of these things are forced to market themselves through branding if they hope to succeed — and Twitchell is quick to assure the reader that everything in life comes down to marketing. Everybody is looking to selling as much of their product as they can. In the end Twitchell asserts that branding is good for high culture and he fully embraces this process hoping that it will create a more peaceable society, and a more peaceable world. Needless to say there are a lot of places where I disagree with this book but I’m working on a longer article contrasting this work with Cavanaugh’s writing so I’ll save all that for later.
5 On Job: God-Talk and the Suffering of the Innocent by Gustavo Gutierrez.
This is Gutierrez’ study of the book of Job. His intriguing thesis is that the book is not trying to answer the question of why innocent people suffer but rather, how one is to talk rightly about God in the midst of such suffering. It is Job — with all his protests, cries, and accusations — that God says speaks properly, while his friends — with all their theologising in favour of God — are condemned for speaking improperly and even blasphemously. As can be expected from a liberation theologian Gutierrez also does a fine job of showing how Job learns to move beyond exploring his own suffering and instead identifies himself with the suffering poor.
6. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.
I continue to enjoy Austen although I find her books a little… fluffy. Granted she is a little more subtle than some authors and this novel does raise some interesting questions about the relation of love to material success and physical status (the reader is bound to question even the noble and discerning protagonist) but I’ll continue to read Austen because she writes well, not because she’s particularly inspiring.
7. The Roald Dahl Omnibus by (surprise, surprise) Roald Dahl.
This was my first time reading anything by this author and I loved it. I think I speed through 900 pages of short stories in three or four days. I’ve never been particularly attracted to short-stories but Dahl is doing a good job of making me rethink that. I’ve always been guilty of favouring novels where I’ve been able to strongly identify with at least one of the characters, and although I don’t find that in Dahl’s stories (who would dare identify with his characters?) his writing is too strong to ignore.
8. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling.
I have a bad habit of being unable to stop reading a series once I start it. So now I’m doomed to read Harry Potter for the next 20 years or however long Rowling wants to milk the series. Now don’t get me wrong the books aren’t bad… but they’re not that great either. Rowling seems to have found a formula that works and simply repeats it over and over (sort of like R. Jordan is doing with his fantasy series… is that still going?). All that aside these are still fun kids books (yes, its a sad state affairs when the novels that are sweeping our nation(s) are children’s literature).
9. Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return by Marjane Satrapi.
The second in Satrapi’s autobiographical series is equal in caliber to the first. The art is fairly simple but the story is well told and quite personal — the perfect sort of story for an illustrated novel. Having been sent away from Iran at the end of the first book this novel tells of her years in Europe and her return to her homeland.
Three Ways of Dying
And, in the end, we talked affectionately and laughed a little. What else could we do? I was on my back in the hallway wondering at the song that filled the silence. It spoke of a beauty that would not remain broken, and a fire that would not be quenched.
I went to work and watched a woman lurching and flailing in front of the window. One of my coworkers made a comment about how junkies — at least those whose bodies are riddled with the drug — move like zombies.
“It’s like Shaun of the Dead out there.”
I can’t help but think that she is dancing, her body pleading with God for mercy; dancing, dancing, dancing, desparate beyond hope, he must take notice.
“Look at me, God. Here I am. Here, here, here. I am dancing for you. Dancing and dying, and you are nowhere to be found. Look at me, why won’t you look at me?”
There is something so sacred here that it knocks the wind out of me. I want to join her dance.
Instead I head upstairs and find one of my girls crying.
“I don’t know if it was rape or sexual assault. I said, ‘no’ and he said, ‘you know you want it.’ He used protection though. Is that rape?”
We know that there is no promised land
or promised stars.
We know it, Lord, we know it,
and we go on working with you.
We know that a thousand times over
we will hitch our wagon anew
and that a thousand times over
we shall erect anew
our old shelter.
We know that for this we shall receive
neither ration nor wage.
We know it, Lord, we know it,
and we go on working with you.
And we know
that over this dwelling
a thousand times,
and a thousand times again,
we must perform the same tragicomic trick
without praise
and without applause.
We know it, Lord, we know,
and we go on working with you.
And you know, Lord, that we know,
that we all know, all of us,
(Where is the Devil?)
that today you can lay a bet with anyone,
a safer bet than with Job and with Faust.
~Leon Filipe, Versos y oraciones de caminante
When Justice Conquers Holiness: Why I Support Gay Marriage
Walter Brueggemann in Theology of the Old Testament talks about two traditions that exist alongside each other within the Old Testament. These traditions cannot be easily resolved and exist with a certain amount of tension that makes them irresolvable. These are what he calls the justice tradition and the holiness tradition. The first looks toward the neighbour, the second toward the well-being of YHWH. The first is marked by caring for one’s neighbour, the second is marked by ritual purity. Often these traditions overlap but sometimes they do not. Brueggemann argues that it is essential to maintain the tension between these two “interpretive trajectories,” for they reveal a God that is both for us, and a God that is jealous for God’s own self.
Pulling on the work of Fernando Belo (cf. A Materialistic Reading of the Gospel of Mark), Brueggemann then argues that Jesus champions the justice tradition while his opponents are advocates of the holiness tradition. This is not to say that the holiness tradition is to be completely discarded (indeed, a distortion of both occurs when they are taken by themselves) but it does set the tone for Christian action.
It is for this reason that Brueggemann argues that homosexuals should be granted equal rights and privileges in both civil society (i.e. marriage) and the church (i.e. ordination). Those who oppose the granting of such rights have divorced themselves from the justice tradition and are more concerned with issues of purity — cleanness and uncleanness. Brueggemann suspects that “moral arguments” raised against the granting of such rights are actually propelled by a sense of shame and defilement, having little to do with justice.
The holiness tradition is rooted in an urge for order, and — as most of the old reliabilities in or social world are in jeopardy — a large measure of unrelated issues and feelings are heaped upon the issue of homosexuality. While the tension between “the felt threat of disorder” and the “voiced urgings of justice” will continue to be a disputed issue Brueggemann argues that, regarding homosexuality, “the justice trajectory has decisively and irreversibly defeated the purity trajectory… the purity trajectory of the text may help us understand pastorally the anxiety produced by perceived and experienced disorder, but it provides no warrant for exclusionary ethical decisions in the face of the gospel” (these paragraphs completely rely upon Theology of the Old Testament 193-96).
I am in agreement with Brueggemann. I think that Christian need to realise that homosexuals (and all members of the LGBTQ community) have been marginalised, persecuted, and cut-off from fellowship with both society and the Church. When the Church acts in such a way in completely contradicts its vocation to bring freedom to captives, cast out demons, and to heal the sick — for all those actions were accomplished so that people could once again journey intimately together; slavery, demons, and sickness where all things that prevent full and proper fellowship. When the Church contributes to the oppression of homosexuals it acts in a way that completely contradicts the lifestyle of Jesus who was committed to journeying with the oppressed and marginalised of his day, the tax-collectors, the prostitutes, and yes, even the sinners.
However, does this notion of justice triumphing over holiness contradict what the bible teaches elsewhere about homosexuality? I think not. When one takes a look at the biblical texts one is struck by how little is said about the topic. Richard Hays does a careful case by case analysis in a chapter called “Homosexuality” in his masterful work, The Moral Vision of the New Testament. Old Testament evidence is primarily found in a law found in the purity codes of Leviticus — that, of course, is neither here nor there for there is much of Leviticus that Christians no longer follow (and much that they do). Where Hays is especially useful is in the application of his knowledge of ancient Greek when he approaches the relevant New Testament texts. The three terms used in 1 Cor. 6, 1 Tim. 1, and Acts 15 are malakoi, arsenokoitai, and porneia. Yet none of these terms refers to homosexuality as we understand it today. Malakoi was the name given to young boys who engaged in sexual activity with adult men; the term porneia is simply an umbrella term for any type of sexual activity; arsenokoitai is definately the most problematic term and scholars have yet to agree on its meaning.
This means that Romans 1-3 is really the pivotal text in the debate (from a New Testament perspective — it is also the only passage in the bible that refers to female homosexual activity). In seeking to remain true to the text I am forced to agree with Hays that Paul understands homosexuality to be a sign of the fallenness of creation. Here it is important to note (as Hays does) that Paul is not teaching a code of sexual ethics but offering a diagnosis of the disordered human condition. Therefore, Hays says, “Homosexuality is not a provocation of the ‘wrath of God’ (Rom. 1:18); rather, it is a consequence of God’s decision to ‘give up’ rebellious creatures.” Of course those rebellious creatures are not homosexuals but all of humanity.
And this is the extent of what the texts say. There is nothing here that overthrows what Brueggemann says. I light of an ongoing oppression, and in light of the vocation of the Church, it seems to me that there is no biblical reason for justice not to trump holiness in this case.
Therefore, I must depart from Hays (who goes as far as to approve the ordination of homosexuals, but disapproves of gay marriage) and attempt to synthesize this brief exegesis with Brueggemann’s argument. Over against Christians who argue that homosexuality is a choice I have no problem affirming the opposite. For many homosexuality (or other orientations that are deemed sexually “deviant” by contemporary culture) is not a choice. Fallenness can impact even genetics. And yet it must be noted that this is true for all of us — not just for members of the LGBTQ community. As much as the Church embodies a new creation it also exists as a community of sinners. We are, all of us, in the process of moving into intimacy — which is itself the very thing that overcomes fallenness. To exclude homosexuals from the most intimate of human relationships seems to be as absurd as excluding myself. After all, I too exhibit signs of sexual fallenness. As a member of contemporary Western culture I find it quite easy to objectify women and treat them as sexual objects — not as people. Yet nobody — certainly no straight man that I know — as ever thought that this meant I was excluded from marriage. No, no, they say, such a sex drive means I’m perfect for marriage. For, as Paul himself says, it is better to marry than to burn with passion. Well, I say the same of homosexuals. It is better to marry than to burn with passion (I realise that I’m engaging in eisegesis to a certain extent by applying this text in this way but I think it is an application that stays true to the broader biblical context). Within the context of two consenting adults who are “naturally” inclined to homosexuality justice conquers holiness.
Really it comes down to how we are defining people. It seems to me that the Church has imposed a false — an anti-Christian — double-standard when it comes to members of the LGBTQ community. Church-members look at themselves and define themselves by their holiness yet they look at others and define them by their fallenness — which is a fallenness that they received, not one that they earned. I say that’s bullshit. That’s like saying a baby born addicted to crack is to blame for her mother’s addiction. What do we do with such a baby? Kick it out of the family? Of course not! We journey in love relationships with that child — even if that means we have to supply it with crack so that it doesn’t die. And at least a part of the reason why we do so is because we recognise something of that child in all of us. Let me take another (and perhaps a better) example to try and express what I mean. All of us are born mortal. We suffer the maladies that come as a consequence of that and all of us will one day die. Yet this mortality is taken as the strongest evidence of fallenness. However, the Church learns to live as a people that emobodies a new type of life within a decaying world. In the same way certain sexual orientations may be rooted in fallenness but it is the very act of marriage that redeems those things.
So I say that the Christian answer to the current debate is to vocally support gay marriage. I can think of no other solution that makes sense within the context of the Christian story.
Spaces to be Angry
I think that we tend to view anger as a weapon. Anger is something that is used to hurt others, it is an act of aggression (and even sometimes of violence), that silences others and damages relationships. Once we have experienced somebody's anger we are more inclined to keep them at a distance — lest they lash out and hurt us again.
However, in my time working with street kids, homeless adults, and all those who are marginalised in the inner city, I have come to see anger quite differently. I think anger is actually something quite intimate. Anger is an expression of vulnerability — and in a culture where we do all we can to appear invulnerable such a thing is valuable indeed. Anger, when approached from this perspective, becomes something that can deepen relationships — not break them apart.
It took me some time to realise this. As I journeyed with marginalised people I was continually surprised that those who lashed out at me, those who seemed to hate me the most (even those who physically assaulted me), would often — after the outburst — have a much tighter bond with me. And it was a bond I felt as well. It puzzled me for the longest time. I was continually shocked that those who one day were ready to act violently against me were, the next day, far more affectionate towards me than I had ever seen them be. At first I thought they were just feeling guilty for their actions but I quickly realised there was something much deeper going on. Several of the deepest relationships I have developed have started this way.
And I think it is because I have recognised that their anger is something that was intimate, something that made them vulnerable. If I were to respond negatively to their anger it would be a personal rejection of them. Which is what happens over and over again. Kids can only so go long without an outburst and the rejection that follows that outburst only confirms the destructive, hopeless image they have of themselves. But I continue to love them after their anger and I think they feel more fully known and, therefore, more fully loved — perhaps loved in a way that they had not been loved before. Allowing someone the space to be angry, and loving them more deeply through their anger, this is what causes transformation.
How do we, who desire intimacy, we seek to live in any form of real community, create spaces for others to be angry? I think that the first step is changing how we view anger at a fundamental level. Increasingly I am learning to see anger as a gift given to me — not a weapon used against me.
Glossolalia as a Universal Badge of Christian Identity
Within many “charismatic” churches it seems that speaking in tongues is elevated to a special status and a form of elitism develops around the gift. One is thought to be an inferior type of Christian if one has not yet discovered one's “prayer language.” Those who do speak in tongues (along with those who pretend to speak in tongues) form a rather comfortable clique where the members congratulate each other for being baptised in the Spirit.
The problem is that all Christians receive the Spirit of the new age as soon as the become members of the people of God. There is no initial conversion followed by a later baptism of the Spirit.* The New Testament emphatically asserts that all who are in Christ have the Spirit. Among the body that is indwelt by the Spirit, glossolalia is a gifting (contrary to the assertion of some who would deny it altogether), but it is one among many, and even a minor gifting (contrary to the assertion of those would would develop a form of charismatic elitism around glossolalia; the greater gifts are those that more powerfully build of the body of Christ).
However, when someone becomes a Christian they do receive the gift of tongues — but not in the way that that gift has been traditionally understood. Christians speak a language that is foreign to all others. Their words have unique meanings and are unintelligible to those who stand outside the tradition.** By speaking Christianly, by proclaiming the Christian story and learning the Christian language all Christians end up speaking with a foreign tongue.
Here Paul's emphasis upon prophecy comes into play. The speaking of such a foreign language to those who do not understand it has a rather limited value. When the Church lives and acts prophetically it will give a new power to the words that it says. Living prophetically means becoming the message, it means becoming Jesus, becoming the Word made flesh.
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*I'm not arguing that the Spirit does not give us different giftings at later moments in life — which could also mean that a Spirit-related gift could only be momentarily accessible, and the removal of that gift would, therefore, not imply the removal of the Spirit.
**Once again I find myself referring to (and affirming) George Lindbeck's “cultural-linguistic” understanding of religion. Lindbeck asserts that the language of Christianity cannot be taught through translation anymore than one can be taught to speak French through English translations.
Conversion
In the middle of a world given over to extravagance, desire and consumption I don't think the Christian response is to just try to learn to live a little more simply, give a little more charitably, or demonstrate a little more integrity.
In a world maintained by structures of evil and death I don't think the Christian response is to just try a little harder to do good.
Christianity is not about about improvement, it is about conversion.* That means Christians should have little interest in improving structures that are inherently flawed. That also reveals how most Christian discussion about “moral issues” completely misses the point. Generally such moral discussions miss how involved (and committed) all parties are to operating within the broader narrative(s) of the nation-state. By seeking to be less offensive Christians have discarded the language of conversion in favour of the language of moral improvement — and as a result they have given themselves over to a story that is not their own.
The first thing Christians must do is learn how to live within their story, speak their own language, and create their own space. This does not mean creating some sort of Christian state (as if such a thing could exist) but it does mean beginning to imagine time and space differently.** That, after all, is what is entailed in conversion. It means moving out of one story into another. Which also means that all of us, despite the language of tolerance that dominates public religious debate, are in the business of converting others. Because our foundational narratives govern our actions, we are all actors in one story or another and — depending on how we play our roles — we will either attract or repel others from our story.
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*I am indebted to Willimon et al. for highlighting this distinction; cf. Good News in Exile.
**This is what Cavanaugh attempts to do in his book Theopolitical Imagination where he confronts three myths: the myth of the state as saviour; the myth of civil society as free space; and the myth of globalisation as catholicity. The nation-state of the USA tells a particular story that imagines space and time in a particular way. Cavanaugh argues for a Christian story that imagines space and time in a subversive manner.
From a Triumphant Church to a Triumphant Liberalism: Movements that Mistake Condescension for Love
Looking back on the form of Christianity that used to be the dominant religion of the Western nations — a form that was intimately linked to the governance of society and the exercising of state power — it is hard to miss the fact there there is an air of condescension to the acts of the church. The church is well aware that it is operating from a position of privilege to those who are much less privileged. Thus, in its acts of charity, of mercy, and of forgiveness, one can't help but notice a certain tone of superiority and smugness. Here expressions of love are inherently condescending.
However, such a church no longer exists except for in a few pocket communities (mostly located in the United States of America). Instead a form of liberalism has come to dominate. This isn't a reference to liberalism in the sense of the political liberal/conservative divide. Rather it is the form of philosophical liberalism that is espoused by both political liberals and conservatives alike.[1] Yet, as this liberalism has come to dominate social thought and action, condescension has become inherent to its practice of love. Those who abandon such exclusive narratives as the Christian story for the more tolerant and appealing stories of liberal democracies can afford to be “always open, irenic, and affirming.” After all, why shouldn't they be? They've won.[2] The claim that liberalism enables one to love everybody in a more genuine or open manner is simply the proof of the fact that liberals are in charge. That is to say, such claims to a more genuine form of loving others are often little more than the condescending words of charity given from those who know they've joined the winning team.[3]
Thus liberal democracies, as Rousseau notes, insist on the tolerance of a diversity of religions, for, within the metanarrative of such states, religion is reduced to the purely inward worship of God that does nothing to interfere with the duties of citizens to the state and tolerates other religions. This is why intolerant religions cannot be tolerated.[4] It is not because they necessarily dehumanise others or fail to love others. Rather it it because “intolerant” religions conflict with the story of liberalism and require citizens to serve a different authority than the state — an authority that, in fact, opposes the state. It is exactly by maintaining it's exclusivity and be refusing to capitulate to the narrative told by liberal nation-states that the church in the West will be able to demonstrate what it means to love all people everywhere.
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[1]This liberalism is defined by the sovereignty of the individual in society, the assertion that there are universally experienced values inherent to all people everywhere, the assertion that truth is self-derived, and that there is some neutral philisophical ground whereby all conflicts can be resolved. Cf. Willimon et al., Good News in Exile.
[2]ibid.
[3]Please remember that I am using liberal in the philosophical (not political) sense here. I am not arguing in favour of some sort of cultural conservatism. Nor am I arguing for a return to a preliberal cognitive state that sees religion as stating binding propositional truths. I am much more drawn to Lindbeck's cultural-linguistic approach… but I digress.
[4]Cf. William T. Cavanaugh, Theopolitical Imagination.
Embracing Mystery
For a long time I was put off by any theological talk around the notion of mystery. The suggestion that there are mysteries involved with faith, or with God, reeked too much of a church hierarchy that maintained a strangle-hold on the average person. In my mind mystery was too closely linked with the abuse of authority. Couple that with a cultural aversion to anything that cannot be explicated logically based on things that are “obvious” and it seems only natural that the notion of mystery is one that would make a lot of us uncomfortable.
Only recently have I begun to change my mind. I am indebted to Jon Sobrino for his talk about mystery in Where is God?, for that is what finally broke through my old way of thinking and enabled me to see mystery as something beautiful. Suddenly I discovered a mystery that was lovely and even desirable.
At the time I was reading Sobrino I was also also beginning to realise how incommunicable certain experiences are. I have no way of conveying what it is like to encounter God or what it is like to know Jesus as my Lord. Intimacy with God — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — is the great mystery of the Christian faith. This is so because such intimacy is completely foreign (and incomprehensible) to those who live outside of that relationship.
Worship as Subversive Story-Telling
Willimon, Copenhaver, and Robinson argue that worship is an activity that a community engages in, in order to centre itself within the narrative that it seeks to proclaim. Worship is a way for a community to gather and remind itself of its identity, what it believes, and what it hopes for. Thus a church that is bombarded over the week by the narratives told by liberal democracies, free-market capitalism, and “military consumerism,” can gather once a week and be reminded of the uniquely Christian story — and remember what it means to live within that story.**
However, when this element of worship is understood, it becomes easier to understand how worship can be an activity that Christians (and others) engage in, in every thing that they do. All communities are telling stories. Corporations tell a particular story, about a particular kind of world to their employees and costumers, nation-states also tell another kind of story to citizens who live within, and outside of, their borders. The challenge is therefore to live in a counter-cultural and subversive manner, to engage with those communities but not participate in the stories that they tell. Living the Christian story in the midst of nations that tell stories premised on fear, consumption, force, and hopelessness, will be a subversive activity, and will also be an act of worship.
This also means that the extent to which Christians participate in the stories told by other communities — whether that be Wal-Mart's story, America's story, or whatever — is the extent to which Christians engage in the worship of other gods.
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*This thought it not unique to these three pastors; they draw heavily from the writings of Hauerwas, Brueggemann, and Lindbeck; cf. Good News in Exile.
**The term “military consumerism” belongs to Brueggemann who argues that, contrary to the West's claim to exist within a genuinely peaceful, diversive, and pluralitistic culture, certain metanarratives still exist and drive society. Military Consumerism is the term that Brueggemann gives to the(?) metanarrative that drives America; cf. Theology of the Old Testament.
The Rule of Prayer
The early church coined the phrase lex orandi, lex credendi, which is translated roughly as “the rule of faith is the rule of prayer” or “prayer reveals the prayers' true theology.”
So my question is this: if our prayers are dominated by requests for finances, physical security, and good health, to what extent are we just praying to the same gods that are glorified in Western culture?
Granted there is a place for such things in conversations with the divine. Jesus, when teaching the disciples to pray does say, “Give us this day our daily bread,” suggesting that one should appeal to God to provide one's basic physical needs. However, that is only one line in a prayer that says a whole lot more — a prayer that is itself part of an address that emphasises that one should not spend much time worrying about such things. So when such things monopolise prayer (as they so frequently do — especially corporate prayer) I can't help but wonder if we are not simply worshiping idols.
It seems to me that one moves beyond idol worship when one prays for such things but does not devote one's life to attaining (and maintaining) such things. And when one lives in such a way then I suspect that one's prayers will gradually look more and more different.