Bonhoeffer (again) argues that Christian ethics is unique because it refuses to ask the two ethical questions - how can I be a good person? and what is a good action? - because it is already confronted by a greater question: will you hear and obey God?
I think that's helpful in churches riddled with ethical confusion. Look, the key thing here isn't to go away and have a commission and a process to try to work out what is good. Will you listen to God and do what he says?
It's also helpful in cutting through some of the fudge. This is just ethics, say some. It's a peripheral and complicated issue. Nobody should be made to feel unwelcome in church just because of an ethical disagreement. Why can't we all just coexist? Well, okay Mr Fudge, I see where you're coming from. The big 'ethical issues' we're wrestling with - around gender and sexuality, for example - are indeed 'peripheral', and have a degree of complexity about them. I get it. But what if we try again with the only relevant question for Christian ethics put front and centre: this is just obedience to God. Obeying God is a peripheral matter, and it's complicated. Nobody should be made to feel unwelcome in God's church just because they persistently and deliberately disobey God! Yeah, doesn't sound so good now, does it?
Leaving aside the fact that the apostle is perfectly clear that we should indeed break fellowship with people over 'ethical' issues, and that he brings this into the closest possible connection with the eucharistic celebration of the gospel, just understanding what the ethical question is ought to help us with working through the implications of the answer.
Friday, January 31, 2020
Thursday, January 30, 2020
Two crucial concepts from Bonhoeffer
I've long been convinced that Bonhoeffer's Ethics ought to be required reading for all Christian leaders, and perhaps all Christians. It astonishes me that in this unfinished work I find the most profound reflections on what it means to be a Christian in the modern world. Two particular concepts have been on my mind lately.
Firstly, the concept of the natural. For Bonhoeffer, the natural is not identical with the created; in fact, it contains within it the concept of fallenness. (It is perhaps significant that both Barth and Bonhoeffer are fairly tentative about the original created state; I tend to think that contemporary evangelicals [in the anglophone sense] make rather stronger statements about the original creational design than can be sustained from Scripture). The natural means the form of reality which persists after the fall. It cannot be regarded, on the hand, as the original design, because of the fall. But on the other hand it cannot be regarded as utterly fallen, because of creation. It is, if you like, the order of preservation, the way God has ordained that things should be. Crucially, for Bonhoeffer, it is the form of life. The natural is ordained for life, and as such it is relatively open to the coming of Christ, because Christ comes to give life. The natural is not yet Christian life, nor does it depend on revelation; but it is in a sense ordered towards revelation and towards Christ.
Because the natural form of things is given by God, it is not dependent on any human authority. In fact, it is the unnatural which requires organisation, propaganda, force; the natural is simply given, simply there. Bonhoeffer gives the example of children: they may, by the force of propaganda, be organised against their parents (he has, of course, the Third Reich in view); but if the propaganda and organisation subsides, a more natural filial relation will assert itself again. I think this explains the constant propaganda around abortion, or around sexuality and gender, at the moment; the proponents of the new moral consensus understand very well that they must constantly buttress their position, lest nature creep back in. It is also a source for optimism, as Bonhoeffer points out. Not ultimate optimism - we ought to have that because of Christ! - but the relative optimism that there is a good chance that natural form will reassert itself.
Second concept is vicarious representation. For Bonhoeffer, amidst the collapse of his society into evil, the crucial temptation to be resisted is ethics as keeping one's own hands clean. Withdrawal, separation, an attempt to fence out evil from the church, an attempt to separate an individual life into an outward compelled evil and an inner purity... All this has to be resisted. An ethic that derives from the gospel recognises that Jesus does not separate himself (in that sense) from sinners, but (in his total separation) becomes a brother to the wicked, taking on himself responsibility for their actions and their waywardness. Of course this is a movement which cannot be, and need not be, repeated; Christ uniquely bears sin and guilt, is uniquely the vicarious representative of all human beings. But those who are in Christ must not shy away from accepting solidarity with sinners, must not shy away from accepting guilt. There is no 'us and them'; just us, sinners. Because Christ has borne our guilt away, we can take this stance without fear of judgement; because Christ has given us an example, we must take this stance.
The combination of the two concepts seems to me to give us the possibility of a calm, a serenity, in the face of moral collapse in our society. We are not to be frantically lecturing those around us, as if the natural order of things ordained by God required our defence. We need not be frantically barricading ourselves and our church communities against the evils of the world, as if Christ needed to fear contamination. Cheerfully, we speak the truth; tearfully, we confess our complicity in guilt. And then cheerfully again we remember Jesus.
Firstly, the concept of the natural. For Bonhoeffer, the natural is not identical with the created; in fact, it contains within it the concept of fallenness. (It is perhaps significant that both Barth and Bonhoeffer are fairly tentative about the original created state; I tend to think that contemporary evangelicals [in the anglophone sense] make rather stronger statements about the original creational design than can be sustained from Scripture). The natural means the form of reality which persists after the fall. It cannot be regarded, on the hand, as the original design, because of the fall. But on the other hand it cannot be regarded as utterly fallen, because of creation. It is, if you like, the order of preservation, the way God has ordained that things should be. Crucially, for Bonhoeffer, it is the form of life. The natural is ordained for life, and as such it is relatively open to the coming of Christ, because Christ comes to give life. The natural is not yet Christian life, nor does it depend on revelation; but it is in a sense ordered towards revelation and towards Christ.
Because the natural form of things is given by God, it is not dependent on any human authority. In fact, it is the unnatural which requires organisation, propaganda, force; the natural is simply given, simply there. Bonhoeffer gives the example of children: they may, by the force of propaganda, be organised against their parents (he has, of course, the Third Reich in view); but if the propaganda and organisation subsides, a more natural filial relation will assert itself again. I think this explains the constant propaganda around abortion, or around sexuality and gender, at the moment; the proponents of the new moral consensus understand very well that they must constantly buttress their position, lest nature creep back in. It is also a source for optimism, as Bonhoeffer points out. Not ultimate optimism - we ought to have that because of Christ! - but the relative optimism that there is a good chance that natural form will reassert itself.
Second concept is vicarious representation. For Bonhoeffer, amidst the collapse of his society into evil, the crucial temptation to be resisted is ethics as keeping one's own hands clean. Withdrawal, separation, an attempt to fence out evil from the church, an attempt to separate an individual life into an outward compelled evil and an inner purity... All this has to be resisted. An ethic that derives from the gospel recognises that Jesus does not separate himself (in that sense) from sinners, but (in his total separation) becomes a brother to the wicked, taking on himself responsibility for their actions and their waywardness. Of course this is a movement which cannot be, and need not be, repeated; Christ uniquely bears sin and guilt, is uniquely the vicarious representative of all human beings. But those who are in Christ must not shy away from accepting solidarity with sinners, must not shy away from accepting guilt. There is no 'us and them'; just us, sinners. Because Christ has borne our guilt away, we can take this stance without fear of judgement; because Christ has given us an example, we must take this stance.
The combination of the two concepts seems to me to give us the possibility of a calm, a serenity, in the face of moral collapse in our society. We are not to be frantically lecturing those around us, as if the natural order of things ordained by God required our defence. We need not be frantically barricading ourselves and our church communities against the evils of the world, as if Christ needed to fear contamination. Cheerfully, we speak the truth; tearfully, we confess our complicity in guilt. And then cheerfully again we remember Jesus.
Thursday, January 23, 2020
Religious liberty
The Prime Minister and others made some encouraging noises about religious liberty a few weeks back - supporting freedom of religion at home and abroad. But I wonder if he knows what religious liberty really means?
I think freedom of religion is not regarded as any great thing in our culture, because religion itself is so badly misunderstood. If religion is just the Sunday (Friday, Saturday) hobby of a minority of people; if religion is merely the private beliefs of a limited number of individuals; if religion is just a mythical underpinning for a moral framework which could in principle be separated from those mythical roots - well, in that case religious liberty is not much more of a big deal than freedom to follow the football team of your choice, or freedom to read the novels of your choice. This sort of thing seems like it shouldn't be difficult or costly for society to grant; nor does there seem to be any reason why any particular clamour should be made about it, particularly as the number of people wanting to exercise this right seems so small.
But in fact freedom of religion means freedom to live in a completely different world from society at large, with entirely different values springing from an entirely different view of reality, and yet still to be included in social institutions and events without discrimination.
Put it like that, and I think it's a big deal.
Picture the late Roman Empire - religion here is not about private beliefs or occasional rituals for a minority; it is the whole shared world. The reason the Roman authorities are anxious about Christians - the reason they refer to them as 'atheists' - is because they seem to be threatening to tear this whole social fabric apart. They are opting out of the whole cultic-social-political complex, and the more people who go in this direction the more likely it is that the whole thing will collapse. In that context, to issue an edict of toleration is a brave and testing thing to do.
So, perhaps we wouldn't call it 'religion', but I think our situation is pretty similar. There is an assumed framework of morals and values ('British values'?) based on a particular reading of history and reality. To opt out of it is dangerous - you might be a terrorist; you are surely a bit weird. It's not the going to church or the beliefs that society objects to; just the fact that people insist on acting as if these beliefs were really true, in the real world. Hard to take.
The easy and natural social response, and the one which our culture typically pursues, is exclusion - of course you're free to hold these views (we're Western, after all, and believe in religious liberty), but you can't come into the public sphere with them. This is not genuine freedom of religion.
I wonder if our society can be, or wants to be, brave enough to have the real thing?
I think freedom of religion is not regarded as any great thing in our culture, because religion itself is so badly misunderstood. If religion is just the Sunday (Friday, Saturday) hobby of a minority of people; if religion is merely the private beliefs of a limited number of individuals; if religion is just a mythical underpinning for a moral framework which could in principle be separated from those mythical roots - well, in that case religious liberty is not much more of a big deal than freedom to follow the football team of your choice, or freedom to read the novels of your choice. This sort of thing seems like it shouldn't be difficult or costly for society to grant; nor does there seem to be any reason why any particular clamour should be made about it, particularly as the number of people wanting to exercise this right seems so small.
But in fact freedom of religion means freedom to live in a completely different world from society at large, with entirely different values springing from an entirely different view of reality, and yet still to be included in social institutions and events without discrimination.
Put it like that, and I think it's a big deal.
Picture the late Roman Empire - religion here is not about private beliefs or occasional rituals for a minority; it is the whole shared world. The reason the Roman authorities are anxious about Christians - the reason they refer to them as 'atheists' - is because they seem to be threatening to tear this whole social fabric apart. They are opting out of the whole cultic-social-political complex, and the more people who go in this direction the more likely it is that the whole thing will collapse. In that context, to issue an edict of toleration is a brave and testing thing to do.
So, perhaps we wouldn't call it 'religion', but I think our situation is pretty similar. There is an assumed framework of morals and values ('British values'?) based on a particular reading of history and reality. To opt out of it is dangerous - you might be a terrorist; you are surely a bit weird. It's not the going to church or the beliefs that society objects to; just the fact that people insist on acting as if these beliefs were really true, in the real world. Hard to take.
The easy and natural social response, and the one which our culture typically pursues, is exclusion - of course you're free to hold these views (we're Western, after all, and believe in religious liberty), but you can't come into the public sphere with them. This is not genuine freedom of religion.
I wonder if our society can be, or wants to be, brave enough to have the real thing?
Thursday, January 16, 2020
Reformation Liturgies and corporate prayer
I've just finished working through Reformation Liturgies, edited by Jonathan Gibson and Mark Earngey. This (massive) book compiles a number of different liturgies and forms of worship from the Reformation period (i.e., the 16th century), including liturgies from Lutheran, Anglican, and Reformed churches. I'll be honest, it's probably not everyone's idea of a gripping read, but I found it fascinating, and as a resource for contemporary worship absolutely invaluable. Those guys, driven by gospel need, thought hard about what Christian worship ought to be like, and strove to put it into practice. The care that went into those liturgies, to make sure that what was said and done was God-honouring, is really striking. What is equally striking - and helpfully illustrated in an appendix which compares the 'running order' of all the different liturgies (including, usefully, an outline of the mediaeval Mass) - is that there was a broad consensus amongst the early Protestants, despite differences in detail and approach, on the content and shape of a Christian act of worship.
I don't want to go into detail on that content and shape here - see the book - but I do want to ask a couple of questions.
The first is this: given the consensus in the early Reformation period, how have we got to a point now where anything that smacks of being 'liturgical' feels, to folks in my congregation, as if it is 'Anglican'?
The answer is actually hinted at in the book - the liturgies of some of the English exiles during the Marian period are already tending towards simpler forms, less prescriptive. The particular history of non-conformity in the late 16th and 17th centuries must surely have a bearing. Theologically, arguments like that of John Owen in his Discourse Concerning Liturgies (1662) are relevant. Owen's main points are: that Christ has provided men to lead in worship, equipped by the Holy Spirit, thus obviating the need for set prayers; that Christ having made such provision, any seeking out of other means is contrary to his will; and, that nobody other than Christ has the necessary authority to impose a particular liturgy. I don't find these hugely persuasive, and I think Owen ignores evidence that set liturgical forms were in use much earlier than he is prepared to admit (and I think further evidence has come to light since Owen's day). Owen thinks he is arguing for the liberty of the churches, but to me he seems to be arguing only for the liberty of the clergy, to lead as they see fit; and set in that light, the arguments do not appear so noble. However, Owen's arguments are better than the main arguments expressed in our contemporary setting, which seem to be that set forms are necessarily 'inauthentic', and that only prayer from the heart counts; add to that our culture's strong preference for informality, and hey presto.
My second, and more important, question has to do with the effect of the abandonment of liturgical forms on our churches. It is commonly observed that our worship is often rather thin gruel; that our services lack 'shape' and depth. I think that's right. The work of teaching, formation, and discipleship has come to be focused exclusively on the sermon, with the surrounding informal liturgy being seen as primarily a time for self-expression. That is problematic, to say the least.
I wonder whether there hasn't been a broader impact on corporate prayer. I don't want to over-state this, but I do think it is significant that when Jesus taught his disciples to pray he gave them, not a technique, but a form of words. (I've commented on this here and here). We learn to pray by praying along. There is no doubt in my mind that this is easier with 'set prayers' which are repeated over time than it is with extemporaneous prayer. Moreover, the sense of 'praying along' is surely conveyed better in a liturgical form with space for responses and prayers recited together than a more informal form which reserves only the 'amen' for the 'laity' (so-called).
I don't want to go into detail on that content and shape here - see the book - but I do want to ask a couple of questions.
The first is this: given the consensus in the early Reformation period, how have we got to a point now where anything that smacks of being 'liturgical' feels, to folks in my congregation, as if it is 'Anglican'?
The answer is actually hinted at in the book - the liturgies of some of the English exiles during the Marian period are already tending towards simpler forms, less prescriptive. The particular history of non-conformity in the late 16th and 17th centuries must surely have a bearing. Theologically, arguments like that of John Owen in his Discourse Concerning Liturgies (1662) are relevant. Owen's main points are: that Christ has provided men to lead in worship, equipped by the Holy Spirit, thus obviating the need for set prayers; that Christ having made such provision, any seeking out of other means is contrary to his will; and, that nobody other than Christ has the necessary authority to impose a particular liturgy. I don't find these hugely persuasive, and I think Owen ignores evidence that set liturgical forms were in use much earlier than he is prepared to admit (and I think further evidence has come to light since Owen's day). Owen thinks he is arguing for the liberty of the churches, but to me he seems to be arguing only for the liberty of the clergy, to lead as they see fit; and set in that light, the arguments do not appear so noble. However, Owen's arguments are better than the main arguments expressed in our contemporary setting, which seem to be that set forms are necessarily 'inauthentic', and that only prayer from the heart counts; add to that our culture's strong preference for informality, and hey presto.
My second, and more important, question has to do with the effect of the abandonment of liturgical forms on our churches. It is commonly observed that our worship is often rather thin gruel; that our services lack 'shape' and depth. I think that's right. The work of teaching, formation, and discipleship has come to be focused exclusively on the sermon, with the surrounding informal liturgy being seen as primarily a time for self-expression. That is problematic, to say the least.
I wonder whether there hasn't been a broader impact on corporate prayer. I don't want to over-state this, but I do think it is significant that when Jesus taught his disciples to pray he gave them, not a technique, but a form of words. (I've commented on this here and here). We learn to pray by praying along. There is no doubt in my mind that this is easier with 'set prayers' which are repeated over time than it is with extemporaneous prayer. Moreover, the sense of 'praying along' is surely conveyed better in a liturgical form with space for responses and prayers recited together than a more informal form which reserves only the 'amen' for the 'laity' (so-called).
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