In our current cultural moment, many see work as frustrating, unrewarding, and not worth it (that is, as toil). So, in our cultural moment, Christians have an incredible, better vision of work to offer the larger world. We’ve also got a history to tell, of how a vision of human dignity and innovation became a blessing across economic and class lines. Just as in the past, the Christian view can move our imaginations about work beyond drudgery, to a renewed and redeemed way of thinking and living.

As the “Big Quit” happens across America, the Christian vision of work could be more relevant and impactful than ever. Which, as history attests, is saying quite a lot.
Physical labor was devalued in the ancient world. The exception, in classical Greece and the early days of the Roman Republic, was farming, which was considered the proper pursuit of citizens. All other labor was viewed as demeaning. In the later days of the Republic, as plantation agriculture replaced small farms, the work of farming was also seen as demeaning and relegated to slaves.
By the time of the Roman Empire, all physical labor was only thought proper for slaves and lower classes. Though the foundation of the empire’s wealth, the upper classes believed that production was beneath them. Their attention, or so they thought, belonged in the more “refined” areas of life, such as the arts and philosophy.
Of course, the biblical view of work is completely different. Scripture frames work as a good thing, an essential part of what it means to be human. Because God created us to work, at least in part, it’s inherently connected to our worship and dignity.
Put differently, work is not the result of the fall. It was, however, tainted by Adam’s sin. God’s created purposes for humanity, to fill and form His world through work, would now feature pain and frustration. Aspects of human work were twisted from dignity to drudgery. Human efforts to cultivate the earth, designed by God to be part of the joy of imaging Him, became sources of frustration, pain, sweat, and sorrow.
Because of the uniqueness of the Biblical framework, even the early Christians approached work with a very different view than their pagan neighbors did. They thought of work as good but marred by sin. So, for example, in monastic communities, monks were expected to do physical labor, if for no other reason than to grow their food. In his Rule for Monastic Life, St. Benedict of Nursia (480-547) insisted that monks should work both to fulfill the biblical mandate that God gave Adam, and to encourage humility in a world that thought of work as demeaning.
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The sister of Theodosius, Pulcheria, was next in line to the throne.  She was a supporter of the orthodox view of Christ’s two natures, and not only her, but also her husband Marcian.  Her husband became the new emperor and he fairly quickly convened another ecumenical council to settle the issue of Eutychianism and other Christological heresies. This council began in Chalcedon (in modern day Turkey) on October 8, 451.  Debate was intense and deep regarding the person of Christ, particularly his two natures. 

The Council of Nicea was decisive for addressing Trinitarian heresies. But following this meeting, other heresies continued to infect the Church. In today’s instalment of this series, we’ll look at how heresies regarding the doctrine of Christ were addressed.
In the late 300s and into the 400s, controversy raged about the relationship between the divinity and humanity of Christ.  The fact that he was both God and man wasn’t so much in dispute.  It was more about how these natures interacted.  So, for example, we find Nestorius in Antioch.  He taught that the human nature of Christ is separate and distinct from the divine nature.  Bishop Cyril of Alexandria exerted himself against this teaching.  Both Cyril and Nestorius had large groups of followers.
The Council of Ephesus was convened in 431 to sort this out.  It was actually the initiative of Nestorius.  He was convinced that an ecumenical council would see his teaching vindicated and Cyril convicted as a heretic.  It was supposed to be a meeting of the minds, but half the minds didn’t appear and they were the ones supposed to vindicate Nestorius.  Consequently, Nestorius was roundly condemned.  But he and his followers met separately and returned the favour.  They condemned and excommunicated Cyril and his followers.  All of this history resulted in the establishment of a “Church of the East,” which includes the Assyrian Church.  To this day, this church remains Nestorian, along with several others in the East.
Things blew up again with a monk from Constantinople by the name of Eutyches.  He taught that, after the incarnation, Christ had only one nature.  It was a single nature composed of a mixture of the divine and human.  Eutyches compared it to mixing wine with water.  Once the two are mixed, they become indistinguishable from one another.
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Words are powerful. What we say shapes the way we view ourselves and our circumstances. Our feelings often reveal our unstated assumptions, our hidden beliefs, and the unrecognized stories by which we make sense of our lives. And then our words give voice to these feelings and reshape or reinforce — for good or ill — who we are and how we see ourselves.

A number of years ago, a counselor friend of mine introduced a simple and accessible concept that he regularly uses in his practice. He calls it “felt reality.”
Reality is reality. It’s objective. It’s what’s actually happening. Felt reality is what’s happening from my vantage point. It’s reality framed by my own thoughts, assumptions, and emotions.
Reality and felt reality aren’t the same. Sometimes they align — what I think and feel fits with what is actually happening. Other times, my felt reality is out of accord with reality. In such cases, I might be believing lies, or framing reality wrongly, or overreacting. My perspective might be distorted by my emotions or my sinful desires or my own limitations.
Once my friend gave me the category, I found it to be incredibly fruitful in my own life and marriage and parenting and ministry. It gave me a way to speak about human experiences of reality — whether mine or another’s — without necessarily validating those experiences. In other words, it enabled me to acknowledge that I think and feel a certain way, without affirming that such thoughts or emotions were necessarily true or right or good.
Getting felt reality on the table can be the first step in seeking to steward and shepherd our thoughts and emotions so that they more fully align with God’s.
“Cut Off from Your Sight”
Even more than that, the concept (though not the term) seems present in the Scriptures. Consider the Psalms. In the middle of Psalm 31, David pleads with God to deliver him from his distress. In doing so, he vividly describes what it’s like to be in the pit:

His eyes are wasted from grief. They’re heavy from crying; they feel like lead. He just wants to rest, but there is no rest (verse 9).
His soul is wasted. His body is wasted. There is a weariness that reaches to every part of David’s existence (verse 9).
His life is spent with sorrow and his years with sighing (verse 10). This is how it feels: “I’ve been here forever, and I’ll be here forever.”
His strength fails (and he knows he partially deserves it because of his sin), and his bones just waste away (verse 10).

David’s powerful emotional and physical responses are influenced by his perception of reality, of what’s going on around him:

His adversaries have made him a reproach to his neighbors. Everyone runs from him because they think his suffering is contagious (verse 11). “Don’t stand too close to David. Don’t let him breathe on you. You don’t want to catch what he’s got.”
He’s forgotten like the dead. People remember the dead — for a little bit. Then they’re forgotten. That’s how David feels. Dead and useless, like a broken vessel (verse 12). “What good am I?”
He hears the whispering of his enemies around him — terror on every side. The other shoe could drop at any minute. Every rock and tree is ominous. Every bit of news produces fear. The future is filled with the almost certain prospect of bad surprise (verse 13).

This is David’s felt reality, and he gives explicit voice to it in verse 22:
I had said in my alarm, “I am cut off from your sight.”
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