A Confused Colloquy in the Land of the Mystics
In his article, Greg Peters says that “historically lectio divina was just the way to read the biblical text” (emphasis original), and that it was “not a unique way of reading but the common way of reading the Word of God.” In Credo’s book awards they went so far as to say that it is “what spiritually serious Christians have always done.” But in an article by Seth Brill we find contradictory dates for its origin: “Eugene Peterson cites that the practice of Lectio Divina originates in the twelfth century with Guigo the Second . . . Evan Howard finds reference to the art of spiritual reading as far back as St. Benedict of the sixth century.” And in an interview with Hans Boersma, whose work is the inspiration for this issue (he is mentioned in half the main articles), we read that “the twelfth century was a period in which lectio divina flourished perhaps like never before.” The best answer to these contradictions is that somebody is simply wrong, whether by historical inaccuracy or irresponsible hyperbole.
Credo magazine has released its latest number on the topic of lectio divina, an approach to reading scripture that emphasizes accompanying reading with prayer, meditation, and contemplation. Rightly defined, all of those things are commendable and necessary to a true, healthy walk of faith. But there is reason to think that lectio divina does not always involve a right definition or practice of such things, and that it proceeds upon notions that are grievously mistaken. The following are several areas of concern in this latest edition.
Divergent Definitions
In the first case, there is no agreed definition of lectio divina, either as a whole or as regards some of its elements. Most contributors regard it as having four elements – lectio, oratio, meditatio, contemplatio (reading, prayer, meditation, and contemplation, respectively) – but contributor Greg Peters regards only the first three as certain, saying the fourth “is never promised nor should it necessarily be expected,” because “contemplation only comes about by the grace of God for it cannot be earned.” Southern Baptist spirituality professor Donald Whitney regards contemplation with suspicion, saying “if some of the forms of contemplation suggested by proponents of LD become necessary to experience the highest forms of communion with God, then we have gone beyond that which is specifically mentioned or clearly implied in Scripture,” and he settles instead for a three-part lectio. Thus lectio is either a three-part or four-part approach we take, or a three-part one which is sometimes abetted by a fourth element given by God.
In this matter of contemplation the lack of agreement becomes especially plain. For where Peters considers it an uncertain divine response to our reading, prayer, and meditation, and Whitney passes it over entirely, contributor Jason Alligood’s entire article purports to defend contemplation as a viable practice for Protestants, and in so doing conceives it as an intentional practice on our part (e.g., “Only after we have read, meditated, and prayed should we then contemplate”). His article proceeds largely on the thought of a book, Embracing Contemplation, which commends the practice, but which does not have an agreed definition itself, as Alligood admits:
The book’s editors admit that articles found within do not present a “unified view on the topic,” which leads to a question we must consider for the current article, which is: what are the definitive bounds of contemplation?
He admits this two other times (“the definition of contemplation is not entirely agreed upon amongst those who seek to describe it,” “the definition of contemplation can vary”), and in a footnote says “the article will not seek to defend a particular definition of contemplation, but rather explicate the biblical, historical and theological data as such.” Notwithstanding this, he speaks as though his analysis has arrived at a definition, beginning his conclusion with “given the definition and examples we outline above,” after two sections on biblical and historical analysis.
The divergent conceptions are acknowledged elsewhere, Whitney saying “Lectio Divina [LD] turns on the definition of the term and the description of its four elements,” and that “controversy almost inevitably arises over what is meant by the fourth step in LD, ‘contemplation.’” Speaking of the differences between evangelical exercises in piety and the mystical flavor of many notions of lectio he says:
Some advocates describe LD in a way that places very little emphasis on the Bible. Others do so in a way that sounds almost identical to what I have published in Praying the Bible.
Such wide and admitted differences suggest there is an ecumenical aim here: Credo is commending lectio in general but leaving it to readers to determine which conception to follow according to their own consciences or the teachings of their respective communions. But far from being helpful, this leads us to regard the whole edition as being of doubtful usefulness. For there is a great difference between an evangelical conception of lectio’s elements and a quietist/mystical one, as will be seen below; and where the same term is used for contradictory practices, the result is just as likely to be confusion as mutual aid.
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One Surprising Way to Take Up the Shield of Faith
The shield of faith is a bit unique in Paul’s list because he not only mentions the shield; he mentions specifically what to do with it: “In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one (Eph. 6:16).” We can expect that day in and day out we will be pummeled the flaming arrows of the great enemy of God and man, the devil. These flaming arrows might take many forms, but surely at least one of them is in the form of accusation.
For the Christian, every day is a battle. It’s a battle, as the book of Ephesians tells us, “not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms” (Eph. 6:12). Whether we recognize it or not, we are all caught up in the midst of cosmic spiritual warfare.
But fortunately for us, God has not left us unprepared for this battle. If you read the entire chapter of Ephesians 6, you find that God has armed us in very specific ways. Some scholars have imagined that Paul, writing these words from a jail cell, was able to look through the bars and see a fully outfitted Roman soldier, and then liken that armor to what the Lord has given us:The belt of truth
The breastplate of righteousness
Feet fitted with the gospel of peace
The helmet of salvation
The sword of the Spirit
The shield of faithThese are the tools God has placed at our disposal; they are the elements available to any Christian to help them fight in this battle, and when it’s all done, to remain standing. So the armor is there; it’s ready to be used. The question is how do we actually put it on?
Several ways really – first of all, you become aware of the fight you’re in. After all, there’s no use for armor during peacetime.
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The Tale of Two Fig Trees
When it comes to the comings of Christ, the parables shed much light on why the Son of God came. Contrary to the prevailing evangelical notion, Jesus came for more than to simply save sinners. He came to a specific people, at a specific time, in a specific context, for a specific and dual-functioning purpose. That purpose was to bring judgment upon His enemies and salvation to His people, which can be demonstrated throughout the parables of Christ.
For instance, when Christ comes, He will identify two groups of people in His incarnation. One that will be prepared for judgment. And the other who will be prepared for His blessings. These two themes show up in the vast majority of parables and give us insight into Jesus’ conception of His incarnation.
For instance, in one parable you have the righteous man building his house upon the rock, while the wicked builds in hubris upon the sand (Luke 6:46-49). In that story, the righteous man survives the near-term calamity and experiences ongoing blessings while the wicked man undergoes sudden destruction when the storm appeared.
Truth from parables like these can be applied in spiritual and universal ways since all who build their life on Jesus Christ will be ultimately and eternally spared, whereas building on anything else will warrant eternal calamities forever. But, spiritualized interpretations often miss the poignant reality this would have conveyed to the original audience. Jesus is warning that a first-century storm is coming and only those who were with Him would survive it, which gained terrifying clarity in the events of AD 70.
This kind of dualism between the imminent doom of the wicked and the near blessing of the righteous is too overt to ignore. For instance, the sheep will be brought into blessing, whereas the goats will be set apart for destruction (Matthew 25:31-36). The wheat is to be stored in Christ’s heavenly barns while the tares will be thrown into the flames (Matthew 13:24-30). The branches that bear fruit will be pruned for greater fruitfulness, and all those who are fruitless will be burned for their worthlessness (John 15:1-11). The king will bring new guests into the joy of His wedding while sending his armies to destroy the ones who were found unworthy (Matthew 22:1-14). On and on we may go.
Clarifying Parabolic Time
Some of these parables helpfully add a clarifying element of time, which let us know more will be going on in the first century than a hyper-spiritual application can account for. In the spiritual application, the parables were written for me, my benefit, and concern the things going on in my world. Jesus’ parables, however, clearly address events that apply to His contemporaries and things that will be happening in their world even while we still find comfort and application in them as well.
For instance, Christ the master will go on a long journey. When He returns, He will bless the slave who is found doing what He commanded (Luke 12:35-44). But, to the one who is lazy, wicked, and evil, He will bring violence, death, and destruction (Luke 12:45-48). This happened in AD 70.
The temptation today is to read a multiple thousand-year gap into texts like these, supposing that its contents apply to us or some future generation. Beyond breaking the most basic rules of Biblical hermeneutics, this is not how the story world of a parable works. In the parable, a human master goes on a human journey that seemed especially long to his human servants. When he returned, those same servants were still alive. Some were rewarded for their faithfulness while their master was away. The others were punished and even killed for their wickedness.
Had the master in the story left on a two-thousand-year journey, both he and his slaves would have to be near immortal to survive until he returned, which cannot be Jesus’ point. But, if Jesus was preparing His disciples for the forty-year gap that existed between His ascension and judgment coming on Jerusalem in AD 70, the parable would make great sense. Jesus’ return would bring blessing to the ones who were committed to following Him. But, death and destruction for those who remained in their rebellion, such as the Jews.
One triad of parables makes this blessing / judgment coming of Christ undeniably clear. In Matthew 21-22, Jesus tells three successive parables, one right after the other, where one group will gain tremendous blessings and the other awful judgments. In the first, Jesus interprets the parable of the two sons, telling the Pharisees that the prostitutes and tax collectors will get into heaven ahead of them (Matthew 21:28-32). In the second, He interprets the parable of the landowner, warning the Jews that God’s kingdom will be taken away from them at His coming, and given to a people who will produce His fruit (Matthew 21:33-46). And in the third, Jesus reveals that the Jews were found unworthy to participate in His coming Kingdom so they are thrown out where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth (Matthew 22:1-14).
In each of these parables, the coming of the Son of Man is accomplishing a dualistic purpose. For the elect, Jesus’ coming will usher them into all the salvific blessings and eschatological joys available in God’s newly inaugurated Kingdom, the Church. For those who reject Him, there will be suffering, weeping, gnashing teeth, and imminent destruction. To the Jews, this happened during their lives, when their city was set on fire, their temple was devoted to destruction, and the Old Covenant kingdom of shadows and types came to a sudden cataclysmic end.
The parables Jesus taught prepared the discerning disciple for this apocalyptic outcome.
The Prophets and Dual Purpose Comings
This same theme of salvation and judgment at the Messiah’s coming shows up in the prophetic writings as well. For instance, in Joel 2, God promises to blow a trumpet of war, empowering a Northern army to bring swift and awful judgment against the Jews of the first century (Joel 2:1-11). But, His coming will also provide a way of salvation for the elect who will repent (Joel 2:12-17). In case we doubt the first-century timing of this prophecy, Joel cites Pentecost, and the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, as the sign that will identify when his prophecy will occur. Here again, we see that Messiah’s first-century coming will be good news for some and terrifying for others. -
A New Religion With a New Sacrament?
Written by R. Scott Clark |
Wednesday, November 3, 2021
For us Christians, let vaccines be vaccines and not sacraments. Let science be science and not a new religion. If something may not be questioned, however, it is a religion and not science.John Calvin (1509–64) famously wrote that the human heart is a “perpetual factory of idols” (Institutes 1.11.18).
What he meant is that since human beings are irrevocably and naturally religious and, after the fall, profoundly corrupted by sin, our religious inclinations do not disappear but are misdirected. The question is not whether humans will be religious but how? Yesterday on Twitter Jules Diner posted a quotation from a certain Thomas Sheridan, a writer hitherto unknown to me:
The ‘Pandemic’ has been a kind of religious event for most people. For the first time in [their] entire existences they had something meaningful to live for. It gave them rituals, fear of damnation, and hope for redemption and salvation with the vaccine[s] being the keys to ‘the kingdom of heaven.’ They could point fingers at heretics and unbelievers like their ancestors did back in the Middle Ages. [Ed. note: revised for punctuation and grammar]
I do not know if this is an original analysis but it seems true. There is a religious quality to some responses to the pandemic (and to other crises too). Consider the global cooling [1970s]/global warming [1980s–90s]/climate change [2000s] crisis. There are reasonable grounds for questioning the claims being made about anthropogenic [man-made] climate change but increasingly debate on this issue is being silenced. By definition science operates on the principle of doubt not trust. Anyone who knows just a little about the history of science or even its most basic principles knows that it operates on doubt, questions, discussion, and even debate. When scientists publish their results the first thing that happens is that other scientists try to replicate their methods and results to verify them. Science does not trust. It doubts and tests. Anyone who tells us to “trust the science” is advocating a dogmatic, unreasoning religion not science. Christianity, by contrast, has dogmas to be sure but it is not unreasoning. It is grounded in historical claims. We claim that the bodily resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth is a historical event the evidence of which (i.e., Jesus of Nazareth) was witnessed by hundreds of people. We have written accounts, produced by sane, reasonable people of these historical events. Further, we claim that there is more evidence to come: Jesus will return bodily and there will be more bodily resurrections.
It has been observed that lab-coated scientists are the priests of Modernity. They are the clerics who diagnose the ills of our bodies (e.g., medicine) and souls (e.g., pyschiatry) and it is they who prescribe the cure of bodies and souls. Steadily through the Modern period their pronouncements have become unquestionable and dogmatic. So, the turn of the culture, during the pandemic, to lab-coated priests is understandable. It is interesting that Dr Fauci’s NIH staff photo shows him in a lab coat. The lab coat, of course, is the vestment for the new priesthood and Fauci is arguably the new pope of the new priesthood. Consider why Dr Fauci would have his lab coat on for his staff photo? It is not because he had just stepped out of the lab for the photo. He has been an administrator for years. His actual working uniform is a business suit not a lab coat. My grandfather, who was a farmer, did not wear his overalls for the family photo. Fauci wore his lab coat for his staff photo for the same reason a priest wears his vestments for a photo: to signify his office.
Yesterday afternoon my better half was remarking on the comments she was reading below a story in the New York Times about the airline strikes and the vaccine mandates. As she described the tenor and language of the comments I was struck by how much they reminded me of the angriest of witch-hunting medieval mobs. This is quite striking because I imagine that the subscribers of the NYT think of themselves as enlightened and tolerant but there was precious little of either evident in the comment box.
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