Christianity

From the beginning humans have  perceived or imagined unseen powers and forces which spooked and awed them; and the humans tried to influence those unseen powers to be friendly.

Dying and rising gods and goddesses were already imagined way before the birth of Christianity.

Sagas of an ancient couple named Abraham and Sarah, and their descendants, also tell of a small clan of Semitic people held as slaves in Egypt. These people have a memory of being liberated from the tyranny of a Pharaoh by the power of their God, YHWH. They had stories of tribal leaders, then kings and prophets, followed by forced exile from their homeland in Palestine to Babylon. They eventually return to their homeland and rebuild. 

The Christian religion has its roots in the Jewish story. A Jewish man named Jesus was born in Palestine in around the year 4 BCE (which is numbered as year ‘0’ by a historical slippage). 

While some people in our time speculate that this Jewish man Jesus never actually existed, but is a mythical person invented to create a new religious movement, there are secular sources outside the Bible that reference this person. I suggest that if Jesus was not an actual historical figure, the correspondence of the man named Paul/Saul, along with the four Gospels and other letters that were written about his life—what he taught, how he died, and subsequent appearances—are an unbelievable hoax. Sure, there have always been gullible people looking for some kind of other-worldly favor, but intentional deception of the magnitude of the New Testament writings could easily be denied and rejected as such by those contemporary to historical setting of the Christian narratives.

What differentiates the four Gospels from the previous stories of gods and goddesses is the historical nature of the narratives. If we read mythic literature, then read the Gospels, the difference is unmistakable. The Gospels simply do not read like myths. Nor are they to be compared to modern day newspaper reports. They are somewhere between those two genres.

The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke (called the ‘synoptic gospels’) are mostly based on actual events surrounding Jesus. They are not exact word-for-word reports. Rather, they are faith-based retelling of those events. It is possible that the birth story of Jesus in Luke and Matthew have been invented as homiletical devices. Then again, they may be rooted in some facts of Jesus’ beginning. Mark, the earliest Gospel, has no birth story. Paul’s writing—earlier than the gospels—has no birth accounts. Only “born of a woman.” 

The Gospel of John seems to be pure historical fiction. That is, “John” is writing a narrative about a real person, but his account presents Jesus through a mystical lens. The fourth Gospel wants the reader/listener to see a different dimension of Jesus that dips underneath the historical individual person named Jesus, into the depths of the Underground River that connects all religions and spiritual traditions. Jesus is the Oneness of God.

The prologue to John’s Gospel presents Jesus as the Human Representation of an eternal Logos/Word. As the embodiment of the eternal Logos, Jesus is the Icon of the universe’s Order, Source, and Goal. In other words, the life, teachings, death, and New Life of Jesus of Nazareth has manifested the Logic/Reason of Ultimate Reality (God).

A close reading of John’s Gospel will reveal a meta-narrative: On nine or ten occasions the Christ of the fourth Gospel escapes the grasp of his adversaries. Which is John’s way of telling the reader that there is more to Jesus than the historical person. The “Reason” of the universe cannot be grasped by the human mind. All our attempts to get hold of Christ will fail.  “He” has a mystical presence that is beyond our comprehension or explanation.

In addition to the nine or ten “escapes” of Christ in this Gospel are eleven dialogues between Christ and other person in which the words of Christ are shown to be “ungraspable.” I call these eleven dialogues “Trans-literal Triads” because each one has three elements. These Triads are also part of the meta-narrative of John’s mystical interpretation. John’s Gospel is a creative theological statement regarding the meaning of the “Christ Event.”

Christianity began as the “Jesus Movement.” A Jewish teacher drew large crowds. His teachings were both in continuity with his Jewish tradition and radically new at the same time. He drew the wrath of both the Jewish Establishment and the Roman government. He was seen as dangerous to the curators of the status quo. He taught mostly in the form of parables—extended metaphors. Those little stories had explosive implications. Some of his teachings rode on the waves of paradox. Being a middle eastern sage, Jesus cannot be turned into a Western rationalist. The original Christianity was not a philosophical system or a worldview. 

At the center of Jesus’ pedagogy was a vision of a “kingdom.”

I grew up as an only child. I had an invisible friend that I played with. Since I was the only offspring, I was special. My mother has told me of her feeling that I am special since she was almost not able to give birth to me. I was in a small way a ‘miracle’ child. Therefore, a ‘special’ child in her mind; and she passed that sentiment on to my psyche.

Being ‘special’ carried the implication of existing for some special purpose: for greatest; for some perfection. So, my psyche was heavy with expectation. I never heard the Mr. Rogers message “I like you just the way you are” from my parents. It was never said, and it didn’t come across in any other way.

Now let me say that I do not mean to paint my parents in ugly hues. They loved me. They tried to make me happy. They provided for my needs; made it possible for me to receive a liberal arts education; saw that I was grounded in a spiritual tradition; allowed me to pursue interests in music and athletics; encouraged my play and creativity. They did the best they knew how. I don’t want to insinuate that they were bad parents. All of us who are parents carry with us the habits and cues of our parents into our parenting unconsciously. It takes great effort and intentionally to transcend the mistakes and wounds of former generations of our kin. I appreciate the care and support and love of my mother and dad. I cast no blame for their fallibilities. 

I suppose I developed a kind of separation anxiety early on. I probably picked up some of my dad’s nervousness. After being in the army during WWII he never drove a car again. The secrecy surrounding his decision not to drive was one among many things we did not talk about. He did not have a warm parenting style. He tried to show his love by buying me things. I remember one birthday when he shopped all day to find me a hockey game I wanted. But when I opened the gift and announced that it wasn’t the kind I wanted, I believe he shed tears in frustration. I wish—I dearly wish he had lived longer so that he and I could talk to each other on an adult level. So much I want to talk to him about. But alas he died at age fifty-five.

My mother gifted me with lots of guilt and shame. Especially about sex. She caught me masturbating twice. I felt like I was a pervert or a wicked person because I had sexual urges. My dad (or mom) never explained wet dreams. When I began having them as I went through puberty, I felt like I was uncontrollably ‘bad’ in some sense. 

Church was a big part of my life. I felt like I belonged when I was there. I performed well. I got a silver dollar for memorizing the books of the Bible; memorized many verses of the Bible. I had peers and friends. I learned to stand up and speak before a small group through the Sunday evening classes. I earned badges ala Boy Scouts at the Wednesday evening training. I sung in the youth choir. During Youth Week in 1967 I was chosen to be the “Youth Pastor” for a week, and preached my first sermon on a Sunday evening. I was the youngest person ever to be ordained as a deacon. I publicly declared my call “to preach” at the age of ten.

My Southern Baptist upbringing drilled into me the need for certainty. Every verse in the Bible was literally true. There could not be any kind of contradiction or error in the Bible. It was a house of cards. One little error found in the Bible would knock the whole house down. We had to scrupulously defend the Bible and all of our doctrines. I was a natural apologist. I could argue chapter and verse with logical precision. If I had remained a Baptist I could have made a career out of my defence of the faith.

But fortunately I attended a liberal arts Baptist college where the complexities of the world and the ambiguities of faith were brought into the open. Dr. Stassen and Dr. Crossan educated me in the Higher Critical approach to the study of the Bible. My eyes were opened. The Bible came alive with its messy, human finger prints everywhere. The reality I was imbibing had a heady feel to it. I trusted my professors because I could see with my own eyes that they were telling us the truth. One of my classmates, also raised in a fundamentalist church, ‘went off his rocker’; he couldn’t deal with the ambiguities. He couldn’t bring himself to open the door of his fundamentalist fortress to let in any threatening ideas. 

I was not a good student. High school had not prepared me for the challenges of college. My anxiety level kept me from giving myself fully to the academic task. My natural sleep cycle made it difficult and sometimes impossible for me to get to the 8:00 a.m. classes. I almost flunked one Church History course. I barely made it through Spanish II during my senior year. I was having panic attacks that kept me from attending some classes. 

Nevertheless, my mind was opened up. The study of Church History gave me a larger perspective on all aspects of Christianity. Glenn Stassen’s background was a huge influence on me. His father, Harold Stassen, had been a National Security assistant to President Eisenhower; and he had helped draft the charter for the United Nations. Professor Stassen focused on the theme of peacemaking in Scripture. We read diverse points of view, but his stress was on the ‘ministry of reconciliation.’ I suppose that Glenn Stassen has been one of the most important influences on my understanding of the Christian faith. Dr. John Claypool has been another strong influence on my understanding of ‘grace’ as the center of the faith. Claypool’s confessional style of preaching has also embedded itself in my approach to ministry.

Reinhold Niebuhr’s writings were a basic part of my theological education during college. His emphasis on guarding against self-righteousness and being self-critical was a major truth I took with me. Tillich’s ontological approach to theology with its concept of God as Being broadened my vision of ‘God.’ For a while I was enamoured with Karl Barth, but later I came to feel that his perspective was too narrow. Bonhoeffer’s writings, especially his Letters from prison also made a lasting impact on me. Joseph Fletcher’s Situation Ethics had a profound effect on me. (Stassen took some of us to hear him speak.)  And of course Martin Luther King Jr. (who marched through our town while I was in college) gripped me thoroughly. The existentialist theology of Rudolf Bultmann resonated with my evangelical upbringing in that it emphasized an actual encounter with the Word as a transforming experience. Bultmann’s thought was much deeper than the evangelical understanding of a transformative encounter. But there was a correspondence in terms of contemporary encounter. Even as I write this in 2018 Bultmann has come back to me as an ally in my struggle to remain Christian. 

My seminary education at a Southern Baptist institution continued the study of mainline theological thought. It added the study of Greek and Hebrew, preaching, worship, psychology of religion, pastoral care, group dynamics, and philosophy of religion; additional Old and New Testament, ethics, and church history. 

I should back up and mention the fact that I was meeting with a psychiatrist during my senior year in college because of my panic attacks. He urged me to rethink my plans to attend seminary and go into pastoral ministry because of my level of anxiety. I overruled him on the basis of my ‘call’ to ministry. Perhaps I should have heeded his warning. Pastoral ministry for forty years was a continual struggle, filled with anxiety, frustration, anger, and depression. Yet, I can’t think of my career as a total failure or mistake. So, I reframe the whole experience as a meaningful attempt to help people in their struggles with life and faith. And I try to see my life as a pastor as a positive search for a deeper sense of meaning that has overflowed into the lives of others with a life-giving result.

I sometimes look back over my pastoral career and see it all as a purposeful struggle with anxiety and metaphysical-truth-seeking. Anxiety, doubt, and depression can be the creative shape for meaningful discovery, which in turn is a gift to others. In other words, the form of my brokenness has been useful for ministry. It has brought me understanding and insight that I might have missed with more consistent wholeness. Pain can be pedagogical.