Controversial Jesus movies

On the way to work today, I was listening to Tripp Fuller and Sarah Martin Concepcion interview Lofty Nathan about his new film “The Carpenter’s Son” that’s based on the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, a text that I used to read with my students.

The interview got me thinking: What would make for a fun course (or, maybe even a book on the topic) that covers controversial Jesus movies, as this one promises to be. Here’s the immediate list that came to mind:

  1. “The Carpenter’s Son” would be perfect for introducing the child Jesus and questions that have to do with what it would look like for the Son of God to be a child and an adolescent.
  2. “Last Days in the Desert” where Ewan McGregor plays both Jesus and the Satan tempting him. I tried to show this to students a few times, but I think you may need to be more mature than a high schooler (at least most high schoolers) to really enjoy the nuance of the movie, which seems to present Satan as Jesus’ internal “dark side,” if you will.
  3. “Mary Magdalene” presents Mary as Jesus’ closest disciple, and places her in tension with the male disciples while drawing from “gnostic” Christian themes.
  4. “The Last Temptation of Christ” would look at the end of Jesus’ life, and is the OG of controversial takes on Jesus.
  5. “The Passion of the Christ” would be the only one that would bother more progressive Christians (as the list I’ve created thus far would be more controversial with conservative ones) due to the bloodthirsty nature of the film that leaves many viewers as uncomfortable as any of the previous movies listed.

What would you add/remove from this list?

A blog about John the Baptist

In 2018, I finished my Ph.D. in Religion and Theology from the University of Bristol (Bristol, UK) through Trinity College Bristol. My thesis was titled “Jesus the Spirit-Baptizer: The Interpretation and Significance of the Baptist-Prophecy within Incipient Christianity”. I never did anything with it. My viva was brutal. The process of doing corrections was exhausting. When my corrections were approved, it was a Pyrrhic victory. I didn’t want to think about John the Baptist ever again!

But I’ve found myself wanting to do a deep dive into the subject matter again. I don’t know why, but I do know that the best way for me to keep organized is to blog about it. So, if you’re interested: “John the Baptist, Then and Now”.

Why I’m still a Christian

There have been many times when I’ve asked myself, “Why am I still a Christian?” Admittedly, I don’t ask this question when pondering global Christianity, but instead, American Christianity. I find myself looking at the American church and wondering, “Is this my religion?” And if so, what does that say about me? Obviously, I don’t ask this question because I have a view of all American Christians. I’m not seeing those quietly serving food in a soup kitchen, or the pastor counseling someone who has lost a loved one. I’m seeing the personalities that make it onto cable network news, or the famous and wealthy televangelists, or those who have a large social media following. Because of the primacy of their place in society, and my lack of familiarity with what they call “Christianity,” I feel the urge to distance myself from the label. This sort of maneuver has proven wise in the past. As much as I would’ve liked to have seen the wonderful word “Evangelical” mean “people who try to live out the Gospel,” it means, in my view, something utterly opposite. There was a point when I identified as “Evangelical,” but decided that the word had become a lost cause, and chose to abandon it, lest someone assume my politics, morality, ethics, etc., before I could clarify them myself, not to mention my theology! But “Christian” is older and broader in meaning than Evangelical. So, I’ve retained it.

Even when identifying as a Christian, what I mean is that I’m trying to be one, not that I’ve arrived. I see being a Christian as an ambition, less so a status. If being a Christian means living like Christ, then I hope to be on my way, but I’m nowhere near home.

On the other hand, I know I’m a Christian as much as I know I’m an American. It’s something that I’ve inherited. And though I could choose, theoretically, to try to leave Christianity for a new religion, or no religion at all, just like I could choose, theoretically, to leave the United States, never return, maybe even apply for citizenship elsewhere, it’s the very fact that I feel frustrated with Christianity, like I often feel frustrated with the United States, that serves as proof that this is already home. The church is home, spiritually. The United States is home, nationalistically. I have residence in the “City of God” and the “City of Man”. My frustration indicates care and investment, not the opposite.

Chesterton on Christianity’s Critics
The great G.K. Chesterton made this point at the beginning of The Everlasting Man. He talks about critics of “the Church”. (He’s Catholic, so I’ll go with the capital “C” he uses.) The critics that he addresses are those who have departed from the Church. Today, we might speak of those who have or are “deconstructing” (presuming that buzz word continues to buzz). Now, I don’t want to share Chesterton’s thoughts as a way of criticizing anyone who is deconstructing or realizing that Christianity isn’t for them. I want to share his thoughts to explain why I know that Christianity remains for me, even if I struggle to settle into what that means for my day-to-day life. With that clarification in mind, let me return to Chesterton, who says of Christianity’s critics (pp. 10-11 of the 1993 Ignatius Press version):

They cannot get out of the penumbra of Christian controversy. They cannot be Christians and they cannot leave off being Anti-Christians. Their whole atmosphere is the atmosphere of a reaction: sulks, perversity, petty criticism. They still live in the shadow of the faith and have lost the light of the faith.

In light of this observation, he remarks (p. 11):

Now the best relation to our spiritual home is to be near enough to love it. But the next best is to be far enough away not to hate it. It is the contention of these pages that while the best judge of Christianity is a Christian, the next best judge would be something like a Confucian. The worst judge of all is the man now most ready with his judgments; the ill-educated Christian turning gradually into the ill-tempered agnostic, entangled in the end of a feud of which he never understood the beginning, blighted with a sort of hereditary boredom with he knows not what, and already weary of hearing what he has never heard”

Chesterton uses “a Confucian” as an example, saying, “He does not judge Christianity calmly as a Confucian would; he does not judge it as he would judge Confucianism.” This resonates with me. As someone who teaches comparative religion, I try to be as objective as possible. I try to represent religions as they are, not as they ought to be. I recognize my status as an outsider to Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, etc., and avoid weighing in on the internal debates within those communities. I’ll never feel comfortable saying “that’s heretical Judaism” or “that’s not true Islam”. I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying this for professional reasons, but also personal ones. I’m not Jewish; I’m not Muslim. Professionally, I don’t weigh in on what makes something heretical or true Christianity, but personally, I do have strong feelings about when Christianity is being done right and when it’s being done wrong. I do think there are healthier and less healthy expressions of my faith. I don’t have those feelings about other religions, at least not in the same way. (Obviously, as an outsider, I would prefer to engage Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, who are open minded, tolerant, willing to participate in interfaith work, etc.)

It’s not that I don’t agree or disagree with certain teachings of the various religions, but that I’m not (as?) emotionally invested in those disagreements. In fact, I prefer to find the agreements for the sake of interfaith cooperation! Similarly, I may be abstractly bothered by how things are done in China or Russia, but I don’t feel the weight of it like I do whatever is happening in my home country. Why? Because I’m not so foolish to think I have any say in “the world,” but I’m just foolish enough to think that I have a very, very, minuscule say in what happens in “America”. As an outsider, I have no standing within theological debates within Islam. As an insider, I’m just foolish enough to think I have a very, very, minuscule say in what happens within Christianity. I can remark calmly, as an outsider, about events within China, or theological disputes within Islam; I’m less calm about events within the United States, or theological disputes within Christianity.

And I quoted Chesterton to make this point. You know you’re not a Christian in the fullest sense when you don’t care, or don’t care enough to get bothered by much. I do care about China and Russia, but not enough to travel there to do anything in those parts of the world, or to seek citizenship in those countries. I do care about Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists, but not enough to get involved in internal debates about what to believe, how to behave, and who gets to gatekeep who belongs. Whenever I’ve thought, “Maybe Christianity isn’t for me,” I’ve realized that the same care that causes me to think about this subject is the care that answers the question for me. I can’t be as objective about Christianity, at least not as a whole, at least not within my realm of minuscule influence, as I can about other religions.

The Imaginative Effort
Chesteron claims that when we make “the imaginative effort to see the whole thing from the outside,” of which he means “the Church” or Christianity,” we find that it really looks like what is traditionally said about it inside….To put it shortly, the moment we are impartial about it, we know why people are partial to it.” (p. 12) This isn’t to deny the validity of outside criticisms. As a Christian, I take to heart and feel the sting of comments like the one attributed to Mahatma Gandhi, “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” But from Chesterton’s perspective, I recognize that when I look at other religions curiously, I try to find the things that I admire. This is what Barbara Brown Taylor called “holy envy”. This concept follows the guidelines for interfaith dialogue set forth by the theologian Krister Stendahl:

  1. When trying to understand another religion, you should ask the adherents of that religion, not its enemies.
  2. Don’t compare your best to their worst.
  3. Leave room for holy envy.

To better understand “holy envy,” read my review of Brown’s book: “Recently read: Brown Taylor’s ‘Holy Envy'”. In short, the idea is that there is always something nourishing to be found in religions that aren’t your own. There’s always something that another tradition might do better, or make clearer, etc., from which you can learn. But that tradition, on the whole, remains one other than your own. If I try to take this approach to Christianity (seeing it “from the outside” as Chesterton challenged his readers to do), then I do find the beauty within Christianity that can be easy to miss when I’m distracted by all the expressions of Christianity that seem to be doing it so terribly wrong. This is similar to how easily it can be for feelings of patriotism to fade when your conationalists, or the party in power, are representing your country globally in ways that seem antithetical to the values that we’ve told ourselves make us great. But we have to remember that just as our frustration with our nation tells us that we value it, and that there’s something we find worth our concern, so with one’s religion. And this is how I know it would be, for me, hypocritical to do anything other than confess to being a Christian, and do what little I can to try to contribute to a more positive, life-affirming expression of my faith in the world. If the day comes when I stop talking about Christianity, or only with minimal curiosity that’s mostly void of any attached emotions, that’s the day that I’ll know that I’ve left Christianity.

U2’s universal reconciliation

Inasmuch as I feel any amount of confidence in my theology as a Christian, I feel confident that if the Christian Gospel contains truth, or at least a truth structure that maps onto reality in ways that may be true (theopoetics), even when not literally true, then the doctrine of universal reconciliation, rooted in the epistles of St. Paul, and patristic thinkers like Origen of Alexandria and Gregory of Nyssa, is something I feel confident confessing (even if it’s debated whether those saints were committed to universal reconciliation themselves). I know it’s a minority position within the church, historically and presently. But if the logic of the Gospel is rooted in reality, i.e., we are reconciled to our Creator who prevented death from being the final word for created things by entering into our material reality in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, including the reality of dying, in order that even the dead may be alive in the Creator, then any created thing (or at least any sentient, created thing) over which death maintains a permanent claim would mean that the Creator has lost something of the creation to the finality of death, meaning that if the Creator is good, then this goodness has been proven limited in that the Creator didn’t redeem all that was brought into existence without consent because the Creator willed that we be brought into existence. If the Creator intends to bring all created things to a point of perfection (never finally reached, but always available to experience = theosis), or to encounter ongoing perfection, then I can live with the theodicy questions raised by Christian doctrine. If not, then I feel that Christian doctrine fails to adequately recognize the problem of theodicy.

I say all that to say that while I have no idea what soteriology is embraced by my favorite alternative rock band of all time, U2, I do find many lines that make my universalist heart happy, and I would like to discuss them through this lens.

Moment of Surrender
There’s a line in the song “Moment of Surrender” from the album No Line on the Horizon that has given me a phrase that encapsulates the message of Christian universalism: “It’s not if I believe in love/But if love believes in me”. This isn’t to deny the place of “belief” or “faith” or maybe more importantly “fidelity” to Christianity, but it is to say that there may be something to what I’ve heard others say about the soteriology of the Reformed theologian, Karl Barth, when he talks about how God has elected humanity in Christ. It seems from what I’ve read that Barth never made an explicit, undeniable claim to universalism (correct me if I’m wrong), but that his doctrine of election implied it. If Christ has united divinity and humanity so that God chooses us through Jesus’ humanity, then humanity will be redeemed, even ours. In this sense, what ultimately matters (and here the Reformed tradition may be on to something) is that God elects us, we don’t elect God. It’s not “if I believe in LOVE” (God is LOVE, 1 John 4:8, 16), “but if LOVE believes in me.” If we equate “belief” with “fidelity,” then it’s more important that God shows fidelity to humanity than that we show fidelity to God. God’s fidelity overcomes our infidelity.

Songs of Innocence
There are several locations in the album Songs of Innocence where I hear themes of universal reconciliation. In “The Miracle (of Joey Ramone)”, we hear of the bands divine encounter with the music of the Ramones. There’s St. Paul’s conversion-like imagery “I woke up at the moment when the miracle occurred/Heard a song that made some sense out of the world” followed by the first line in which I hear hints of universal reconciliation: “Everything I ever lost, now has been returned/In the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard”. The idea of everything that has been lost being returned gets amplified toward the end of the song: “I woke up at the moment when the miracle occurred/I get so many things I don’t deserve/All the stolen voices will someday be returned/The most beautiful sound I’d ever heard”. Again, we have St. Paul’s conversion in the background, followed by a line about grace (“I get so many things I don’t deserve”) that spans out to include more people than Bono when he sings, “All the stolen voices will someday be returned”. The language of “stolen voices” captures beautifully the human condition, where most people who have ever lived have been silenced by forces greater than themselves.

The third song on that album has words that, for me, explain the logic of the doctrine of universal reconciliation. In “California (There Is No End to Love)”, U2 sings “I’ve seen for myself/There’s no end to grief/That’s how I know/That’s how I know/And why I need to know/That there is no/Yeah, there is no end to love/All I know and all I need to know/Is there is no/Yeah, there is no end to love”. The problem of theodicy, put simply, is that if God is Love, and good, and powerful, and has foreknowledge, then it’s legitimate to ask why there’s so much suffering, or as this song says, grief. It seems endless. The logic of universal reconciliation is that if there’s so much grief, then there must be “no end to Love”. Love (God) must out extend the grief/suffering we see, if we are to talk about Love (God) as good, powerful, etc.

Bono and the Edge performing “Until the End of the World” (via Reddit)

Until the End of the World
The song “Until the End of the World” from the album Achtung Baby has been one where I’ve heard hints of universal reconciliation. If my memory is correct, when Bono and the Edge used to perform this song live, they’d look as if they were clashing with each other. The Edge pushes Bono back as Bono makes his fingers into horns above his head. I’ve tried to find a clip, but I’ve been unsuccessful. If this memory is correct, and others online share this memory + interpretation, then the song has Jesus and Satan facing off. But the lyrics of the song are clearly about Jesus and Judas, his betrayer:

Haven’t seen you in quite a while/
I was down the hold just passing time/
Last time we met was a low-lit room/
We were as close together as a bride and groom/
We ate the food, we drank the wine/
Everybody having a good time/
Except you/
You were talking about the end of the world

I took the money/
I spiked your drink/
You miss too much these days if you stop to think/
You lead me on with those innocent eyes/
You know I love the element of surprise/
In the garden I was playing the tart/
I kissed your lips and broke your heart/
You/
You were acting like it was the end of the world

That being said, the Gospel of Luke claims that Satan “entered into” Judas before the betrayal (22:3), and the Gospel of John repeats this claim (13:27). So, a song about Jesus and Judas can be easily interpreted as one between Jesus and Satan, as I did many years ago in a post on my old blog: “Satan according to Bono and Mick Jagger”. Where it’s about Judas, Satan, or Satan/Judas, the end of the song is where I find an interesting hint of universalism: “Waves of regret and waves of joy/I reached out for the one I tried to destroy/You, you said you’d wait/’Til the end of the world”. The idea of Judas/Satan reaching out to Jesus is depicted in those Bono/Edge clashes, but as one commenter on my old blog observed: “in the concert I attended and others I have seen videos of their hands just about meet but then don’t meet. Bono is suddenly pulled away and the song climaxes with the Edges’ guitar and Bono sinking to the floor,” hinting at failed reconciliation. But I think they missed something key: the lyrics say “You, you said you’d wait, ’til the end of the world”. The reconciliation couldn’t happen now, but it would happen later. I know there’s much debate over this topic, so I would say that Origen suggested the ultimate salvation of even the devil, but it does seem apparent that some people thought Origen’s teachings might imply this.

I’ll stop here for now. If I think of more songs that carry this theme, maybe I’ll add another post! I think this gets across what I wanted to say though: U2 has some beautiful imagery for pondering the doctrine of universal reconciliation.

Tweaks to how I’ve been teaching the Bible

As readers of this blog are aware, one of my great frustrations over the past several years has been my inability to find a satisfying way to teach biblical studies in a high school setting. Comparative religion? Check! Theory of religion? Check! American religion? Check! Even philosophy? Check! All these topics have been doable; not perfect, always, but doable! But most of my classes on the Bible have been frustrating. They’ve been the hardest to maintain attention, manage my classroom, create discussion, etc.

The harsh feedback of one student last year was something like this: “This class goes too deep; it covers too much”. We used to offer up to two semesters’ worth. The last versions of these classes were known as “The Hebrew Scriptures” and “The Christian Scriptures”. Loosely, they covered the Tanakh/Old Testament and then the New Testament, dabbling a little in non-canonical literature.

The decision was made to streamline the religious studies catalog going into this year. This included creating a standard class that all students must take as part of their religious studies credit (“Philosophy for Human Flourishing”). And it meant that we’d have a single semester offering of the Bible (“Introduction to the Bible”).

While I’m only a quarter of a year into it, so maybe I’m speaking too soon, I think this was the correct decision. Here are some of the changes that occurred in how I teach the Bible now that I’ve got half the time to do it in:

  1. I spend a unit talking about how we got the Bible: ancient writing, scribal culture, the role of the printing press in standardizing and democratizing access to the Bible, and how we get modern English translations. This was received surprisingly well.
  2. I focus on the basic basics. I mean, I essentially outline the Bible around Abraham, to Moses, to David, to Jesus. I don’t assume any biblical literacy going in. This is wise. I’ve noticed a steep decline in biblical literacy. I assume no pre-knowledge and explain everything like it’s the first time my students are hearing it. For those with some pre-knowledge, they’re able to contribute by asking questions and making observations that thicken the class discussion.
  3. I focus on the canon. While I do explain non-canonical literature, most students in high school taking a class on the Bible (in a private school in Texas) want to study the Bible, not early Jewish and Christian literature in the abstract. I’ll miss reading the Infancy Gospel of Thomas with my students, but I do think most people who enjoy non-canonical literature do so because of their familiarity with canonical literature.
  4. I’ve moved away from deep hermeneutical theory. Now, I will say that for many of my students, the hard work of hermeneutics was the most transformative part of my class. Students may have hated going through the lessons on how we read the Bible in an academic context, but they often expressed that this is where they learned the most. On the other hand, some students struggled and shut down during those lessons, which, for better or worse, I fronted my semesters with. Also, those for whom the Bible is such a sacred object that they’re almost afraid to read it (such actions should be left to a priest or pastor, right?), those lessons could cause them to become defensive. This isn’t to say that I’ve moved away from reading the Bible academically. But instead of explaining how this is done, I just try to model it for them.
  5. I’m more open to my students exploring the Bible as an object of their faith. I think I often taught the teenager I was, and not to the ones I had in the room with me. I needed someone to deconstruct certain fundamentalisms for me. The toxic presentation of the Bible that I experienced in my youth and college years needed fixin’. And I think I tried to introduce my students to academic biblical studies in order to preemptively help them avoid some of the pitfalls of fundamentalist hermeneutics. I still try to be the teacher who gets my students to think about historical, cultural, and other contextual matters; I still try to help them see the challenges of interpretation. But I’m not teaching teenage me. My audience is different, and I think they come to class with a healthier relationship to the Bible, maybe because they haven’t been force-fed it. They want to understand the text, and for many, maybe most, this is not because they want to study the Bible academically, but because they want a basic understanding of the sacred text of their faith. So, I’m trying to be more accommodating to that interest.
  6. I’ve gone back to physical Bibles. I used to print out excerpts. But I think there’s something about holding a book that leads us to take the act of reading more seriously, especially a book like the Bible.
  7. The final thing is outside of my control: class size. Usually, my classes are 20+. I know my public and Catholic school colleagues are probably thinking, “cry me a river,” but 20+ is a lot. This semester, my “Introduction to the Bible” classes are 11 and 14, and next semester, 14 and 20. The smaller numbers have made it more conducive to reading a text closely with a group.

We’ll see if these changes continue to have a positive impact, but I will say that even as I’ve watered down the academic side of things, a lot, I’m having more fun teaching the Bible than I’ve had in years!

Religious, theological, and biblical studies when you can’t go the traditional route

I know that there are many people out there who would like to major in something as fun as religious or biblical studies, or go to graduate school to study religion, or seminary to study theology, but because of the inflation related to earning a degree, and because of the demands of life, are unable. If that’s you, and you run across this (unpaid/unsponsored, by the way) blog post, let me make a few recommendations for how you might still get an education a less traditional way.

Religious Studies
Andrew Mark Henry, the creator behind the fantastic YouTube page “Religion for Breakfast”, has just launched a new website called “The Religion Department”. Since it’s brand new, there’s a “trailer” that just dropped where he tells you all about what will be offered with a subscription. Let’s just say, it looks fantastic and he’s lined up some excellent professors to contribute. Basic membership (only $99 a year, which is way cheaper than graduate school) gets you a past catalog of classes and access to upcoming ones. Special seminars where you can learn Greek or Coptic, for example, cost a little more, but still look amazing. See the announcement below though. It tells you what you need to know!

Theological Studies
I’ve been a long time listener of Tripp Fuller’s podcast “Homebrewed Christianity”. He brings on some of the best guests one can find. And he’s connected to a whole host of amazing theologians, scholars of religion, and biblical scholars (which makes his service a little bit “religious studies,” “theological studies,” and “biblical studies,” but since he leans mostly into theology, that’s how I’m labeling it). Not too long ago, Fuller launched “Theology Class”. There are already 55+ courses in the catalog ranging with topics ranging from Dietrich Bonhoeffer, to Process Theology, to Black Theology, to J.R.R. Tolkien, to the “Nones” and deconstruction, and so forth. The offerings align more with progressive/liberal theology, if that’s your taste.

Biblical Studies
Finally, both of the aforementioned programs offer Bible-related content, but it’s the team that’s put together the Bible for Normal People podcast that I want to mention with their “Classes for Normal People”. The current catalog has classes ranging from the Infancy Narratives of the Gospels, to the Apocrypha, questions about hell, the origin of the Old Testament, divine violence, and a lot more. Sometimes these courses venture into theological/religious studies as well, so there’s overlap between these three offerings.

I hope someone looking to increase their understanding of these subjects who can’t go the traditional route stumbles across this post and that it helps connect you to these amazing, affordable resources.

Resuming my series on Simone Weil’s “vital needs of the human soul”

A while back, I began a series of posts on Simone Weil’s “vital needs of the human soul” found in her book, The Need for Roots. I got distracted by other things, and by the time I thought of resuming the series, I had begun my Substack “Philosophy of Human Flourishing”. So, the posts are there now! Here are the first two:

When Jesus calls God “Father”

I have little trouble conceiving of “God” as something akin to “the Dao” of Chinese philosophy, or “the Force” of Star Wars mythology, or even “the Ground of Being” as the theologian Paul Tillich phrased it. This is why I can’t see myself ever identifying as an atheist. While I presume that the debate around what “mind” is will rage on for years to come, I find myself unconvinced that it’s merely an emergent property within a solely materialistic universe (as materialism is defined in the current discourse). It may be “material” in some currently unmeasurable sense, sort of like how the ancient Greeks would have understood pneuma, but it seems to be the highest form of reality to which we have access. “Mind” appears to be peak “Universe”. If there is nothing like a god out there, the fact that at some point in the Universe the Universe can ponder itself, through humans and other non-human animals, but especially through humans, appears to me to be the most amazing thing. This isn’t to say that humans and other non-humans animals are the most amazing things in the Universe. Maybe Jupiter has consciousness in some sense that we don’t understand yet. If so, Jupiter would be a pretty impressive being, and maybe the ancient Greeks and Romans would have been on to something by identifying it with their highest deity. For now, we’ve encountered only ourselves and other animals as clear expressions of beings with mind. What we exhibit as thinking and perceiving beings may be a glimpse of a higher reality. It would make sense to me then that we could use the word “God” to allude to that “Mind” with a capital “M” in anticipation of someday understanding that we merely mirror an aspect of the Universe that is foundational to the Universe itself, maybe causal. And concepts like “Dao,” “Force,” “Ground of Being,” “God” pointed correctly, though incompletely, in the right direction. I think the apophatic theological tradition in its various forms could prove to have been on to something important.

But the exemplar in my religious tradition wasn’t satisfied with this impersonal presentation of the “Cosmic Mind”. He taught us to look toward the “Ground of Being” in the same way we would a “Father”. I’ve struggled with this on two fronts: one historical; one theological. Historically, while I’m confident that first-century fathers felt much of what modern fathers feel about their kids, it seems that, in general, fathers in Jesus’ time and place weren’t quite as compassionate as many fathers are now. A book that I started but haven’t finished, Father Time: A Natural History of Men and Babies by the anthropologist Sarah Bluffer Hardy, seems to imply (if I finish it, I’ll know for sure!) that men have evolved to become more nurturing over time. Another book, Fatherhood: A History of Love and Power by Augustine Sedgewick, is one that I want to read, and it seems to offer a complicate picture of how fatherhood emerged, why, and what it has accomplished, both positively and negatively. In short, I allude to these two books to say that in Jesus’ context, I wonder how much God being a “father” meant what it means to us now. If it’s true that “Millennial dads spend three times as much times with their kids” as their fathers spent with them, then one might imagine that modern fathers (in certain contexts) are far more outwardly affectionate and caring than first century fathers in Roman occupied Judea and Galilee!

Maybe Joseph was an amazingly kind and compassionate man. Maybe this shaped how Jesus understood the concept of God as “Father”. We know so little about Joseph. Whether this was so, Jesus didn’t seem to limit his presentation of God as Father to what humans exhibit. In Matthew 7:7-11/Luke 11:9-13, Jesus reminds his audience that the father among them wouldn’t give their children something harmful, like a snake if they requested fish, or a scorpion if they requested an egg. Therefore, if humans being “evil” wouldn’t be harmful to their children in that way, it’s implied how much more can the Heavenly Father be trusted to do what is right by his children? That God is “Father” doesn’t mean that God is like human fathers in all ways. Yet Jesus chose this parental image of God to help his followers in their devotion. His teachings seem to present God as loving, as caring, as a protector, and as a provider, just as any child may expect from their fathers, and mothers, through much of human history. When Jesus died on the cross, he wasn’t Stoic about the sense of divine absence. He cried, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” implying his understanding of God was one of a Being who he expected to be there even in the darkest moments (Mark 15:34; Matthew 27:46; cf. Psalm 22:1).

Maybe there’s a theological explanation rooted in Trinitarianism. Jesus being “one with the Father” (in Johannine and later creedal language) would reframe what God’s fatherhood looked like. But that doesn’t do much for us “normies”! Jesus taught us to pray “Our Father” (Matthew 6:9-13; Luke 11:2-4) and later creedal theology which situates Jesus as “God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father” doesn’t help me, since I’m definitely not those things! It doesn’t help me understand the “our” part, since clearly within traditional Christology, Jesus’ experience of God as Father is categorically different.

There may be some among us who have had fathers that were amazing to the point that when we reflect on their fatherhood, it makes it easy to imagine God as a caring, benevolent Being. For many of us, this experience is lacking and difficult to conceptualize. Experientially, God as Father sometimes feels like the worst of human fathers. We may be grateful because God brought us into the world. We may be grateful because, in some sense, we might see God as providing for us. If that’s what the fatherhood of God boils down to—creating us; providing for us—then sadly our expectations of God amount to what we would expect a father who offers the bare minimum. I doubt that this is what Jesus wanted us to think when told us to imagine God as Father. One would hope that, as alluded to earlier, in whatever sense God is Father, God is far superior to human fathers.

But I confess that this remains difficult for me to conceptualize. It takes a great leap for me to move from “sure, there’s a Being that is the ground of all being, and we call that Being ‘God'” to “Our Father…” I can imagine a foundational “Mind” that provides us with our existence as the imagining Creator of all. I find it trickier to imagine this “Reality” as more of a “someone” than a “something”. Maybe I can imagine God as a “someone” in a sense so superior to me that I’d be like a squirrel trying to rationalize a human. But Jesus’ teachings ask us to see God as someone who relates to us, can be related to, and whose relationship with us is grounded in some level of caring benevolence, even love. Our world makes it difficult for me to understand this and to see “our Father”.

Why Christians should be liberal

I’ve been reading through John Stuart Mill‘s On Liberty over the past couple of weeks. It’s a short work, less than a couple hundred pages, but dense enough to read slowly. For those unfamiliar with Mill, he’s seen as a “father of liberalism”. Liberalism has many branches now but I would say that what holds them together is an emphasis on the right of the individual to believe and live the “good life” as they see fit as long as it doesn’t violate “the harm principle,” meaning as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else. Obviously, that’s easier said than done but I think most “western” societies have tried to abide by this principle.

Mill lived from 1806-1873 in Victorian England. While his ideas may be the water in which we swim now, or so argues the philosopher Alexander Lefebvre in his excellent Liberalism As a Way of Life (a book that I finished reading and need to say something about here soon), his ideas regarding individual freedom were radical for the time. This isn’t too difficult for me to understand if I consider the plight of LGBTQIA+ Americans in my own lifetime and slightly before. Harvey Milk was killed a mere four years before I was born. Even in “liberal” California where I was raised, I heard plenty of voices desiring to push queer people “back into the closet” because their “way of life” was something, in the view of many of the adults in my life, a private matter, at best. I heard many preachers refer to nearby San Francisco as “Sodom,” citing the common misconception that the city of Sodom from the biblical Book of Genesis was destroyed by the Bible’s God because of homosexuality. On the other hand, I’ve seen society because far more tolerant, at least, and accepting, at best, of our LGBTQIA+ friends (mostly the LG part; there’s a lot of work to be done after that still). And this “progress” as many of us would call it has little to do with the generosity and gracefulness of Christians. Instead, it has to do with the continued impact of people like Mill whose “live and let live” philosophy continues to influence us, even as forces of illiberalism threaten it, like, for example, the Christian Nationalist movement.

Rejecting Christian Nationalism
For Mill, ideologies like Christian Nationalism, which argue that the United States is a “nation by Christians for Christians to practice Christianity,” and that everything from our “moral” laws to immigration policies should reflect that, are in error. They’re in error for two reasons: (1) history and (2) epistemology. With regard to history, Mill argues that Christians, and others, have made mistake after mistake when they tried to use the power of the state to force others to live as they wished, and that this history should be a warning to us that we could do the same if we veer away from being liberal. With regard to epistemology, Mill points to the frailty of human knowledge, how we are limited to our own time and place and how those limitations keep us from the “god’s-eye view” that we assume when they forget that we’re not infallible by forcing everything from our metaphysics to our morality upon others, especially if their metaphysics and morality, when practiced, doesn’t impact us directly. Let me unpack this with some exegesis of On Liberty (from the edition published by Arcturus Press for page number references).

Answering the Questions for Ourselves
Mill begins by acknowledging that one may be convinced on the truthfulness of their understanding of Christianity. He doesn’t want to attack that when we warns us about the problem of our own fallibility, at least not directly. Instead, he begins with the principle that as convinced as we might be, we can’t force that conviction upon others. He writes, “…it is not the feeling of sure doctrine (be it what it may) which I call the assumption of infallibility. It is the undertaking to decide the question for others, without allowing them to hear what can be said on the contrary side.” (p. 36) For those Christians who care about our foundational sources in the New Testament, it is clear from the Gospels, the Book of Acts, the epistles of St. Paul, etc., that the earliest Christians felt the need to persuade people of their Gospel. They didn’t have the power of the Roman state to help them, so this was necessary, but also it says something about the very nature of Christian proclamation: ultimately, reception of the Gospel must be voluntary, even for those that inherit the faith from previous generations.

Killing Socrates and Jesus
As a warning, Mill reminds his audience of the great mistake of the Athenians who voted to execute the great father of western philosophy, Socrates, and how in retrospect that proved short-sighted and foolish. But not to stop there: if the death of Socrates was an injustice, “the event which took place on Calvary rather more than eighteen hundred years ago” (p. 37) should stop Christians in their tracks when they try to use the power of the state. It was the power of the Roman state that was used to wrongly execute Jesus himself! How then can Christians make the same mistake?!

Similarly, Christians should ponder the origins of their religion, and how the Romans mistreated (at best) and persecuted (at worst) Christians, only for Christianity to eventually emerge as the religion of the empire. If Christianity was true, and it was going to be true for your average Roman, what foolishness to persecute it! But persecute they did and persecute they continued to do, even after becoming Christian, just against Christians that were perceived as “unorthodox” or “heretical”. Seemingly, Christians didn’t learn from the early rejection and persecution the concept of tolerance. Once the oppressed was in power, they became the oppressor, and Mill wants to warn against the impulse to do this. As Mill writes “Orthodox Christians who are tempted to think that those who stoned to death the first martyrs must have been worse men than they themselves are, ought to remember that one of those persecutors was Saint Paul.” (p. 38) If St. Paul could be in error, so can you!

Now, the example of early Christian persecution may lead some to think that persecution is justified. In other words, they may conclude that persecute we must because if something is true, it will rise to the challenge, just like Christianity did. Mill rejects this (“the dictum that truth always triumphs over persecution, is one of those pleasant falsehoods which men repeat after one another till they pass into commonplace,” p. 41). If for no other reason, that such a mindset deprives a generation, or many generations, of the benefits of that truth. Mill observes, “The real advantage which truth has, consists in this, that when as opinion is true, it may be extinguished once, twice, or many times, but in the course of ages there will generally be found persons to rediscover it, until some one of it reappearances falls on a time when from favorable circumstances it escapes persecutions until it has made such head as to withstand all subsequent attempts to suppress it.” (p. 42) This is wonderful, but bad for the many generations who lost out on the truth that was buried by the arrogance of the times.

The Impotence of Intolerance
What does our intolerance accomplish? Not much. Mill uses the example of the atheist who is willing to face the public consequences of their atheism in Victorian England. Are they not the most honest hearted people? They must believe their atheism truly? What about the atheist who poses as a believer to avoid penalty? What does this create? Churches with atheists who don’t want to be there, i.e., Christians who are pretending! “Under pretense that atheists must be liars, it admits the testimony of all atheists who are willing to lie, and rejects only those who brave the obloquy of publicly confessing a detested creed rather than affirm a falsehood.” (p. 43) To do this is to cultivate vice among the people and suppress virtues like truth-telling, all in the name of preserving “Christianity” among the people.

What does our intolerance accomplish? It doesn’t remove the “heretics,” according to Mill. Instead, it suppresses the greater minds of a generation. If people’s very livelihoods are at risk, they won’t pursue the truth (p. 45). If they don’t pursue the truth, that generation loses out on their insights (p. 46):

“A state of things in which a large portion of the most active and inquiring intellects find it advisable to keep the genuine principles and grounds of their convictions within their own breasts, and attempt, in what they address to the public, to fit as much as they can of their own conclusions into the premises which they have internally renounced, cannot send forth the open, fearless characters, and logical, consistent intellects who once adorned the thinking world. The sort of men who can be looked for under it, are either mere conformers to commonplace, or time-servers for truth those arguments on all great subjects are meant for their hearers, and are not those which have convinced themselves”

The Universal, Ugly Side Effects of Intolerance
And it’s the fear of being wrong that hurts us all. Because an environment open to free thinking may create heretics, yes, but it will create much more good: “Truth gains more even by the errors of the one who, with due study and preparation, thinking for himself, than by the true opinions of those who only hold them because they do not suffer themselves to think.” (p. 47) When a society suppresses free thinking, it hinders creativity-within-orthodoxy, making orthodoxy dull and lifeless. Mill writes, “The greatest harm is done is to those who are not heretics, and whose mental development is cramped, and their reason cowed, by fear of heresy. Who can compute what the world loses in the multitude of promising intellects combined with timid characters, who dare not follow out any bold, vigorous, independent train of thought, lest it should land them in something which would admit of being considered irreligious or immoral?” (p. 47)

Steel Man
In Mills’ view, “orthodoxy” should be able to hold its own in the court of public opinion. Religious dogma proves itself weak when it must be forced upon others, as if suddenly people pretending to believe something out of fear makes it true! Mill argues, “Whatever people believe, they ought to be able to defend against at least the common objections.” (p. 49) (On a side note, I don’t think this is meant to encourage the “I did my own research” culture of the Internet. Remember, he qualified that research must be done by “one who, with due study and preparation” is “thinking for himself” with a strong emphasis on that “due study and preparation”. If I want to talk about climate, or astronomy, or geology, or vaccines, etc., “due study and preparation” may take years!) For Mill, one shows that they have a strong view not because they can articulate it, but when they can articulate it and its opposing view. When you can steel man your opponent’s argument, but still find it weak, then you know you have some solid ground upon which to make your stand. And you can’t debunk a view you don’t like by citing opponents of the view. One “must be able to hear them from person who actually believe them” (p. 51). Now, maybe the average person doesn’t have the time to do all this “research”. So be it. But those who shape public thought and policy must! “If not the public, at least the philosophers and theologians who are to resolve the difficulties, must make themselves familiar with those difficulties in their most puzzling form; and this cannot be accomplished unless they are freely stated, and placed in the most advantageous light which they admit of.” (p. 52)

Dead Beliefs
Mill notes that many “teachers of all creeds” often can be heard “lamenting the difficulty of keeping up in the mind of believers a lively apprehension of the truth which they nominally recognize” (p. 54). But he says, “No such difficulty is complained of while the creed is still fighting for its existence” (p. 54) In other words, if you want people to remain committed to a belief, you shouldn’t want it to be commonplace. You must want people to be confronted by it! Mill comments, “To what an extent doctrines intrinsically fitted to make the deepest impressions upon the mind may remain in it as dead beliefs, without being ever realized in the imagination, the feelings, or the understandings, is exemplified by the manner in which the majority of believers hold the doctrines of Christianity.” (p. 55) For Mill, the teachings of the New Testament “are considered sacred, and accepted as laws, by all professing Christians,” but they’re rarely practiced in actuality, because they’ve become so common place. People take comfort in merely affirming these doctrines, but they’re rarely confronted by them. How can this be? “The standard to which he does refer it, is the custom of his nation, his class, or his religious profession. He has thus, on the one hand, a collection of ethical maxims, which be believes to have been vouchsafed to him by infallible wisdom as rules for his government; and own the other, a set of every-day judgments and practices, which go a certain length with some of those maxims, not so great a length with others, stand in direct opposition to some, and are, on the whole, a compromise between the Christian creed and interests and suggestions of worldly life.” (p. 55) In short, Christians interpret something like say the “Sermon on the Mount” through the lens of their culture, denominational teachings, etc., seeing them as morals that they affirm because those morals have been interpreted for them and to them in such a way that they feel like they’re in the right.

Once this has happened, whatever power such teachings had to confront said Christians has been removed, and now this sense of “rightness” can be weaponized. “But in the sense that living belief which regulates conduct, they believe these doctrines just up to the point to which it is usual to act upon them. The doctrines in their integrity are serviceable to pelt adversaries with; and it is understood that they are to be put forward (when possible) as the reasons for whatever people do that they think laudable.” (p. 56) Anyone who has been around Christianity for any length of time knows this is true if they’re honest. And speaking personally, I know it to be true of myself. When I read the Sermon on the Mount without trying to justify myself, I often come away thinking “how can I live up to this?” Christ’s teachings will do that. One can weaponize Christ’s teachings only if they’ve found a way to interpret them so that they, suspiciously, always align with the morals and values of the reader! Mill knew this and tried to spotlight it for his readers.

Now, Mill thinks it’s actually a good thing if we’re a bit syncretistic. That may be a topic for another post. So, Mill isn’t trying to shame Christians for building their morality from multiple points of view. All he wants is for us to admit that this is what we’re doing, and he wants Christians who act as if they’re the ones who alone understand the New Testament and its teachings rightly to pause and be a little more introspective.

Mill’s Liberalism
When I say that Mill thinks Christians should be liberal, I don’t mean, necessarily, that they hold to a “liberal” theology, like say one that reinterprets the creeds, or that they embrace the individualism of libertarianism, or that they embrace the policies of neoliberalism, etc. I mean, specifically, that we take into consideration our own fallibility, especially around matters regarding religion, or philosophies of how we should live, and that we recognize from history how often the most confident were the most in error. This demands humility. It requires a little of “live and let live,” especially if we can’t show how someone else’s actions, beliefs, associations, mythologies, etc., hurt other people (and by “hurt” we mean actual harm, not just discomfort or a feeling of disagreeableness). Christians should take from their own scriptures the scenes where people crucified Christ wrongly, and how St. Paul boldly persecuted, and how the Roman Empire suppressed, as a reminder of how easy it can be to be confidently wrong. If Christians abide by the principles Mill sets forth, they won’t have microwaved answers on what politicians or policies to support in modern democratic life, for example, and at best they’ll have one driving principle for dogmatism: avoid harming others. If Christians took these ideas into consideration, I think we’d see a far healthier Christianity, at least in the part of the world where I live.