Review–Retrieving Nicaea

Posted on by Tim Perry

Retrieving Nicaea: The Development and Meaning of Trinitarian Doctrine

Khaled Anatolios

Baker Academic, 2011

With this new book, Khaled Anatolios, professor of historical theology in the Boston College School of Theology and Ministry, cements his position as a leading contemporary interpreter of the Council and of its great champion, St. Athanasius. The book is every bit the equal of his earlier work, Athanasius: The Coherence of His Thought (Routledge, 2004) and merits a close reading by patristic scholars and contemporary theologians equally.

Anatolios contends that “Nicaea,” that is, the doctrinal outcome of the councils of Nicaea and Constantinople, the identification of God as Trinity, is not the result of speculation, whether about the nature of God or the nature of persons, but in fact expresses “coherent construals of the entirety of Christian faith” (1). In other words, the doctrine of the Trinity articulated at these councils and confessed in the Creed is not simply one doctrine alongside others. Its value lies in its explanatory power not simply with regard to the identity of God, but insofar as confession of this identity in turn shapes the rest of Christian faith.

This is a sweeping and attractive thesis. But one that is obviously difficult to demonstrate historically. Anatolios wisely eschews the diachronic route, and chooses instead to exposit three major interpreters of Nicaea: Athanasius, Gregory of Nyssa, and Augustine of Hippo. His choice of exemplars is deliberate: the great champion of the fourth century followed by two fifth century figures, determinative for the shape of Trinitarian doctrine in East and West respectively.

First, however, some historical groundwork is laid with two opening chapters. The first details the run up to the Council of Nicea (325) and the years of ongoing controversy afterward. Anatolios rightly points out that the issue was not whether God was Trinity, but how. In the fourth century, the pivot on which this debate turned was the primacy of Christ. Was Christ united to God the Father as a matter of divine will or divine being? Although the major combatants leading to the Council were the presbyter, Arius and his bishop, Alexander, Anatolios helpfully demonstrates substantial theological diversity on both sides. This diversity ensured, further, that the controversy would continue for decades after the Nicene formula had been “settled.” In truth, it was as much the determination of Athanasius to defend the Council afterwards that made it the watershed in the history of Christian theology.  These chapters rehabilitate both Arius and Alexander by effectively getting them out of Athanasius’ shadow and presenting them as able Christian theologians in their own rights.

With the groundwork then laid, Anatolios can begin his expository work. His chapter on Athanasius devotes extended attention to the Orations and On the Incarnation as well as other works (Anatolios takes what is to me a novel stand—for him, the Incarnation does not antedate the Arian controversy, but is subsequent to it). Through his exposition, he shows how the debate about Nicaea’s homoousios is not simply about the primacy of Christ, but also how that primacy informs Christian faith as a whole and divine transcendence in particular. Athanasius’ position is that the Father-Son relationship is constituitive of God’s identity. As a result, Christ’s saving work is a manifestation of the divine nature as philanthropia (156). The Holy Spirit, futher, is the creative and salvific agent of that same philanthropia. As a result, not only is there is no divine “remainder” outside the confession of God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit, but all of Christian existence takes place within that confession.

In his turn to Gregory of Nyssa, Anatolios highlights the vision of God as irreducibly active “within the dynamism of the Trinitarian life,” and who is, therefore neither static with regard to nor removed from creation.  Rather, the dynamic life that is the perichoretic unity of Father Son and Holy Spirit—which is the divine goodness—spills over into creating and redeeming that which is not God. On Anatolios’ reading, Gregory is not a Neo-Platonist who revels in divine ineffability and his mysticism is not “the Poltinian ascent of the alone to the Alone” (240). Rather, Gregory’s conception of divine ineffability is better understood as plenitude or inexhaustibility. It is because God, who really is Father, Son and Holy Spirit, has in his goodness and activity drawn humanity into his very life that human beings will forever be moving “further up and further in” (to borrow from C.S. Lewis) to that life and our understanding thereof.

Augustine and his magisterial De Trinitate is then consulted as Anatolios reflects on what kind of knowledge of the Trinity is possible for human beings. Again, the doctrine of the Trinity is presented not as an abstract and speculative exercise but as one, reflection on which, leads to spiritual formation and the production of a particular kind of person. The real issue on Anatolios’ reading is not the “proof” of Trinitarian doctrine according to human reason to the deployment of analogies to ratify it according to standards of human rationality. Its purpose rather is first to expose and then to heal “the deep wounds of a radically uncertain self through the revelation of God through Chrsit and the Spirit” (279).

Finally, Anatolios’s conclusion draws together the expository strands of previous chapters to show how a robust conception of the Nicene doctrine of God is not isolated, but continues to impinge upon Christian understandings of Scripture, Tradition and hermeneutics, worship, creation, salvation, and humanity.  Although a fitting, and from my perspective, very satisfying conclusion, readers who are not interested or trained in patristics might want to read it before the long expository chapters. It will help orient them, and indeed give them a persuasive argument  to stick with the longer chapters when the exegesis gets detailed.

Highly recommended to specialists and interested non-specialists.

Sermon–Jesus Calls (2)

Posted on by Tim Perry

Jesus Calls (2)

Mark 1:14-20

 

Last Sunday, we began our journey with Jesus to the mount of Transfiguration as we read about the calling of Philip and Nathanael. We saw in the story three intersections between the biblical world and our own: Jesus calls; Jesus calls different kinds of people; and called people bring people.

We continue in the same vein this week as we read another call story. It involves some of the same people, but it is reset in terms of its location (from the Jordan, near the Dead Sea, to the sea of Galilee), and it is told differently.

The text falls into two paragraphs. The opening paragraph, vv. 14-15, tells us how Mark understands the beginning of Jesus’ preaching ministry.  There are a number of important observations to make.

First, John, the forerunner according to Mark’s understanding of has had his role come to an end. He has been put into prison. Not only does John’s ministry logically and chronologically precede Jesus  ministry, it also foreshadows it.  Just as John was “handed over” (that is the Greek phrase used), so, at the end of his own ministry, Jesus will also be “handed over” to be killed. Second, Mark makes clear that Galilee will be the center of Jesus ministry. Jesus had come to John from Galilee (1:9). Now, after his temptation in the wilderness, he comes back to Galilee. Third, Jesus’ ministry will focus on the proclamation of the good news of the kingdom. Whatever else happens—whatever miracles, whatever controversies, whatever callings—whatever else happens will serve to illustrate his preaching.

That message itself is then summarized in verse 15. It is condensed into two announcements followed by two commands. First, Jesus says, “The time is fulfilled.” The time, in other words, that the prophets—the last and greatest of which was John himself—looked forward to was now here. The second announcement then elaborates on the first. The time is fulfilled because the Kingdom of God is present. With the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, God’s rule has, in fact, already entered history.

And the response to this announcement is then made plain. Repent, that is, change your ways. And believe in the Gospel—in other words, trust that in me, the kingdom of God has come and is here. As Mark presents it, there is in Jesus’ message a deliberate confusion of the proclaimer—Jesus—and the proclaimed—the Gospel of the Kingdom. Jesus is both the one through whom the Good News is being preached and the one in whom the Kingdom comes.

In the next paragraph, we move to the call of the first four disciples: Simon, Andrew, James and John. Mark’s story opens as Jesus is walking by the sea of Galilee. And Jesus’ eyes fall upon Andrew and Peter, fishing. “Follow me,” he says, “And I will make you fish for people,” And immediately (one of Mark’s favourite phrases) they left their nets and followed him. He then walks just a little further up the beach, I imagine Andrew and Peter racing to catch up from behind, to where he sees James and John. And the scene is repeated. “And immediately” Jesus calls and the brothers leave their nets to follow Jesus (no one knows what Zebedee thought as he saw his RRSPs walking away).

There are three aspects about discipleship in this call story that draw our attention. The first is this: Jesus calls. This intenstifies the theme found in last week’s text. Jesus emerges on the scene. Jesus calls the disciples solely by means of an authoritative summons. The disciples did not choose their master—a fairly common characteristic in other Jewish call stories—the master chose them. And they obeyed.

Second, Jesus’ call has both negative and positive responses. Negatively, the disciples leave. They leave their nets; which is to say, their occupations. They leave the only means of financial security they have ever known. They leave the only means of providing for their families for which they have been trained. Not only do they leave their occupation, but James and John at least leave also their father behind. The call to discipleship for these followers of Jesus meant a radical and immediate severing of social and family ties. The theme introduced here—which will slowly intensify throughout the Gospel—is that of the cost of discipleship.

Positively, Andrew, Peter, James, and John responded by following Jesus. He called; they followed. There is no mention of deliberation. Peter did not stop fishing, call Andrew aside and weight the pros and cons. James and John did not contact an accountant and sit down with Zebedee to make the appropriate financial arrangements for the family business before they left it behind. The immediacy of their response is reinforced and intensified by Mark’s repetition of the phrase, “and immediately.”

Third, Jesus promises that these new disciples will have a new vocation. No longer will they fish for, well, fish. Now, they will fish for men and women. Why does Jesus make such a strange statement? Remember, we’re dealing with a call story. Call stories are not uncommon. They grow up around influential rabbis. Mark’s call story follows the right form, but some of the details are strikingly different. We have already seen one. Where in a typical call story we would find the disciples searching out their master, Mark has Jesus calling Andrew, Peter, James and John. Here we have another striking, if small, change. Instead of the master saying to the new followers that they will, under him, become students of the Law, the Torah, now they will fish for people.

The significance is remarkable. For in these words, Jesus has obliterated any permanent distinction in terms of status between his disciples and himself. The disciples will accompany Jesus. The disciples will learn from Jesus. The disciples will be commissioned by Jesus. All of this is true. But they will not be his inferiors. They will be trained to share in his ministry and eventually to continue it. That he called two pairs of brothers probably foreshadows the further development of this theme when Jesus will in chapter 6 send out the disciples two by two to minister to the people in the same manner as he had.

What does the Gospel have to say to us this morning? First, Jesus calls. I know. It’s a carry-over from last week. But bear with me. Far too often we want to jump to the latter part of the story. To the response of the disciples. To the stories emphasis on the immediacy and cost of discipleship. But that’s premature. Before we focus on the negative response (what we have to give up) and positive response (what we must do) to Jesus call, we must focus on the call itself.

When we do not, it is a short step to the subtle and deadly deception that we have, by our response, actually earned the call. That our response is not a response at all. That we have taken the initiative. That we have found Jesus. That we remain in control of our lives. That we have an occasion to brag. To think ourselves better.

But scripture does not say that. Scripture says that Jesus calls. Without Jesus’ call, Andrew and Peter would have kept on fishing. Without Jesus’ call, James and John would have kept on mending their nets with their Dad. The Scriptures say that God in his grace found them before they were even looking for him.

In every decision that is made, Jesus is in control. It will be our task not orchestrate events but to pray and to work in such a way that any orchestration is left to Jesus. He will call. Our job is first to listen, and then to act.

Second, Jesus calls ordinary people. Andrew and Peter, James and John. Fishermen. Business men. Not aristocracy. Caesar is in Rome, Herod in one of his palaces, Pilate in his administrative offices in Jerusalem. Jesus was in Galillee. Jesus was calling fishermen. Jesus passed over the powerful. Jesus evaded the elite. Jesus went to the weak. Jesus walked among the ordinary and the everyday in a backwater province of the Roman Empire. And when he called, he called ordinary everyday people.

And he still calls ordinary, everyday people. He called a Polish actor and student in the midst of the Nazi reign of terror in the 1930s. “And immediately,” Karol Wojtyla ended a romantic relationship, entered seminary (a capital offense under the Nazi government of Poland), and became a priest. His message to Poles under the Nazis: “Do not be afraid. Christ has triumphed. So will you.” When the Nazis were replaced by the Communists, he became a bishop. His message to Poles under a second foreign occupation was “Do not be afraid. Christ has triumphed. So will you.” When, in 1981, he stood on the balcony outside the papal apartments, his message to Poles and to all under the repressive government of the Soviet empire was “Do not be afraid. Christ has triumphed. So will you.”

How much of the 20th century was shaped by a Polish actor who heard the call of Jesus and changed the world. The real story of the collapse of Soviet style communism is not the story of power plays and armies and political machinations. It is the story of ordinary people who became convinced of the truth of the Gospel. Who became convinced that because Christ had triumphed they could look death in the eye and not blink because He had gone ahead of them and come out the other side.

Now this morning, you may well be thinking I’m not cut out to be a priest, let alone a Pope. I’m no great leader. I have no profound moral vision. And all of those statements may be perfectly true. But Jesus doesn’t call the great and the powerful. Jesus calls fishermen and actors. These are the people Jesus uses to change the world. Jesus calls ordinary people to do extraordinary things. There is no reason to believe that he will act differently here. The only question will be will we, like Andrew, Peter, James and John, leave all behind when he calls.

 

Thomas’s 5 Ways–Just What are They For?

Posted on by Tim Perry

I’m surprised no one has taken issue with my contention that St. Thomas’s theological and philosophical genius lay in part in its de-coupling God from creation, such that creation could be encountered and explained without direct reference to the divine. After all, did not Thomas give us the 5 Ways? And do these not explicitly argue for the existence of God in terms of Cause (God) and Effect (the Universe)?

Well, just in case anyone was wondering, here’s my thought. . . . (By the way, I don’t offer this as in any way a scholar of Thomas and so welcome engagement by any  who think I am mistaken).

St. Thomas Aquinas’  five ways are often considered to be arguments for the existence of God and they can and often do function as such in philosophy of religion. Sometimes these arguments fare quite well; other times, they do not. Contra Richard Dawkins—who dismisses a barely undergraduate-level caricature of Aquinas’ arguments in three pages—and with Keith Ward—who ably dispenses with the dismissal in a slightly longer chapter—I am inclined to agree that the five ways can be re-articulated to modern audiences. In the light of the findings of modern science the five ways rightly understood continue to provide compelling, if not conclusive, reasons to believe that the existence of God is almost certain. To stay here, at the level of scepticism, however, is, I think to miss the real point that Thomas was making 800 years ago. A point that remains valid for our discussion.

Pace both Dawkins and Ward, I am not so sure that arguing for the existence of God was precisely what St. Thomas was up to when he set forth the five ways in the third article of the second question of the Summa Theologiae. What then does St. Thomas mean when he says that there are five ways in which the existence of God can be proved? To work toward an answer, it is important to keep in mind that St. Thomas is not arguing with atheists. He is not a modern-out-of-time. Thomas’ contention lies with other believers who thought either that God’s existence was self-evident (this is Anselm’s ontological argument), or that God’s existence could not be determined through examination of the natural world and was instead a matter to be accepted entirely on faith (Aquinas cites St. John of Damascus here). Thomas is arguing against fellow believers, wanting to show in his five ways that we can arrive at God from close observation of the world around us. Awareness of God’s existence is not a matter of mere definition—existence is not a predicate; nor is it simply to be taken on faith. Awareness of God’s existence inevitably emerges through a close investigation of the world God has made.

This, I think, gets us much closer to Thomas’ real point. While there is a claim being made about the demonstrability of God’s existence (though it is not quite a precursor of the theist/atheist debate), there is (and this is much more important for my purposes) a claim being made about the nature of humanity. Namely, that our minds are so ordered toward the natural world that, as we attend to it closely, we will be led almost hook-in-nose to consider what lies beyond it, to what we cannot observe, to that which transcends sensory perception. We cannot help but operate in this way, says Thomas. It simply is part of who we are. In arguing thus, Thomas initiates a revolution in Christian thought by arguing that the road to God lies in turning toward the natural world rather than away from it. Indeed, it is the decisive turn away from Neo-Platonic Augustinianism to Aristotle’s empiricism and materialism that, when coupled with a Christian doctrine of creation, laid the philosophical and theological groundwork for the emergence of the natural sciences in Europe (and not elsewhere).

I don’t want to look at the particulars of the 5 ways. I want to focus on how this turn to the natural world works itself out. When we observe the world, Thomas says, its intricacy, order and almost inherent sense of purpose invites questions about intent and design. What ordered the universe? What imbued its consciousless creatures with meaning? The answer is that which Christians call God (the first way). Further investigation reveals that the universe is composed of an intricate connection of causes and effects. And this recognition invites yet more questions, this time about the universe’s formal, efficient, material and final causation (the remaining four ways). Who conceived of the universe, brought it into being, provided the matter for its construction, and toward whom it is directed? Again, the answer to these questions is what Christians call God.

Even though this is the briefest summary of the five ways, I hope I have expressed them accurately and clarified my point. St. Thomas thinks that human beings are naturally oriented to know both the natural world and, in and through the pursuit of that knowledge, to seek after its ultimate source, the transcendent, what he names as God. In turning us away from Neo-Platonic and Augustinian inwardness and illumination to empirical investigation, Thomas is not attempting to prove God’s existence to a medieval atheist (as there were none). Rather, he is providing a large conceptual map for questions he believes to be universal. Questions to which he can go provide distinctly Christian answers, as he does in the rest of the Summa. This is, of course, exactly what is to be expected from a member of the Order of Preachers, given that their mission is evangelism through teaching and preaching.

If I am reading Thomas correctly, he thus gives the world intelligibility in its own right–it can be accounted for in terms of itself–and explains why humans are hardwired to allow this intelligibility to provoke different sorts of questions. Thus, to say theories of the universe don’t need a creator in order to be true is-to me–entirely proper and is perfectly compatible with believing in God without resort to fideism.

Am I on the right track here?

God as Cause

Posted on by Tim Perry

I caught the last sentence (or thereabouts) on Quirks and Quarks, the CBC radio science programme, this past Saturday morning. The physicist Bob MacDonald interviewed was (as far as I could tell) talking about the various theories about the origins of the universe. His last sentence was something like, “And none of them require a Creator in order to be true.” Which left me thinking, well, St. Thomas Aquinas would agree.

This fellow, who was far smarter than I, seemed to have come to a conclusion that Christian theologians (should) already accept–namely, the natural world can and and even should be explained without recourse to the divine. “God” is not a stopgap in human ignorance. So, welcome to this particular ledge of the mountain. We’ve been here since, oh about 1200AD or so. We’re waiting for others–both believers and not–to join us.

 

Vaclav Havel and Red Toryism

Posted on by Tim Perry

I have been trumpeting Red Toryism as a legitimate alternative to liberal libertarianism and liberal statism. I think, at bottom, what makes it different from both are three commitments. First is  its commitment to the Catholic social principle of subsidiarity–that government should be no bigger than the challenge it seeks to take on. (This makes Red Toryism look like socialism or libertarianism depending on the social issue being discussed, and therefore confusing the heck out of lots of people on both sides). Second, its commitment to slow, incremental change through inherited institutions. The cost of sweeping social experiments–I hope the 20th century teaches us–is always too high. Third, its commitment to personal responsibility and virtue. There can be no public square, no polis, without a recognition that the public man or woman needs to be formed to be a virtuous man or woman. And government, while it can and must defend those pre-political institutions that inculcate virtue, cannot in fact teach it itself. Anway, a major 20th century figure who expresses these themes far better than I is Vaclav Havel. A recent essay on him by George Weigel can be found here. Let me know what you think!

Sermon–Jesus Calls

Posted on by Tim Perry

Audio is available here.

Jesus Calls

Last Sunday was the first Sunday of the Season of Epiphany. Translated into English, the word, “Epiphany” means simply, “to show” or “to make known.” And in the gifts of the Magi and the baptism by John, Jesus’ identity is disclosed. The gold, frankincense and myrrh, the water and the dove and the divine voice tell us that Jesus is Lord and King. And it is as such that he is made known to us.

During Epiphany, Christians are invited to ask just what difference the disclosure of Jesus makes. What has changed with his coming? What is being changed while we await his return? These are the questions we are invited to ask during Epiphany.

With that in mind, let us turn from an overview to the Gospel lesson for this morning. It is the story of the calling of Philip and Nathaniel, the conclusion to the first chapter of the Gospel of John.

As our story opens, Andrew and another disciple have just found Jesus. Jesus is so compelling, so convincing, so absolutely spell-binding that Andrew’s first action is to search out his brother, Simon to tell him about Jesus, the Messiah, the King of Israel and the Lord of God’s people.

Our Gospel lesson follows on.

While heading for the Galilee region, Jesus “finds” Philip. A small verb, “finds.”  But one worth stopping and thinking about. Andrew and his companion were, because of the preaching of John, searching for Jesus. And they found him. And he called them.

Philip, on the other hand, was not a follower of John nor was he searching for the Messiah. The text does not tell us that Philip found the Messiah; the text says, rather, that the Messiah found him. That’s an important point to observe. When Jesus is made known, people are called, but the call is never cookie cutter. It’s never identical to the last one. Sometimes, people who are seeking find Jesus. At others, people are like Philip—Jesus finds them.

Although the manner of his call is different from Andrew’s, the result is the same. Just as Andrew ran to find Simon, so Philip ran to find Nathanael to tell him about the one who had found him. Nathanael, however, is unconvinced. “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” he asks. It’s a fair question. Nazareth was so small a town that it simply isn’t mentioned in any literature outside the New Testament before the 9th century! But Philip will not be dissuaded. “Come and see for yourself.” He replies.

And Jesus, setting his eyes on Nathanael says: “Here’s an Israelite in whom there is no guile.” It’s a seeming validation of Nathanael’s previous comment. Nathanael’s unbelief is not cynical. It is not jaded. And he isn’t about to fawn over someone about whom he’s not convinced. Nathanael is the kind of unbeliever Jesus loves. He’s open about his unbelief. In it there is no shred of deceit or hypocrisy.

Nathanael, understandably, is put off by this kind of greeting. “Do you know me?” And Jesus answers, “Before Philip called you, while you were still sitting under the fig tree, I saw you.” And with those words, Nathanael’s straightforward scepticism melts. Nathanael too becomes a believer. And Jesus promises that Nathanael will see even greater things. Just what things? The seven signs—the turning of water into wine, the healing of the nobleman’s son, the healing of the paralytic, the feeding of the five thousand, Jesus walking on water, the healing of the blind man and the raising of Lazarus. The signs that each in their unique way would reaffirm what Nathanael has already confessed: that Jesus is the Son of God and the King of Israel.

And all of these are wrapped up in and underscored by Jesus application of the imagery of Jacob’s dream to himself. He is the ladder that unites heaven and earth. He is the link that brings God’s blessings to God’s world.

Andrew is called and his first response is to bear witness to his brother. Philip is called and his first response is to bear witness to Nathanael.

And so it is appropriate here, to unpack just how the biblical motif of bearing witness works itself out here. In our time, and in our place. Three points suggest themselves.

First, Jesus calls. Jesus, in other words, is not only the object of Gospel proclamation. He is also the subject. He calls. Philip says to Nathanael, “ We have found Him whom Moses wrote about.” But it is Jesus who calls. It is Jesus who says, “Before Philip called, I saw you.” What makes disciples disciples is Jesus’ call.

What would change if we systematically went through every programme offered in our church bodies and asked, “Does this activity, does this programme, introduce people to Jesus? Does it point away from us and toward the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world? Does it bring people to Jesus and then, crucially, get out of the way?”

What might happen when we let Jesus do the calling? If the first chapter of John is any indication, things will get a little difficult. After all, the downside of letting Jesus  call people is the fact that we surrender control. And Jesus just may start calling people that we don’t particularly like.

For, and this is the second point, Jesus calls all kinds of different people. Andrew and his unnamed companion were spiritual seekers. They had heard God’s word in the preaching of John and when John sent them on to Jesus, they went. They were searching. They were eager. And, eventually, they found what they were looking for. Philip wasn’t looking for a Messiah. He wasn’t looking for anyone. He seemed simply to have been minding his own business until Jesus called him. Nathanael was not a believer. Nathanael’s scepticism was open and honest. If there is a messiah, he said, then he certainly didn’t come from that irrelevant little place called Nazareth. But Jesus saw him. Jesus chose him even before he met him. And he became a disciple, too.

Seekers and sitters and sceptics and Jesus called them all. There was no ideal disciple profile that he followed. He didn’t wonder whether Andrew lived in the right neighbourhood or if Philip’s kids went to the right schools. He didn’t ask if Simon would vote for the right political party. And the Jesus who called indiscriminately in the first century does so today.

When we read the Gospels, when we read about the kinds of people Jesus called and the uproar that his associations caused among good religious folks like you and me, maybe we should pause and ask ourselves whether we really are ready to let Jesus do the calling. Who would come through those doors? Who are the Larch Street equivalents of Roman soldiers and tax-collectors, of sinners and the demon-possessed, the blind and the lame? Are you ready for them to come through the doors? Would they be welcome here?

While your thinking about that, I want finally to mention the third point about Christian witness. And it is this: you don’t really have a choice. You don’t get to choose whether Jesus will call and whom Jesus will call. Because called people bring people to Jesus. When John saw Jesus, he sent Andrew and his friend to him. After Andrew met Jesus, he ran for his brother so that he could meet him, too. Philip’s response to Jesus’ words, “Follow me” was to search out Nathanael and bring him. No deliberation is mentioned. No extensive evangelistic training exercises (again, there’s nothing wrong with those). They simply pointed people to Jesus because they couldn’t help it. It’s what called people do. Called people bring people.

Does that mean Jesus wants us all to be street preachers? No. Does it mean he wants us all to try to be a Billy or a Franklin Graham? No. But clearly, the encounters that John and Andrew and Philip had with Jesus were so profound, so powerful, so life changing that they couldn’t not tell anyone.

Maybe on this second Sunday of Epiphany, Jesus is calling here. Now. Perhaps he’s calling someone who, like Andrew, has been spiritually searching for a long time. Perhaps he’s calling someone like Phillip, who hasn’t been searching at all. Perhaps he’s calling a good-hearted, honest skeptic like Nathanael. Jesus’ call will be different for each of you. There’s no cookie cutter Christianising prayer in the Gospels. Jesus comes in different ways to different folks. And that’s ok.  But if Jesus is calling you—however he is doing it, whether it has been a long process or not, whether it has taken a conventional religious route, or not—if Jesus is calling you, it’s time to start following him.

Somebody Say Something! (More on the Queen of Heaven)

Posted on by Tim Perry

I need to begin this post with a few qualifiers. I am not a Pentecostal or charismatic. I have been formed in a Christian denomination that is intertwined with the history of Pentecostalism in Canada. I have very good friends and loved family members who attend, are even ordained in, PAOC churches.

I am an Anglican priest, serving in the Diocese of Algoma in Sudbury Ontario Canada. I need to say that for three reasons. First, because it means I really don’t have an axe to grind over the US political scene. That scene does interest me, but it does so from a distance. (Politically, in Canadian terms, I am an old fashioned Red Tory. Which in US terms, I think, makes me a Blue Dog Democrat–but I’ll let any American readers comment on that.) Second, it means I have a kind of complicated political life. Most of my parishioners and practically all of my clergy colleagues tilt center-left; I tilt center-right. For both reasons, no one should call what follows a hit-job on Republicans.

The third reason I mention my church and national affiliation is to highlight that I do come to what follows as a theological matter with ecclesiological and political significance. There is no hidden agenda. It’s all on the surface.

OK? OK.

I would be very grateful for Christians other than me or my friend, Greg Metzger to do something. But they need to be particular Christians. I am an Anglican; Greg is a Roman Catholic. That means the people who need to hear what we are saying aren’t listening to us. I am calling on people from Pentecostal and Charismatic backgrounds, or from backgrounds with sufficient overlap with those movements. Neither Greg nor I have a terribly large profile, either. So, I’m calling on people from those or similar backgrounds who have a higher profile than ours.

Here is what I am calling you to do:

For the sake of the Gospel, you really do need to name the New Apostolic Reformation, C. Peter Wagner, Cindy Jacobs, Sam Rodriguez and Harry Jackson as false teachers, who are not simply an embarrassment, but are actually doing great harm to the Body of Christ.

Not because they like Republicans. You may or may not find that problematic. Like I said, though, that’s not a debate that interests me at this juncture. You need to call them out on their false teaching because it is false.

I’ll give you a specific example: The Queen of Heaven “demon.” Among the more bizarre beliefs: this demon has had sex with the emperor of Japan; this demon lives in an ice castle in the Himlayas; Wagner’s and Jacobs’ prayers to overthrow this demon resulted in the death of (among others) Mother Theresa, who–like many Roman Catholics–worshiped her in the guise of Mary, the Mother of Our Lord.

So, what’s worse: that this is just plain dumb on its face; that it exults in the death of a woman who was, quite simply, an example of Gospel living, that it impugns the finished work of Jesus, who on the cross won the victory over sin death and the devil; who was shown to be the Victor by his resurrection and glorious ascension; that there is simply no biblical warrant for any of this (not even the encounter between Daniel and Gabriel comes close); that it comes within a whisker of inciting or justifiying violence against those who might demur?

I find it particularly alarming that folks like Rodriguez and Jackson get almost entirely positive coverage on the pages of Christianity Today, to say nothing of Charisma, which seems to know no end when it comes to the promotion of foolishness.

Please, will somebody say something?

Review–Athanasius by Peter J. Leithart

Posted on by Tim Perry

Athanasius

Peter J. Leithart

Foundations of Theological Exegesis and Christian Spiriutality

Hans Boersma and Matthew Levering, eds.

Baker Academic, 2011

With this book, Peter J. Leithart continues to establish himself as a thoughtful interpreter of early Christianity. Athanasius exhibits many of the strengths that mark his previous foray into the fourth century, Defending Constantine.

First, it is a solid biography. Athanasius has been for centuries a key figure in Christian thought. If his (in)famous opponent, Arius, was for centuries the heresiarch then Athanasius was the champion of Trinitarian orthodoxy.  Even one of the back-cover blurbs on this book speaks of the Alexandrian bishop as a “superhero.” Leithart does readers a great service by introducing us to someone, however heroic, who was not “super.” That is, not beyond or above the affairs of us mortals. Athanasius is presented here as the champion of the Nicene faith, to be sure, but in a way that keeps his feet on the ground.

Second, it is theologically astute. This ought not to be surprising given the series in which this volume appears.  The series is not about history for its own sake. Such contributions are indeed valuable. But series editors Hans Boersma and Matthew Levering have crafted this series such that each volume will seek to allow its subject (in each case, a church father) to speak on matters of metaphysics, exegesis, dogmatic theology and spirituality not simply to a contemporary audience, but to one interested in furthering ecumenical conversation between evangelicals (Boersma) and Roman Catholics (Levering) and—I do hope—other Christians as well.

Leithart accomplishes this task well, setting the standard to which other contributors will be wise to aspire. We are treated not simply to a careful exposition of key themes in Athanasius (in a way that avoids the triumphalism of previous treatments), but to an exposition that maintains an eye to contemporary conversation with, among other people, Karl Rahner, Catherine Mowry LaCugna and Henri DeLubac.

Chapters 3-6 here deserve particular attention. Dealing with God, Creator/Creation, Salvation and Sancitifcation respectively, Leithart presents a fourth century father who finds the center of all his theological work in Christ, the Word made Flesh. The fact of Christ, we might say, forces a radical re-conceptualization of God and God’s relation to the world that completely transforms metaphysics even as it retains the classical language. With the happy result that Arius is presented as not being nearly radical enough in his attempt to articulate the Gospel using the metaphysical concepts he had to hand. Arius’ heresy lies not in the fact that he went too far, but in that he did not go far enough!

Some readers will certainly hear in that last paragraph more than a little of T. F. Torrance and it is clear that Torrance’s own work influences Liethart’s reading of the great Bishop. But this is no weakness. If anything, it is a reminder of just how much Torrance, and Barth before him, retrieved of the classical tradition when they turned again to Jesus Christ as the starting point of all theology and exegesis.

I warmly recommend this book as an introduction to Athanasius, as a work of theology in its own right, and as a continuance of the conversation among Christians who, while divided by the sixteenth century, are searching in the fourth century for ways to grow toward the One who has united us to himself in the Spirit to the glory of the Father.

Sermon–On the Baptism of Jesus

Posted on by Tim Perry

How many of you can remember when you were baptized?

That’s not surprising, is it? Most of us who are baptized were likely baptized as infants or young children. It’s the way we do things.

But let me tell you a secret. I can remember when I was baptized. Let me tell you another one—so can Rachel. She was 15 and I—if you can believe it—was 27. I’ll let Rachel tell her own story. Mine is long and a little complicated. Too complicated for a sermon. But I do want you to know that while I was raised in a Christian home and was raised a Christian, I was not baptized until I was almost 30.

Why do those stories matter?

They matter because they’re an important reminder that what we call “believers’ baptism” is—even for Anglicans—the normal way of being baptized.

Normal in two ways. It is, first of all, normal historically. The first followers of Jesus were baptized as adults. Our New Testament lesson gives us a good example. Here, we see Paul baptizing new believers in the name of Jesus because they had come to believe in Jesus.

The word had come, the people had responded in faith, and were baptized with water. (Let’s leave aside the fact that they were baptized twice—that’s a story for another sermon). For now, simply notice the pattern: preaching; response; baptism. That’s the way—always the way—that it happens in the book of Acts. It is normal.

Second it’s also normal theologically. The Church, Jesus tells us at the conclusion of Matthew’s Gospel will grow as his disciples go into the world and make disciples by teaching and baptising converts. In other words, the Christian Church’s normal way of growing is by conversion not by believers having kids.

Preaching; response; Baptism. That is the normal way of things. It is how the church started. It is how the church is supposed to continue.

I know what some of you are thinking: “We’ve hired a closet Baptist!”

You haven’t, actually. Aren’t you relieved?

All three of my children were baptized as infants. The only baptisms I have celebrated have been of infants. The one baptism I celebrated here was of William Sarvas—a fabulous little lad, son of Colleen and Curtis, whom most of you know.

No, I believe in infant baptism. So strongly, in fact, that while in Winnipeg, I was once accused of wanting not a font but a hydrant at the West end of my parish sot that I could send the grace of God indiscriminately throughout the neighbourhood.

The accusation, by the way, was valid. The contractors are coming to the Epiphany next week to look at the pipes.

But even I have to admit that when it comes to the Bible, the baptism of infants—while biblical and therefore permissible—is not the usual way.

Christian believers who were themselves baptized as believers began having children and it was not long before the church realized that these children were in some way related to the church—and that way required that they be baptized.

So, the Anglican Church (like Roman Catholics, Orthodox, and most Protestant denominations) recognizes that there are two ways to be baptized—the normal way, as believers and the not-quite-as-normal way, as the children of believers.

Now, let me tell you another secret. All of what I have just said is true. At the same time, it is also true that every baptism is an infant baptism. Every baptism—whether it follows a confession of faith or follows promises made by parents and godparents—every single one is an infant baptism.

What on earth does that mean?

To begin to sketch an answer, we need to move from the book of Acts to our Gospel lesson.

“In those days,” we read, “Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan.”

Have you ever wondered why?

The baptism of John was a baptism of repentance. Why would Jesus—the embodiment of the glory, righteousness, and truth of the heavenly Father—Why would Jesus submit to a baptism of repentance?

It certainly was not a matter of need. Jesus himself gives us a clue in St. Matthew’s version of the story. There he says, “it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”

Jesus does not need to be baptized. He freely undergoes baptism. He does so to fulfill all righteousness.

What does that curious phrase “fulfill all righteousness” mean? It means first of all, that in submitting to baptism, Jesus fully and completely identifies with us.

We talked about this last week. Do you remember?

God comes to us fully and freely as fully and freely human. He was—we read last week—named and circumcised on the eighth day. He came—we read last week—born of a woman, born under the law.

He came as one of us.

He stands with us.

Not aloof. Not over against. Not other. Not from a distance. Right here. Living, breathing, eating, sleeping. Right here walking into chilly Jordan.

He does not merely appear to be human. He is fully human. He is the Son of Mary. As one of us, he is baptized by John. As one of us, he will teach. As one of us, he will suffer. As one of us, he will die and be buried.

But it is not simply a matter of identifying with us. It is so much more.

Jesus was baptized not simply with us. He was baptized for us.

When he stepped into chilly Jordan’s water, he stepped in to fulfill all righteousness. When he did that, he did the one thing we could not do. On our own we cannot fulfill all righteousness. On our own, we are—to use the New Testament’s language—enslaved to sin. On our own, were we to go under the waters of baptism, to go under the watery chaos from which God called forth his creation at the beginning, we would never come up. We would be utterly and completely undone.

And that’s why every baptism is an infant baptism.

Every baptism is an infant baptism because all of us come to the font completely and utterly helpless. Whether we are 8 days old or 8 years old or 18 or 80 or somewhere in between or before or after, when we come to the font, we come completely helpless.

We come to the font completely unable to fulfill all righteousness.

We come to the font completely incapable of restoring our relationship with God.

We come to the font completely incapable of setting ourselves free from sin, death and the devil.

We come to the font completely incapable of cleansing ourselves.

We come—whether we are coming for our children or as newly confessed Christians—knowing that the waters symbolise that which is our final end. Knowing that we will die. Knowing that, if God does not intervene, we and the little ones we carry will be overwhelmed.

If God does not intervene.

The Gospel for this morning is, simply, God has intervened.

And that is the good news of the Gospel for infants—for all of us who are helpless.

The Gospel is that Jesus, who does not need to fulfill all righteousness, freely fulfills all righteousness. He freely stands with us, and is baptized for us.

He does not merely go down in to the water, he does not merely descend to the grave. He comes up again out of the water. He comes up again from the dead. He turns the chaotic waters that hover at the edges of God’s creation into the bath of regeneration. Into the very water of life.

The Gospel is that through baptism we are united to him and if we are united to him, sin death and the devil have no hold on us any longer.

Now, it’s time to make things practical. It might be that it’s time for some of you to be baptized. It might be that it’s time for others of your to bring your children to be baptized. It might also be time for still others of you either to renew or to confirm and own your baptismal vows.

Remember how I was accused of wanting a hydrant instead of a font? Well, I don’t really. But what I do want is a crowd at that old stone font at the Easter Vigil and, if we need to, on Easter Sunday. Do you want to be a part of that crowd? If you do, I can’t wait to see you there. Speak with me after service and I’ll tell you how we can make the arrangements.

We’ll make those arrangements because, “In those days, Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the river Jordan.”