Christianity Today’s “This Is Our City” series recently featured an essay which touched on a topic dear to my heart, the writing of Wendell Berry.

“…in recent years, some Christian writers have warned that we shouldn’t mistake right thinking and right behavior for the holistic well being of a person, or a city, for that matter.

James Davison Hunter and Andy Crouch (executive director of the City project) each made this point in To Change the World and Culture Making, respectively. Philosopher Jamie Smith devoted a whole book, Desiring the Kingdom, to this point, stressing that human beings are not chiefly thinkers or believers but worshipers.

It’s here, I argue, that Berry’s vision of community life and creation is most vital for urban evangelicals. For all the things we do well, I’m not convinced that we know how to live as communities of worshipers day to day. Enter Port William.”

You can read the rest here.

From Jamie Smith’s essay “Lift Up Your Hearts”: John Calvin’s Catholic Faith.

 “Are you Catholic or Protestant?” I sometimes get this question from evangelical folks who don’t know me very well, but have heard me talk about liturgy or St. Augustine or spiritual formation or Graham Greene, or what have you. I usually simply answer, “Yes.”

As you might imagine, this engenders furrowed brows of consternation: “Is this guy out to lunch?, they must ask themselves. I asked an either/or question. You can’t answer, ‘Yes.’ You have to choose.” But do I? Can’t I refuse this as a false dichotomy? Is it possible to reject this disjunctive or?

What if we don’t have to choose between being Protestant and Catholic? Indeed, what if being a (magisterial) Protestant is a way to be Catholic? Would that somehow denigrate the Reformation? Would this be a kind of cathedral-envy, making me a Protestant with a bad conscience, sort of a wannabe papist wolf who lurks about Calvin College in Kuyperian sheep’s clothing?

…for me, becoming Reformed was a way of becoming Catholic, because in my pilgrimage to the Reformed confessional tradition I was inducted into a communion self-consciously in continuity with the ancient creeds. To be a member of a church that says the Creed—and whose catechism expounds the Creed—is to be Catholic.

Smith goes on to make a case for a deeply “Catholic” reading of John Calvin and the broader project of the Reformation. You can read the rest here.

I’m writing for Deeper Church today about politics, and how Christian eschatology should reshape our approach to the powers of this age.

Every day – on the TV, on Facebook and Twitter, at home and at work, online and at the dinner table – we hear a constant refrain: this is the most important election of our lives!

Never-mind that we’ve been told that during the lead up to every election I can remember, this time it’s true. If the other side wins, unspeakable events will come to pass, and all we hold dear will be forfeit.

Now, politics matter, and there are certainly differences between the candidates that are worth serious thought before we vote.

However, Christian eschatology, if it means anything to us, has to mean we approach such things in a way different than the world.

You can read the rest here.

I’m making my way through Jamie Smith’s The Fall of Interpretation, and thought I’d share some of the more thought-provoking quotes thus far.

On realizing all readings of Scripture are “traditioned:”

“I had been inducted into a tradition that didn’t think of itself as a tradition – indeed, I had been steeped in a hermeneutical tradition that regularly decried “the traditions of men” and thus championed a “back to the Bible” primitivism that took itself to be a reading rather than an interpretation of Scripture. In sum, I had been unwittingly and covertly initiated into what I describe below as a “hermeneutics of immediacy,” which, of course, does not think of it is a hermeneutic at all…

As you might imagined I felt somewhat duped, as do many who emerge from fundamentalisms that have effectivly hidden aspects of reality. Once those aspects of reality are discovered (or, in this case, once it’s discovered that “reality” is always already mediated), it’s hard not to ask: What were you trying to hide?”

On postmodern catholicity:

“there are two ways of being postfoundationalist: emergent or catholic. The former, I have argued, remains haunted by the ghost of immediacy and thus can never quite be comfortable with the particularities of a hermeneutic tradition in all of its specificity. The latter, in contrast, is a postcritical affirmation of the particularity of the “catholic” orthodoxy of the Nicene tradition, and of even more specific renditions of that (such as Reformed or Anglican or Pentecostal streams as particular interpretive traditions within catholic Christianity).

Both are postfundamentalist stances, but the former – still haunted by the modern dream – tends toward a liberal trajectory as the only other option within the modern paradigm, whereas the latter “catholic” option is postliberal precisely insofar as it refuses to be haunted by the modern myth of immediacy. Thus I have argued that the “catholic” option is actually more persistently postmodern.”

“No Creed but the Bible” has become a popular position to take, frequently expressed by fundamentalists and emergent Christians alike, albeit in rather different ways.

Carl Trueman wants to call b.s. on the whole thing.

I read his new book, The Creedal Imperative, over the weekend and – despite some significant areas of disagreement – found it thought provoking and well argued.

In particular I was struck by his argument that everyone has a creed, the only difference is creedal traditions put that creed in the public domain.

By that he is suggesting, and I’m prone to agree, that everyone has a framework they read the Bible through whether or not they acknowledge it.

That might be Calvinism, an affinity for Liberation theology, an eschatology that has been shaped by growing up in Dispensational churches, or a thousand other theological biases, but ultimately no one reads the Bible without interpretive baggage.

So then when a pastor proclaims his church has no creed but the Bible, he is in danger of two things. First, he is effectively making his church’s creed whatever he (and the other key leaders of the church) decree is Biblical in a given week. And secondly, he is identifying his own theology so closely with the Bible that he is unable to see his beliefs objectively enough to really evaluate them against the Scriptures.

In other words, it is too easy to move from “no creed but the Bible,” to “no creed but my personal interpretation of the Bible.”

Or, “the Bible says it, I believe it, that settles it.” [Switch part 1 and part 2 of that sentence as necessary]

I’ll admit that my own ecclesial history has made me prone to seeing all sorts of red flags when it comes to entrenched theological camps (which creeds and confessions certainly can represent). But that said, Trueman’s book is a good reminder that the alternative is fraught with difficulties as well.

What do you think? Are creeds and confessions helpful, necessary or inevitable even? Do they too easily lock us into errant or uncritical readings of the Scripture? Is there really a better alternative?

Thought this was too good not to mention.

From James K.A. Smith’s new Christianity Today article, What Galileo’s Telescope Can’t See.

“There is a particular analogy often invoked in current discussions about the relationship between Christian faith and science. Ours, we are told, is a “Galilean” moment: a critical time in history when new findings in the natural sciences threaten to topple fundamental Christian beliefs, just as Galileo’s proposed heliocentrism rocked the ecclesiastical establishment of his day. This parallel is usually invoked in the context of genetic, evolutionary, and archaeological evidence about human origins that challenges traditional Christian understandings.

Historical analogies like this are often particularly loaded because our age is characterized by chronological snobbery and a self-congratulatory sense of our maturity and progress. Since we now tend to look at the church’s response to Galileo as misguided, reactionary, and backward, this “Galilean” framing of contemporary discussions does two things—before any “evidence” is ever put on the table.

First, it casts scientists—and those Christian scholars who champion such science—as heroes and martyrs willing to embrace progress and enlightenment. Second, and as a result, this framing of the debate depicts those concerned with preserving Christian orthodoxy as backward, timid, and fundamentalist. With heads in flat-earth sand, any who voice hesitation or skepticism about the “assured/obvious” implications of evolutionary evidence are cast in the villainous role of Galileo’s putative persecutor, Cardinal Bellarmine.

… But the Galileo analogy doesn’t help us work through that tension because it says too much too fast. To invoke the Galileo analogy is to have already made up our minds. When we construe current debates about human origins in “Galilean” terms, we rhetorically position ourselves as if the implications of common descent were “as obvious” as the earth revolving around the sun. The Galileo analogy is a conversation stopper. It effectively suggests that resistance is futile.

Underneath the analogy is a more serious problem. These “Galileans” exhibit an essentially “whiggish” stance toward the theological tradition—an underlying confidence in progress and the unquestioned assumption that “newer is better.” At work here is a sense that faith needs “updating,” and that clinging to historic concerns and formulations is merely “conservative,” as if seeking to preserve historic doctrines were just a matter of fearing change.

The result is that the Christian theological tradition is seen to be a burden rather than a gift that enables the Christian community to think through such challenges. The Galileans never entertain the possibility that some of our ancient theological and confessional traditions might actually be a resource in contemporary debates—a wellspring of theological imagination to help us grapple with difficult questions. Instead, they suppose that the cross-pressure between theological tradition and contemporary science can only be alleviated by “updating” the tradition. On this account, our orthodox theological heritage—including the creeds and confessions—is part of the problem rather than a valued resource for articulating a solution.”

You can read the full article here.

Although I’m quite comfortable with evolution as a scientific principle, I think Smith does an excellent job of critiquing the ways in which the Galileo analogy encourages us to move rather uncritically from an acknowledgment of evolutionary science to the assumption that this must then necessitate the Church makes particular theological moves.

[Sorry for my extended absence, I just realized I’ve not posted in two weeks! Nothing big to report, just the craziness of life with an infant, work, and trying to keep up with things around the house. Caught a cold though, which forced me to slow down enough to write this post.]

As some of you know I was working at a church last year, as a youth pastor.

As it happens, that ended a year ago this month. There is little to be gained by my dwelling on the particulars of that experience, but it was all quite disenfranchising.

Not a good chapter to add to the story of someone who already had plenty of baggage associated with their time in the church. In the end, it proved to be enough where I’ve not set foot in a church service since, and have leaned on my small group community to take the role of church in our life.

Yet at the same time I’ve become increasingly convinced of the importance of the Church, the liturgy, the Eucharist, and the corporate gathering of the people of God.

So I find myself at an impasse. I spend quite a bit of time thinking about the Church, and wishing to participate in one, but when I consider going to any specific church all my defenses go up and my motivation quickly fades away.

I believe that “church shopping” is exactly the wrong way to think of church, a terrible byproduct of our capitulation to consumerism, but realize I have little idea what the alternative might be (at least if we had a parish arrangement the choice would be made for me!).

I believe that finding a church that meets my “felt needs” is not at all the point, but then I find myself slipping into that mindset as soon as I am asked to weigh the many options before me.

All I want is to find a church where I can come each week, worship with God’s people, take the Eucharist, and leave without feeling completely exasperated by the sermon.

That isn’t all that much to ask for, is it? Why then does it feel like such an impossible task?

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