The Book of Revelation Does Not Belong in the Bible

The Book of Revelation does not belong in the Bible.

The last book in the New Testament, Revelation, is remarkably popular today.  Few people read Revelation itself, but millions have read a book series called Left Behind: A Novel of the Earth’s Last DaysBooks seven and eight in the series (The Indwelling and The Mark) by Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins reached number one on the New York Times best-seller list.  The Remnant began at number one on the Times best-seller list.  Roughly 65 million copies have been sold in over forty languages, though only in America has it become a publishing phenomenon.

Left Behind assumes an evangelical doctrine called “rapture.”  The term nowhere appears in the Bible, but is the recent creation of evangelical Protestantism in the United States, first appearing in the 1830s.  Rapture claims that at the end of days, all Christians will rise “in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air.”  First Thessalonians 4:17 is an often-cited Biblical source, but its meaning is obscure. /1/  The word “ rapture ” never appears in the Bible.  Nor does the Book of Revelation say anything about the followers of Jesus being taken out of the world before it all goes up in flames.  

Like all apocalypses, the rapture fantasy can be dangerous.  Older readers may remember Ronald Reagan’s Secretary of the Interior, James Watt, who stated in testimony before Congress that while it’s essential to preserve our resources for future generations, he remarked that he wasn’t sure how many future generations there would be before the apocalypse and Christ’s subsequent return.  Casper Weinberger, then Secretary of Defense, agreed. /2/  When you think this way, everything from nuclear war to climate change becomes less significant.  

The Left Behind series loves violence.  In this respect, it is true to Revelation, the bloodiest book in the Bible.   This, though, is not why there was so much debate over whether to include it in the canon we call the Bible, a book of books.  For many Christians, not Revelation, but the Gospels teach the true lesson of Christianity: non-violence and love of neighbor in the face of hatred (Matthew 22:36-40).  Hardly a hint of this remains in Revelation.  

An awfully strange book

Just to remind you how strange the Book of Revelation is, I’ll quote from 12:1-4.  Revelation has many such passages.   

A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head. She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth. Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born. 

Revelation is a book of non-stop violence.  God unleashes the four horsemen of the apocalypse, the sun falls from the sky, and half the population is destroyed.  Revelation is unconcerned with human violence but with the violence of God. Every calamity, such as war, famine, and natural disasters, is sent from heaven.   The seven seals are broken by Christ, the bloodied Lamb of God, unleashing a series of catastrophes.  In Revelation, the crucified Christ takes his revenge. John explicitly states that the book is all about the “wrath of God” and the “wrath of the Lamb” (6:16–17; 11:18; 14:10; 16:19; 19:15). John Dominic Crossan calls Revelation “the most relentlessly violent book in all the canonical literature of the great religions of the world.” /3/

John of Patmos, no relation to the disciple, wrote Revelation about 90 AD.  Revelation means unveiling.  It was a letter directed to seven churches whose members succumbed to a variety of temptations, such as sexual immorality and idol worship. While the book is remarkably weird to most modern readers, it would have been familiar to many contemporaneous readers, who would have read other stories of a fantastic dream revealed to the author.  Daniel is the most well-known of this genre. 

John’s message to the seven churches is a metaphor for the eternal battle between God and Satan and how the church members cannot avoid being participants.  This is basically Augustine’s interpretation,  helping to make Revelation less chaotic and fantastic. Augustine’s interpretation is sometimes characterized as “amillennialism.”  It is not a prediction about the endtime; it is about the battle between God and Satan now.  The 1000 years mentioned in 20:4 is, according to Augustine, not a literal 1,000 years but the time between Christ’s first and second coming.  The “millennium” is the spiritual reign of Christ rather than a physical one on earth. /4/ 

Super-short summary

Chapters 4-8.  The first image is God in his throne room with a scroll sealed with seven seals.  Only the bloodied lamb, the crucified Christ, can open them.  The opened seals reveal the four horsemen of the apocalypse.  Subsequent seals reveal an earthquake, and the stars fall to earth.  

Chapters 8-11.  Seven trumpets sound, each signifying a catastrophic event. Four angels kill a third of mankind, and a third more are killed by magical horses. 

Chapters 12-14.  But the nations do not repent, even in the face of the two beasts, the second of which has the famous number 666 (or 616), a number that represents Nero.  The beast is defeated only when the church imitates Christ’s sacrifice, and two (or more) members lay down their lives before the beast.  

Chapters 15-16 describe the seven bowls of God’s wrath.  The second bowl turns the sea into blood, killing everything in it.  The sixth allows the kings of the East to gather for the final battle on a plain in Northern Israel called Armageddon.  It is a metaphor for God’s battle against evil (gog from Ezekiel, c. 38, where so much of Revelation comes from).  

Chapters 17-20.  Still, the people do not repent.  John has a vision of a “great prostitute” called Babylon, who is seated on a beast (a powerful political entity).  Jesus appears on a white horse, and in place of his tongue is a sword (19:15).  Depicted is the ultimate destruction of this wicked world system, followed by the binding of Satan, the thousand-year reign of Christ (Millennium), and the final judgment of the evil at the end of the world.

Chapters 21-22.  John sees a new heaven and a new earth.  God will dwell with man on earth, where he will “wipe away every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death.” (21:4) 

The symbols of this fantastic vision would have been clear to many of John’s first readers.  He was depicting the military and economic power of the Roman Empire.  Rome is simply the latest version of humanity in rebellion against God.  Nations that exalt their own economic and military security to divine status aren’t limited to the past or the future. Babylons will come and go, leading up to the day when Jesus returns to replace them all with his Kingdom.

How did Revelation make it into the Bible?

In a move not unfamiliar in history, the enemy without (Rome) became the enemy within the faith.  The whore of Babylon became Christians holding other beliefs, above all Arians, followers of Arius.  By the time of the Council of Nicea (324-337 CE), Rome was no longer a threat.   Constantine had made Christianity the official religion of the empire.  What need was there for Revelation?

The issue of the status of Jesus divided Christians.  Was Christ entirely God as well as fully man, and what would that mean?  The Greek term was homoousios (ὁμοούσιος), “essentially the same” as God.  On the contrary, Arius held that Jesus was the son of God and subordinate to him.  Leading the fight against Arianism, Athanasius interpreted the whore of Babylon, who consumes human blood, no longer as Rome but rather as the Arian heresy personified.  Constantine had been right to promote the council at Nicea as uniquely valid since he said there that “all the fathers” had supported the true faith against the “Antichristian heresy.”

Athanasius interpreted John’s Book of Revelation as condemning all “heretics” and then made this book the capstone of the New Testament canon, where it has remained ever since. At the same time, he ordered Christians to stop reading any other “books of revelation,” which he branded heretical and sought to destroy — with almost complete success. (Pagels, p 144) 

Together with his allies, they persuaded many monks and most Christians to accept his version of the canon, concluding with Revelation as the only authorized version of the New Testament (Pagels, p 169). /5/ 

Was there an alternative? 

Pagels points to various versions of Gnosticism as an alternative conclusion to the New Testament.  I simply don’t get it.  The works of the gnostics are no more continuous with the New Testament, above all the Gospels than Revelation.  Various Gnostic gospels, such as Treatise on the Resurrection, or Letter to Rheginos, taught that the resurrection of Jesus Christ “was not a physical reality, but a transformation of consciousness in the believer, a transition to a newness with God.”  This newness represents a unity with God, God in me, me in God.  This isn’t the Gospels.  The Gnostic Anthony held that no doctrine was needed. /6/  Many Nag Hammadi texts seek spiritual union with God; God is within us all.  This union does not reflect orthodox Christianity.  John’s Book of Revelation, for all its flaws, is clear that Christianity teaches the separateness of God. 

The Real Problem with John’s Book of Revelation

The big problem with Revelation is that the most important teaching of Jesus Christ, expressed through his life even more than his words, is absent: “Strength made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)  Instead, John returns to the old idea of God as a mighty power who will destroy the enemies of Christianity and put good Christians back on top.  Revelation misunderstands Christianity, even though it finds some warrant in what Christ said about the eschaton.

The Gospels teach the power of poverty. Instead of a God conquering our enemies, the Gospels tell the story of God allowing himself to be tortured to death so that he might experience human pain, teach us how to live, and so give us eternal life (John 3:16; 5:24; Matthew 19:29; 25:46).  But Jesus’ teachings are not just about belief. They are about action.

For I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink; I was a stranger and you welcomed me; I was naked, and you gave me clothing; I was sick and you took care of me; I was in prison and you visited me. (Matthew 25: 35-36)    

Nothing of this teaching remains in the Book of Revelation. 

To be sure, Christ’s teaching about love and care for all humanity comes with eternal punishment for those who don’t (Matthew 25: 40-46).  Nevertheless, the tone of the Gospels is primarily one of love and care for those in need, taught by a God-man who gave his life to save humanity.  Revelation, on the other hand, is about a powerful God who will destroy Christ’s enemies in one final battle, returning to earth to establish his kingdom in power and glory.  The tone and the lesson are entirely different.  In John’s Revelation, the bloodied lamb takes his revenge.  In Christ, there is no revenge.

The reality of symbolism

The Book of Revelation is symbolic. Jesus is not going to kill babies, torture almost everyone on earth, and then execute them in the most horrifying way one can imagine. The book is a metaphor about how God will restore justice, destroy evil, and make the world good again, a paradise for those who are faithful (Ehrman, p 166).

John uses symbolism to convey a message of hope to those who feel persecuted.  In the end, God will triumph, and evil will be destroyed. But why, asks Ehrman, does John tell this story in such incredibly violent and gory terms?  Symbols reveal an author’s deepest values, commitments, and beliefs.  As Pieter de Villiers puts it, 

This is language that soaks the imagination of readers in violence….It is language that draws its listeners into an atmosphere of bitter and agonistic opposition against others and that categorizes people in terms of either good or evil with dangerous consequences. /7/

John understands God as a God of wrath.  Love is absent.  To be sure, John says that Christ “loves us,” “freeing us from our sins by his blood” (1:5), but John does not say a word about God loving anyone or anything. God is a God of wrath, determined to wreak vengeance through catastrophes and torments sent from heaven (Ehrman, p 167).

D. H. Lawrence

Lawrence’s last book was Apocalypse, a study of the book of Revelation.  Lawrence hated the book.  Though he never mentions Nietzsche, Lawrence’s analysis sees John’s Revelation as a version of Nietzsche’s “last man,” filled with envy.  Revelation is driven not by the sacrificial love of Jesus but by envy of Roman power.  God will use brutal force to give Christians what the Romans had: the power and wealth of empire.  With that, they would rule the world, as Rome had done.

For decades, Ehrman read Revelation as a story of hope. It was written for Christians who were ruthlessly oppressed and persecuted and meant to show them that, in the end, justice would be done, good would triumph, God would overcome the miseries of this world, and his followers would be rewarded for their faithfulness (Ehrman, 170).

But how will they be rewarded? God will destroy every other man, woman, and child on earth, no matter their goodness to the poor and oppressed, so that the faithful followers of Jesus, those who believe in a particular doctrine, can have all the wealth and power in the world  (Ehrman, p 172).  Revelation is less concerned with hope for the future than it is with hope that the powerful will suffer forever.  That’s Nietzsche’s account of Christian envy, not Christ’s.  It’s an account that sees wealth and domination as ultimate goods.  

Conclusion

So, how might the Bible have ended?  As it properly does with the Letters of John 1-3, especially 1 John.  These are the Books that immediately precede Revelation.  The perspective is that of the Gospel of John.  In John 1, Jesus is coextensive with God.  It’s not a great book, and while likely not written by the same John who wrote the Gospel, it nonetheless lays out the basic principles of Johanian Christianity while admonishing those who would disbelieve. That’s all that is needed.  James adds the need to act as a Christian, not just believe or worship like one.  But the Letter of John 1 is a nice summary. /8/  By the time of the last of the seven uncontested letters of Paul (Philemon), the New Testament has long since done its work.  

 Notes

    1. The ancient Greek (1 Thessalonians 4:17) term rendered as rapture is harpazō (ἁρπάζω), which in context means “we shall be caught up,” or “we shall be taken away.”  It is an ambiguous reference and a slender reed upon which to rest such an ambitious concept.
    2. https://www.npr.org/2023/04/03/1167715957/armageddon-shows- how-literal-readings-of-the-bibles-end-times-affect-modern-time 
    3. John Dominic Crossan, “Divine Violence in the Christian Bible,” pp 227-228.
    4. Frank A. James III, “Augustine’s Millennial Views,” Christian History (15), 1987. 
    5. Eusebius, a bishop, was so ambivalent about the Book of Revelation that he placed it both on the list of books he calls “universally accepted” and on the list of books he calls “illegitimate.”  This as late as 325-340.  Today almost all Christians accept that Jesus was co-equal with God, “of one substance.”  However, only in the Gospel of John is this crystal clear.  Not only in the first chapter(1-18) but in statements by Jesus such as “Before Abraham was, I Am.” (8:58)
    6. Jenott and Pagels, Letters of Saint Anthony, pp 557-589 (letter 6). 
    7. Pieter G. R. De Villiers, “The Violence of Nonviolence in the Revelation of John,” p 194.  
    8. A super-short Book, Jude, follows the Letters of John 1-3 but is not important.  

 References

Anthony’s Letters and the Nag Hammadi Codex 1, ed. Lance Jenott and Elaine Pagels, in The Journal of Early Christian Studies, 18:4 (2010): 557-589 [letter 6]. 

John Dominic Crossan, “Divine Violence in the Christian Bible,” in The Bible and the American Future, ed. Robert Jewett et al.  Wipf and Stock, 2010.

Pieter G. R. De Villiers, “The Violence of Nonviolence in the Revelation of John,”  Open Theology.  https://doi.org/10.1515/opth-2015-0007.

Bart Ehrman, Armageddon: What the Bible Really Says About The End.  Simon and Schuster, 2023.  

D. H. Lawrence, Apocalypse.  Viking Press, 1960 [original 1931).

Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra.  Edited and translated by R. J. Hollingdale.  Penguin Classics, 1961.   [The prologue introduces the “last man.”]

Elaine Pagels, Revelations: Visions, Politics, and Prophecy in the Book of Revelation.  Viking/Penguin, 2012.  

  

Alternative histories of Jesus: four novels

Chagall & ChristAlternative histories of Jesus: four novels

Each of the 4 stories challenges the divinity of Jesus.  Each imagines Jesus as merely mortal; one isn’t sure but wishes he were.   The Last Temptation of Christ, probably the most well-known, I read in college.  The novel has Jesus imagining that he was a man who chose life over sacrifice. This fantasy turns out to be the Devil’s work.  I believe this misses the point of Christ’s dual nature.

The other three imagine that Jesus was fully and only human.  Judas betrays Christ because he forgets his earthly revolutionary mission and begins to imagine that he really is divine.  All miracles are explained away.  D. H. Lawrence’s Jesus is a version of the gardener in Lady Chatterley’s Lover.  In it too miracles are either explained away or ignored.  The fourth book, The Testament of Mary, is in some ways the odd book out.  Originally written as a screen play, it is elegant in its simplicity.  Mary looks back on her life as Christ’s mother, and regrets that he chose the to save the world.  Better to have lived his own life, a man so talented he could have done anything.  She is skeptical about the miracles, especially his resurrection, but does not outright deny them.  They just get in the way.

All but The Last Temptation are short, novellas really.  I believe that even the most devout would benefit from reading them, for if Christ was fully man as well as fully God, then one has to say that the man side generally gets short shrift.  If he were not the son of God, the conflict between his two sides (not parts, but aspects of a whole) would have torn him apart.  It should tear us about when we think about it, but we generally don’t let it.  Each novel is fascinating reading; they were well worth my time, and I believe yours.

I’ll tell you about each book, and conclude by elaborating on the great value of the Gospels, as well as thinking about Christ as simply man, even if you believe he is more.  Here I’ll consider Ernest Renan’s influential The Life of Jesus (original 1863), which purports to be a historical, rather than Gospel based, account of the life of Jesus.  It’s not; it’s as fictional as any of the novels we examine.  I’ll explain why this is, and must be, the case.

The Books

The plot of The Last Temptation of Christ, by Nikos Kazantzakis (1960) is a little confusing.  Just as gypsies are about to nail him to the cross, Christ’s guardian angel (actually an agent of Satan) steals him away and transports him to marriage with Mary Magdalene, who is stoned to death shortly after.  The widower Jesus ends up with two sisters, Mary and Hannah, with whom he enjoys a rich family life, including fathering children (pp 445-446).

Judas and other disciples confront him.  Jesus lied; he did not live up to his word to die to save the world.  Christ is torn with guilt, and at the very end awakens from his dream, accepts his mission from God, and dies with the famous words “It is accomplished” on his lips (p 496).

It is clear in the text, and clearer still in the author’s introduction, that Christ’s dying dream of living a normal human life is inspired by Satan.  His guardian angel who saves him from the cross (all illusion) is an agent of Satan.  Jesus’ experience of everyday life as deeply satisfying was a fantasy, sent by the devil.

This doesn’t seem right.   If Christ was truly all man, as well as all God, then the man part would have naturally wanted a family life, a sexual life, a normal human life.  That would be the temptation that the all-God part of him would have to overcome to fulfill his mission.   Not Satan, but Christ himself, is the tempter and the tempted.  That the last temptation is a dying delusion inspired by Satan fails as a full or honest vision of the duality of Christ’s nature.  Kazantzakis may think he is saving Christ’s authentic nature as God, but he sacrifices the mystery of the duality of Christ, the enigma that makes him so fascinating: that he is as fully human we are, while remaining God.*

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How new is the New Testament?

How new is the New Testament?

How is it that the Old Testament (OT) seems to predict the coming of Christ?  Was the OT inspired by the God revealed in the New Testament (NT)?  Could be, but an answer internal to the Bible itself is persuasive.  The Gospel writers looked backward more than they looked forward, reinterpreting the experience of Jesus, which none had firsthand, as the fulfillment of OT prophecy.  Almost any statement about a good man who suffered, such as the suffering servant songs of Isaiah 52-53, was put to this use.

The Gospels were written no earlier than 40 years after the death of Christ.  Mark was written in about 70 CE, John about 100 CE.  Educated men wrote them in Greek.  The apostles were uneducated, probably illiterate, who spoke Aramaic.  The Gospels were written to make sense of the fact that the Messiah, who was supposed to be a mighty warrior who would liberate the Jews, died a miserable and degrading death by crucifixion. 

Even that seems to have been predicted by the OT, which says that if a man is guilty of a capital crime “you hang him on a tree.” (Deuteronomy 21:22-23)  Acts refers to this passage three times (5.30; 10.39; 13.29).  The principal goal of the NT was to transform a humiliating death into the liberation of humankind from the grip of death.  The OT provides plenty of evidence for this reinterpretation.

But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed. (Isaiah 53.5)

It certainly sounds like the prophet Isaiah was talking about Jesus.  But was he? 

Hardly any passage of the Hebrew Bible is and has been of such fundamental importance in the history of Jewish-Christian debate . . . or has played such a central role in it, as has the fourth Servant Song of Second Isaiah.  Nor has any other passage experienced such different and sometimes mutually exclusive interpretations as this one. (Schreiner, p 419)

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Wild Gods: Barbara Ehrenreich and William James

Wild Gods: Barbara Ehrenreich and William James.

Better known for her books on low-wage workers, such as Nickled and Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich wrote her dissertation on cellular immunology, and had always considered herself a scientist, even as she began to write on social issues. 

Author of about twenty books, the one that breaks the pattern is among her last, Living with a Wild God, in which she writes about an encounter with god, an event for which she was unprepared.  “I saw God,” she says about an encounter years earlier in which she experienced the world alight with what the traditionally religious might call glory, “where God or gods or at least a living Presence” appeared to her (pp 127, 215).  Previously imperceptible “conscious beings . . . . that normally elude our senses” seems to be the expression she is most comfortable with, but she freely employs the terms God and gods.

This does not lead her to say “I believe in God.”  Rather, she says she knows God because she has encountered him in a wilderness called Lone Pine.  But if she knows God, her god is nothing like the traditional theistic God, for he (or it) has no interest in our welfare. 

As Eckhart . . .  had asserted centuries earlier, referring to the Other as “God,” the religious seeker must set aside “any idea about God as being good, wise, [ or ] compassionate.”  This of course poses a nearly insoluble problem: Mysticism often reveals a wild amoral Other, while religion insists on conventional codes of ethics enforced by an ethical supernatural being. (p 226)

If this wild god has a purpose, then it is to keep us company.  Since Descartes, we have made ourselves the center of reality, creating a lonely world, the result of the “collective solipsism” of our species.*  While the wild gods are unconcerned with humans’ need for cosmic company, she makes the surprising suggestion that they may be seeking us out (p 237). 

The suggestion is surprising not only because nothing else in the book prepares us for it, but also because it faintly reflects the traditional Judeo-Christian view of God as intensely involved with his people, first rescuing them from Pharaoh, and then saving them from the obliteration of death. 

Ehrenreich’s gods are more modest, seeking only companionship.  Or perhaps this experience of an invisible companion is how we put together our chaotic experience of the world when we are in a mystical state.  Or a psychotic one (p 215).  Ehrenreich is certain there is a difference, but not always certain which one prevails at the moment, and she is wise to hesitate.  She does not hesitate in her assertion that these gods are other than human, other than ourselves.  We may experience them in a mystical state, but their existence is independent of human desires. 

William James: “Something really wild in the universe” 

In his 1895 essay, “Is Life Worth Living?” William James concluded that human life is either a “real fight in which something is eternally gained for the universe by success” or it is a trivial game from which “one may withdraw at will.” With the latter phrase, he is referring to suicide.  As evidence for the first possibility, he stated that

it feels like a real fight, as if there were something really wild in the universe which we . . . are needed to redeem. (paragraphs 61-63)

Ehrenreich reveled in this wildness, which reached out to grab her and might even need her.  James would redeem it.  But what does that mean, and does nature need redeeming?  Theodor Adorno (1984) answered that anything that looks like the redemption of nature is bound to be domination in disguise.  What James seems to mean is that we need to “redeem our own hearts from atheisms and fears.”

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The Quest for the Historical Jesus

The quest for the historical Jesus

Is Jesus Christ best understood as a prophet of the apocalypse?  Yes, argued Albert Schweitzer in 1906 in The Quest of the Historical Jesus.  Moderns, said Schweitzer, tend to miss this reality, turning Jesus into a wise and pacific God-man.  Schweitzer’s claim has been renewed and popularized by Bart Ehrman in Jesus: Apocalyptic Prophet of the New Millennium.*  

It’s a strong argument, though a complicated one, for there exists no history of Jesus without its own theological agenda.  The first Gospel, Mark, as well as the hypothetical source called Q, are filled with apocalyptic sayings of Jesus, many emphasizing that the end of the age would fall within the lifetime of his followers. “Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death until they see that the Kingdom of God has come in power.” (Mark 9:1).

The problem, of course, is that Jesus was wrong.  The Kingdom did not come within the lifetime of his followers.  It has yet to arrive.  Though the revision of the message is present in all the Gospels after Mark, it was most clearly changed in John.  The Kingdom was in heaven.  It was not coming to earth, at least not for some time.  Jesus was telling us how to live now, not how to prepare for the apocalypse.

“Already but not yet” makes it complicated

The complexity is best captured by what is called inaugurated eschatology, and reflected in the phrase already but not yet.”  There is much in the New Testament, virtually our only historical source, that says that the Kingdom of Heaven is already at work among the followers of Jesus.  The Beatitudes (blessed are the poor in spirit . . . ) or the antitheses, also in Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount (5:21–48), are exemplary.**  There is virtually no way to read them but as advice for how to live in this world now.  It is a stretch to argue that the Beatitudes are a statement about the reversal that will occur when God’s Kingdom is realized on earth.  About the antitheses, Ehrman argues simply that they are not independently attested, an especially weak argument about a Gospel he relies on heavily (p 171).

Continue reading The Quest for the Historical Jesus

Does Paul Tillich make any sense?

Since my first post on Paul Tillich, I’ve become convinced that his project is important, finding a new way of talking about God that doesn’t assume he is an actor in the world.  However, this new way works only for those with a traditional religious background.  Without this background, Tillich offers only a new and confusing vocabulary.

During the 1950s, Tillich was the most well-known theologian in America.  He was on the cover of Time magazine (2/16/1959), and a serious essay of his, “The Lost Dimension of Religion,” was published in the Saturday Evening Post (6/14/1958), then the most popular magazine in America.  His sermons were popular and well-attended.

Tillich reinterpreted the Bible in terms of existentialism.  Existentialism was fashionable in the 1950s, addressing the isolation and lack of meaning that many felt after World War Two.  We had won the war, the economy was booming, but what was the point of it all?  The fundamental existential question is the meaning and purpose of an existence from which God has been displaced.  This was, and is true, even for many who attend church.  They don’t act like they believe.  There is nothing sacred in their lives (Tillich, Depth). 

Being-itself

Instead of the word “God,” Tillich substituted the term “being-itself.”  With this term, Tillich wanted to get at the “God above God.”  For Tillich, God doesn’t do things.  He doesn’t intervene in the events of the world.  That’s our responsibility.  Rather, God is present in all things, allowing them to be.  God isn’t like a powerful person.  God is the structure of the universe itself, the force that brings everything into being.  God makes the grass grow.  God is no longer personal but remains transcendent (Novak, p 11).  He creates, supports, and maintains the world.  The “ground of being” is Tillich’s term for this God.  

God as being-itself is the ground of the ontological structure of being without being subject to this structure Himself. He is the structure; that is, He has the power of determining the structure of everything that has being. (Systematic Theology, p 239)

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Karen Armstrong, the new physics, and religion

Karen ArmstrongKaren Armstrong’s The Case for God is an impressive, impossible survey of beliefs about God from 30,000 BCE to the current God wars between the new atheists (Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, and Sam Harris, among others) and Christian fundamentalists.  Armstrong synthesizes an enormous amount of material, including basic introductions to Buddhism and Confucianism, while concentrating on the Judaeo-Christian tradition.  Her work is aimed at the well-educated lay person. 

Where she goes wrong is in imaging that developments in the new physics, such as indeterminacy, can change the way we think about God.*  She’s wrong because while the new science of sub-atomic physics, strangeness, string theory, and quarks may inspire us to think more flexibly about God, there is no reason that it should.  The same may be said of astrophysics, and the fantastically beautiful images of distant galaxies brought back to us by the Hubble and Webb telescopes.  The situation laid out by Albert Camus remains.  We call out for the universe to tell us that we are not abandoned, isolated, and alone, and the universe is silent.

The absurd is born of the confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world. (Camus, p 28)

The new science is a source of the sublime, that experience that shatters our previous categories of experience.  “Beauty is the beginning of terror we are still just able to bear,” said Rilke.  The new science is beautiful; the new science is terrifying.  But unless one is looking strictly for inspiration, it does nothing to change the absurdity of human existence.  Humans long for a world that cares about us, and the world cares not.  Camus calls that the absurdity (absurdité) of the human condition, and it’s as good a word as any.

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On Eliot’s Journey of the Magi

On Eliot’s Journey of the Magi

Eliot'sT. S. Eliot’s Journey of the Magi, a poem of 43 lines, was one of a collection of poems with Christmas subjects “suitably decorated in colours and dressed in the gayest wrappers,” published by Faber and Faber to celebrate the season.  However, if one bothers to read the poem there is nothing gay or celebratory about it. It reflects the dark musings of a pagan king who has seen the Christ child, knows that his birth will upend the world, but is hardly thrilled at the prospect.  Perhaps the magus would be better off dead.  First, the poem, and then a few comments on it. 

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