Why Fasting Makes Sense: Soul Food

My first encounter with Christian fasting was in a Russian kitchen in the provincial city of Krasnodar in 1991. It was November and my host, a university professor, was preparing the evening meal at the beginning of the Orthodox fast called Little Lent, which is a bit like what Catholics and Protestants call Advent. While we boiled and chopped beets, carrots and potatoes, she explained that we were making a fasting salad. She added pickles and parsley and tossed the salad in sunflower oil, salt and pepper before serving it with brown bread. Olga Nikolaevna observed a partial fast -- no meat and no dairy products -- for the four weeks of Little Lent, and she continued to fast in various ways throughout the year. Fasting, for her, was a small piece of her religious devotion.

I was struck by the simplicity and gentle discipline of her practice. But it was more than a decade before I began to consider the purpose of this kind of fast for myself. A lifelong Protestant -- at various times attending Presbyterian, Baptist and Methodist churches and eventually an Episcopal church -- I associated fasting with rigid control of the body, with extreme forms of self-discipline, with a denial of the flesh that I could not quite understand. In a diet- and health-obsessed culture, it is difficult to present the practice of Christian fasting as something other than another way to subdue and discipline the body. The magazine racks and newspapers are full of diet and health advice, which changes with the vagaries of consumer fads. We live in a culture with an extreme focus on the flesh and its management. Finding alternative paradigms to talk about the body is not easy.

I have come to see a certain form of fasting, however, as an antidote to obsessive behavior involving the body Fasting as a spiritual practice is not about improving your health. It is not about becoming thinner, stronger or more supple. It is not about learning to ignore your cravings or attaining perfection. It is not even about simply disciplining your body so that it is better behaved. In my view, fasting is about three things: attentiveness, compassion and freedom.

The first lesson is attentiveness, or mindfulness. Fasting is a tool in being present to the here and now. Several months ago, drawn by a sense that fasting could be an important teacher for me, I began a partial fasting practice, abstaining from meat and dairy products on Wednesdays and Fridays. Abstention on particular days helps to mark those days, to invite the nuances of the day more fully into our consciousness. Fasting at particular meals helps us to be attentive to that meal, to the food available and our responses to it. It helps us be attentive to our own bodies, our own desires and the demands of our own flesh.

This kind of fasting does not mean ignoring hunger pains or cravings but listening carefully to them, observing how they change over time, looking at the relationship of mind and body in the experience of hunger and in the experience of food. It offers a very gentle and careful "stop" on the fast-paced road of our culture, where we are told to abide by a specific but ever-changing set of rules and rarely encouraged to listen. Fasting helps us to observe ourselves a little more keenly and to understand more deeply how we engage the basic human experience called eating.

The second lesson is compassion. Fasting teaches us about connectedness. While preparing supper one Wednesday, I was suddenly entranced by the simplicity of the food before me, by the almost universal experience of eating carrots and potatoes. I felt that I understood in a more tangible way than I had before that I am one of 6 billion people on the planet, all of whom experience eating. Instead of asking whether low-fat or low-carb foods are better for me, I began to ask about how the food I eat affects the world around me. How can the simple, everyday task of eating become an act of compassion?

>From this perspective we can see that fasting is not about perfection but about learning a path of love. I mentioned my experiment to a small group at my church, and as I spoke I remembered that there were three women in the room who were recovering from anorexia. What I perceived as an exercise in spiritual freedom they could easily see as a path toward self-denial to the point of death. This experience too forced my heart open a little bit wider, silenced any self-congratulatory voice in me, and urged me onward. If fasting does not fulfill this purpose, then it is really of little use at all. In Isaiah we read, "Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house: when you see the naked to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?" (58:6-7). This passage seems to discourage fasting for its own sake or for the sake of piety. Fasting is useless unless it teaches compassion, unless it gives way to love.

The third lesson concerns spiritual freedom. Several months into my fasting experiment, I felt the desire to challenge myself, to deepen the fast by missing one meal. I had read Richard Foster’s essay on fasting-in his classic Celebration of Discipline and been repulsed by his discussion of how to tell when the body is reaching the point of starvation.

I decided I needed to begin a little more slowly I quickly became aware of a new problem. By 8:00 of the morning I had decided to fast, I was in a panic. "I feel dizzy," my brain was saying. "Oh, I am weak. I’ll never make it through the day. I’ll faint. I’ll collapse." This was ridiculous, of course, since there have been hundreds of mornings that I have not eaten before 8 am, and never once felt dizzy or weak. Instead, what I seemed to be experiencing was something akin to withdrawal from an addiction. As I meditated on that panic throughout the morning, I could see all the ways that I used food for comfort, to assuage boredom, to ease fear in social situations, or to compensate for feelings of loss. I could see that food was a drug for me, and that I was addicted to it. I began to see tasting as a way to help me learn about this addiction and to invite grace in to free me from it.

By experiencing my addictive relationship to food, I became aware of other addictions and compulsions leading me away from love and filling up the spaces in me where grace might flow. Fasting creates a space where I can acknowledge spiritual freedom as my greatest desire, greater even than my desire for chocolate.

When the desert fathers spoke of the "passions" and fasting as a means to control them, I think they meant something similar to what I mean by addiction. They did not mean what we do with our whole selves -- mind, body and spirit together. Perhaps they meant instead what we do compulsively, without thinking, without care for ourselves or for others, the things we do that stand in the way of connection, attentiveness and love. They meant that quality of inattentiveness that often makes us live as in a numbing dream, compelled by random desires and making random choices. As the early monastics suggested, fasting is a way to address this mode of living, a way to live in attention and freedom.

Fasting is not punishment, penitence, or even acknowledgment of our own weakness -- although this last element may play an important part. I have suggested, instead, that fasting is about spiritual training -- in freedom, compassion and attention. It makes us call out for grace when our addictions get the better of us, and it teaches us new means through which we can love our neighbor. But fasting is fraught with pitfalls. Guilt, fanaticism, self-righteousness, judgment of "success" or "failure," the incessant language of "should" all can keep us from hearing the gentle lessons that fasting can teach.

Here are five suggestions to begin a fasting practice.

1) Begin very slowly. Nearly all of those who advocate fasting note that a light practice that you can follow is far better than a more restrictive practice that you cannot. This helps you to avoid patterns of failure and self-judgment, neither of which is a particularly helpful teacher. Start with one day a week or one meal a week. Restrict meat, dairy or both. If that sounds like too much, begin with just one meal. Expand only as you feel increasing freedom and desire.

2) Engage a spiritual mentor or conversation partner. With the guidance of a mentor or the help of a conversation partner, you can allow another person to observe, to help you watch out for ways that you are not allowing fasting to teach you. But don’t let the lack of a mentor stop you. Fasting is itself a teacher -- you simply have to practice being mindful and attentive to its lessons.

3) Persist through imperfection. Let a bad day be a bad day. Let a good day pass without too much jubilation. Remember that this is all just training, all just practice, and need not be perfect.

4) Don’t talk about it too much. Jesus’ only counsel on fasting was not to draw attention to it. Let it be something between you and God. If your stories, overtime, seem useful to others in particular circumstances, tell them, but don’t allow your practice to dominate ordinary situations and everyday activities.

5) Respect feasts as well as fasts. Feasts are also important parts of the church calendar and of human life. The experience of fasting can become so enticing that you may hesitate to observe the feast. Observe it. Experience it. Be as fully aware of it as you would be of the fast. Let it also be a teacher.

While fasting is a useful tool, it is important to recognize that it is a tool only. Its purpose is limited, and it can become useless and even selfish if it does not deepen our compassion and teach us how to more fully love God and our neighbor.

Flocking Together (John 10:1-10)

Good Shepherd Sunday! The imagery in the readings is beautiful and triumphant, a fitting trumpeting of Christ’s victory over sin, death and the devil. The foreboding passion sayings are past, the betrayals have been left behind, Jesus is the good shepherd and we are his flock, the sheep of his pasture. Jesus has proven his love for us by giving his life for us, and we show our love for Jesus by listening to his voice and no other. He leads us to gentle pastures where we might have life in abundance, and we return our gratitude by following him. There is something deeply moving and reassuring about the shape of the Christian community that emerges from these readings: a community founded on and held together by love. But where is this flock?

Recent Latino and Latina immigrants to the U.S. are often startled by the wealth of churches in this country. Both the number and size of congregations can be striking for people accustomed to a Catholic world that has only in recent decades been broken by a Pentecostal beachhead. Whereas the dividing lines in Latin America tend to be drawn in stark hues (católico and no católico), in the U.S. the dividing lines separate flock from flock -- those who belong to Pastor Marcos, say, from those who belong to Pastor Luis.

In my experience, this diversity of flocks has led to a stunning paradox. The more the churches multiplied in the area I served -- I counted nine within a three-block radius and three in one building -- the weaker the church’s witness became. The more I and members of my congregation visited door to door to preach the good news and invite people to repentance, or at least to church, the more resistant people became because another evangelist had been there not ten minutes before! In short, the bleating of divided congregations has turned unbelievers into savvy consumers ("What does your church offer me?") and pastors into peddlers of the gospel. Like Jacob, they resort to various techniques in order to trick their uncle Laban out of his sheep.

Of course, Jesus warned us that the road would be difficult. His little flock would be frequently assaulted by thieves and misled by hirelings. He even prepared us for the likelihood that there would be not a few goats mixed in among the sheep. But I see nothing in what Jesus said or did that prepared us for the scattering of the flock into denominations. On the contrary, he explicitly says, "There will be one flock, one shepherd" (John 10:16).

This is not a cheery thing to say during the Great Fifty Days of Easter, a time of feasting not fasting, a time for alleluias not mea culpa. But when Christians cannot even agree on the date of Easter, it seems that something has gone terribly wrong. We are told that the disciples did not understand Jesus’ figure of the flock and the shepherd, and neither do I. What is Jesus talking about? Does Jesus have a demon? Is he out of his mind? Where is the flock that Jesus speaks of?

I am convinced that the flock that Jesus so lovingly describes in the Gospel of John is the same flock that is divided today. There is no other true church behind, above or inside the legion of Christian communities scattered across the earth.

The Good Shepherd calls on Christians of all stripes to follow him, not out of fear of bandits or from frustration with hirelings, but out of love. Founded by the love of the shepherd for the sheep, the church is held together by the love of the sheep for the shepherd and for each other. It is for this reason that schism has long been labeled a sin against love, and why without love, all other marks of the church are like a noisy gong or a clashing cymbal. In short, the way to unity and fidelity is the way of love.

Mind you, the way of love is hard, first of all because love does not seem to be enough. This is particularly the case in the church, where the word is bandied about so carelessly that its currency has been devalued. Sayings that were perhaps once powerful ("They won’t care how much you know till they know how much you care") have become trite and banal. But the love is not just any kind of love; it is a love that originates in God’s own Trinitarian love. We love because he first loved us.

Second, the way of love is hard because it is long. How much easier to climb into the sheepfold by another way! But there are no techniques and methods that will open the gate or bring in the sheep. Getting to know and love the voice of Jesus takes time.

Finally, the way of love is hard because it requires one’s all. Peter’s commission to feed Jesus’ sheep was contingent on his threefold declaration of love for Jesus, a love that would require that he be willing to lay down his life. Has not the world seen a living witness of this in the person of John Paul II? When he was younger, he used to fasten his own belt and go wherever he wished. But now that he has grown old, he stretches out his hands and someone else fastens a belt around him and takes him where he does not wish to go. Shepherds like him and others, who have staked all for the sake of gospel, are believable not because of their rank but because of their love.

Where is this flock? Wherever there are sheep walking with the Good Shepherd in the way of love.

Von Balthasar and Christian Humanism

Many people believe that Christian piety entails narrow-mindedness and that the more one affirms Christ in his particularity the more one rejects the world in its plurality. If the true Christian is, as John Wesley said, a person of one book, then it might seem that the worlds of art, literature and music -- indeed, the whole realm of human culture -- are at best irrelevant and at worst dangerous.

Take, for instance, the case of one of my fellow Hispanic pastors who refuses to lend his guitar to anyone who would play popular songs on it. "It’s a consecrated guitar!’ It doesn’t matter that the person who wants to borrow his guitar is also a brother or sister in Christ. It doesn’t matter that the popular music has wholesome lyrics. Once the guitar, like its owner, has been set apart for the service of God, it cannot again be played with or for the world.

There is, however, a way of following Christ that doesn’t flee the world but engages it as the domain of the triune God. There is such a thing as a humanism that is humane precisely because it is Christian. A model and mentor for such a view is the theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar. Any person who is referred to by such sobriquets as "the Catholic Barth," "the most cultured man in Europe," "a modern church father" and "Pope John Paul II’s favorite theologian" is certainly someone to be reckoned with on many theological fronts. He can also teach us about how to be a Christian in the world.

Born in 1905 to an aristocratic family in Lucerne, Switzerland (hence the honorific "von"), von Balthasar was raised in a household where high culture and simple faith walked hand in hand. In his youth von Balthasar developed an unwavering affection for music, particularly Mozart, and for Romantic literature, particularly Goethe. But his passion for the humanities never diminished his love of God -- quite the contrary. His doctoral dissertation ("Apocalypse of the German Soul") is a theological reading of German literature and its understanding of the soul’s final destiny.

Von Balthasar’s desire to understand the world as God’s world was no passing fancy. Even throughout his period of theological and philosophical formation, when he produced important translations and studies of works by Origen, Gregory of Nyssa and Maximus the Confessor, among others, he also wrote about drama and dramatists. Von Balthasar often commented that be found more vitality and originality in the writings of literary figures like Georges Bernanos (author of Diary of a Country Priest) than in much of the neoscholastic theology he was taught at school. His Christianity was open to the best that the realm of culture has to offer, and he maintained that this realm is itself open to fulfillment in Christianity.

It has been said that von Balthasar wrote more books than most people read in a lifetime. Certainly it is easy to feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume and erudition of his works. The best avenue of approach is not to jump straight into his great trilogy, Theological Aesthetics (seven volumes), Theo-Drama (five volumes) and Theo-Logic (three volumes), but to wade into some of his shorter writings like Love Alone Is Credible or A Theology of History or the essays in Explorations in Theology. Another fruitful approach to von Balthasar is to read him with a particular question or topic in mind. If you are interested in Barth, you might take up Von Balthasar’s Theology of Karl Barth, the book that Barth himself regarded as the best exposition of his thought. If you are interested in issues of salvation and judgment (can Judas Iscariot enter heaven?), you will not find a better book than Dare We Hope "That All Men Be Saved"? To deepen your understanding of the death and resurrection of Christ, read Mysterium Paschale. And if you want to inquire into the foundations of von Balthasar’s humanism, read Truth Is Symphonic. In that volume he writes:

Before the Word of God became man, the world orchestra was "fiddling" about without any plan: world-views, religions, different concepts of the state, each one playing to itself. Somehow there is the feeling that this cacophonous jumble is only "tuning up": the A can be heard through everything, like a kind of promise . . . . Then came the Son, the "heir of all things," for whose sake the whole orchestra was put together. As it performs God’s symphony under the Son’s direction, the meaning of its variety becomes clear.

Truth is symphonic: this is one of the principal pillars in von Balthasar’s humanism. The plurality of cultures with their multiplicity of philosophies, religions and histories is not purposeless. There is a reason for the existence of Platonism, Islam and Buddhism, just as there is a reason for the particular gathering of musicians at a concert hall. The selection of instruments is not random but follows a design known initially only to the composer and made public only in the performance. This means that there is no way for humans to get a handle on the world’s pluralism. We can see the multiplicity of worldviews, just as anyone looking down into the orchestra pit can see a variety of musical instruments. But the theme of the symphony cannot be deduced from an inventory of those instruments. That the A can be heard through it all -- call it Augustine’s "restless heart" -- does not tell us the key of the symphony, the God that the heart seeks. Only as the players submit to the leadership of the conductor do they learn what the composition’s theme is.

To put this idea another way: Truth is not something that can be grasped and manipulated. Truth is Jesus Christ, the Word of God, made manifest among us. Because this one Word is infinitely richer than all the words of all the languages of the world, we should not be surprised or puzzled by the plurality of Christologies in the New Testament. Not even the Gospel quartet of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John exhausts the theme, because, as the Gospel of John explains, not even all the books of the world can sum up this Word (21:25). The "depth of the riches of God" that is Jesus Christ can only be heard through symphony

The polyphony of Christianity can be a scandal to many. The whole thing just seems to have -- as Emperor Joseph II said of Mozart -- "too many notes. So, hoping to increase the appeal of Christianity. some church people get rid of the embarrassingly high notes and eliminate all dramatic tension and dissonance, making Muzak out of the symphony. Or they turn it into a customized cell phone ring that can be turned on and off at will.

Such an impulse might be said to motivate the quest to find the real Jesus behind the one proclaimed by the four evangelists. It may also explain the tendency to reduce theology to a slogan ("justification by faith" or "the preferential option for the poor"). Such efforts are signs that one section of the orchestra -- an indispensable one, no doubt -- has hijacked the performance. Yes, there is a tension at the heart of the Christianity between church and world, believing and doing, joy and the cross, prayer and service. But this theological pluralism is not cacophony; indeed, it is essential to the symphony.

Theology may be, as the medieval church called it, the queen of the sciences," but this queen is not a tyrant. Von Balthasar insists on the need for a genuinely Christian philosophy that serves but is not held in thrall to Christian theology. In other words, not everything Christian belongs in the religion section of the bookstore. Christianity can affirm the writing of the Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings; the Christian can benefit from Mozart’s Magic Flute.

Can this symphonic unity be sustained? What prevents the different sections from becoming factions? Von Balthasar has an unequivocal answer: what keeps the symphony together, what guides its selection of instruments and orders their performance is the cross.

Von Balthasar’s theology of the cross is complex, but suffice it to say that from the cross we learn that God really is love -- a love that is eternal (the son is an eternal offering to the Father) and universal (it was poured out "once for all"). Like the beams of the cross, Jesus’ love spans both heaven and earth; it reconciles the vertical and the horizontal, eternity and time. The cross is catholic.

This catholicity of the cross is made concrete for von Balthasar in the way that Jesus’ death fulfills the deepest intuitions of the world’s religions. One the one hand, paganism and mystical religions seek salvation in a vertical movement of integration with the absolute, either by an ascent into the One or by a descent into the soul, On the other hand, Judaism looks for salvation in the horizontal movement of history, in the advent of a new era. These two forms clash, but they are reconciled at the cross. On Calvary, Jesus’ voluntary sacrifice super-fulfills the vertical movement of the religions, and when he breathes the Holy Spirit into the future, he super-fulfills all the horizontal movement toward utopias.

This means, among other things, that the cross safeguards both secularization and religiousness; it leaves room for self-realization at the same time that it invites imitation of Christ. Hence, the pluralism of worldviews does not consign humanity to futility or struggle. Nor does the rise of Christianity render obsolete the diversity of human religions and philosophies. Von Balthasar says that "an entire worldview can be transposed from its native key into another without suffering any harm."

Look, for example, at Thomas Aquinas’s translation of Aristotle’s worldview into Augustine’s worldview. This translation was a genuine transposition. The original themes are neither discarded nor woodenly repeated, but are heightened and intensified. Similarly, Christianity does not destroy culture. Just as grace perfects nature, Christianity perfects humanism.

Von Balthasar’s Christian humanism presupposes, however, a Christian spirituality. The dramatic tensions between church and world are too great to be sustained by purely human intellectual and moral exertion. Sooner or later, the Christian who engages the world will be tempted to claim the role of first violinist and strike his own A note, or perhaps even climb the podium and take a whirl at conducting his own New World Symphony. This is why von Balthasar is convinced that only she who out of a habit of constant prayer has acquired a spirit of Christlike humility will assume her post in the orchestra -- the lowest place. For von Balthasar, Mother Teresa of Calcutta is a better exemplar of the Christian humanist than Erasmus of Rotterdam.

Stories are told of how, during the evening after finishing his teaching lessons, von Balthasar would delight his students by sitting at the piano and playing Mozart’s Don Giovanni from memory. Eventually von Balthasar came to know Mozart’s music so well that he actually gave away his record player; the music played better in his head anyway. When toward the end of his life he was awarded the prestigious Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Prize, von Balthasar referred to Mozart as the "immovable pole star" around which circled Bach and Schubert ("the Great and Little Bears"). High praise indeed.

Von Balthasar did not consider his attraction to Mozart merely a matter of personal taste; for him it reflected a theological judgment. Mozart’s music is catholic in the best sense of the word. Mozart "gives the child its first piano piece and sings its favorite song even to the dullest ear, winds popular melodies like meadow blossoms into the exalted garland and can -- like the divine wisdom -- satisfy every social class and every rung on the ladder with one single blossom from this bouquet."

Mozart and his music can serve as a "secular example" that illustrates a theological point that von Balthasar seeks to make, "A consummate work of art, Mozart’s Magic Flute . . . stands before us as the product of an unimaginable creative freedom. Does it make any sense to ask whether this work might have been any more perfect? Obviously, the question can be put in the abstract, but it is impossible to come up with any meaningful, concrete suggestion as to the direction in which this improvement might be made." And here is the clincher: "If a composer like God creates the opera of our world and puts the crucified and risen Son at its center, there must be no faultfinding and wondering if God could not have made it better,"

Karl Barth was another theologian who loved Mozart. A portrait of the Austrian composer hung in his office -- at the same level as a portrait of Calvin. Barth turns to Mozart for assistance in emphasizing the goodness of creation both in the light and in the shadows. According to Barth, Mozart "heard the harmony of creation to which the shadows also belong but in which shadow is not darkness, deficiency is not defeat, sadness cannot become despair, trouble cannot degenerate into tragedy and infinite melancholy is not ultimately forced to claim undisputed sway."

Mozart’s music does not merely inform Barth’s theology; Mozart, says von Balthasar, shapes the style of the Church Dogmatics overall. For this reason, he advises that we read the Dogmatics with Mozart’s melodies playing in our ear: ‘It is in this way that one should read, for example, those pieces that seem like the powerful finale of a symphony: the end of Barth’s doctrine of election. . or the equally radiant conclusion of his doctrine of creation in God’s Yes to the world, or the three chapters on God’s perfections, or that astonishing triple fugue on faith, obedience and prayer that concludes the doctrine of providence. In all these cases one would have to admit that the similarities with Mozart are in no way accidental or external. Indeed, we can even boldly say: whoever is unable to hear Barth with these ears simply has not heard him."

One can quarrel with von Balthasar’s evaluation of Mozart, but what is beyond dispute is that listening to Mozart sharpens von Balthasar’s theological ear. The same could be shown for his engagement with Shakespeare and the Greek tragedians. In all of these cases von Balthasar reads "secular" sources in a way that shows their natural openness to theology, and in turn he reads theology in a way that probes the deepest questions posed by secular works. This is a way of saying that von Balthasar’s Christian humanism is dialogical; theology and culture really talk and listen to each other. But the conversation is always mediated by Christ. The Christian encounter with the world is precisely dia-logos, "through the word."

It would be easy to protest that von Balthasar’s humanism is too Eurocentric, too Catholic, too elitist. Certainly it is very much his own. But it is not idiosyncratic. Rather, it represents a Christian response to his culture and the crisis of the culture. The profile of this crisis perhaps looks somewhat different if one lives in Mexico instead of Switzerland, but the responsibility for Christian engagement remains.

We can imitate von Balthasar not by retracing his steps -- probably an impossible and undesirable task for most of us -- but by picking up where he left off. Christian theology has traditionally been expressed in the conceptual categories of Greece and Rome, but it is not bound by these. "God is not committed to Hebrew, or to Greek, or to Latin. God’s language is first and foremost his own: the event of his incarnate Word, Jesus Christ." Christian humanism is not Eurocentric but Christocentric. There is every reason to think that our knowledge of this one Word is deepened when the gospel is translated into non-European intellectual traditions.

Truth is symphonic -- so play your own part. Expand von Balthasar’s bibliography: Read Toni Morrison and Isabel Allende. Attend a staging of Evita. Listen to Duke Ellington. But be forewarned, von Balthasar would say: these intellectual traditions and forms need to stretch and grow in order to make room for Christianity. In the same way that the cellist must allow the score under the direction of the conductor to tell her how to employ her gift and thereby discover depths of expression that she did not know she had, these cultural resources will, in the light of Christ, expand their meaning in surprising ways.

Consorting with Aliens (Luke 24:13-35; 1 Peter 1: 17-23)

A funny thing happened to a pastor friend of mine. His congregation was baptizing a family in a river that ran not far from the Hispanic church that be served. As the newly baptized members came out of the water he handed them their baptismal certificates. Afterwards, in true Latino fashion, they celebrated a fiesta. Since the whole event occurred outdoors, the ritual and celebration were open for all to see -- including a couple of men recently arrived from Mexico. The next day these men showed up at my friend’s church asking if this was the church where they "fixed papers." These men naïvely mistook the baptismal certificates for official government papers that would legalize their status in this country. In short, they thought that the people getting baptized were receiving green cards.

The gospel stories read in the church during the 40 days between Easter and Ascension also treat cases of misrecognition. At the empty tomb, Mary Magdalene mistakenly thinks that Jesus is a gardener. While on a fishing trip, Peter and the rest of the disciples see a man walking by the shore but do not immediately know that he is the Lord. Most famously, Thomas refuses to believe until he sees and touches the wounds. All in all the 40 days make us reflect on both the possibility and difficulties of knowing Jesus.

The story of the walk to Emmaus is no different. The story is well known and has been variously used to ignite a church renewal movement by the same name, to underline the connection between preaching and the Lord’s Supper, and to uphold the validity of a christological reading of the Old Testament. Yet what most strikes me in this passage is the use of the Greek word paroikos, which can be variously translated as stranger, exile or alien. On the walk to Emmaus, Jesus is first recognized as an alien.

"Alien" is an ugly word. It means not only that are you an unknown (a stranger) but that you are different and hence do not really belong. I remember telling some of my church members (who had walked across a desert or swum a river to enter this country) that English speakers called people like them "illegal aliens," to which one member responded: "Like in Independence Day?"

On the way to Emmaus those sad, deflated disciples mistook their Lord for an alien. How did they make such a mistake? Was it because he appeared to be ignorant of current events and so betrayed himself as an outsider? Was it that Jesus’ Galilean accent betrayed him as Peter’s did in the courtyard? Who knows?

Now, of course, we know that misrecognition is essential to the structure of the resurrection narrative; the playful game of "hide and seek" the Lord plays with his disciples is not accidental but pedagogic. Christians will not find their Lord until and where he wishes to be found. But is the form in which he’s found irrelevant? Is it completely happenstance that Jesus is mistaken for an alien?

Luther would say that Jesus reveals himself by hiding himself under contrary appearance. What shatters our sensibilities more than the risen Lord, the maker of heaven and earth, coming to his disciples as an alien?

The appearance of an alien, however, is not just a contradiction which the believer is to overcome in order to perceive the real Christ; it is a fitting form for the manifestation of the Lord. First of all, Jesus is a true child of Israel; living in exile was in his blood, so to speak. His ancestors -- Abraham, Jacob, Jeremiah -- all lived as aliens at one time or another. Diaspora and pilgrimages were not just part of the corporate memory of his people; they belonged to his own personal history, as Matthew’s narratives of Jesus’ exile in Egypt show (Matt. 2:13-14).

Second, though the world came into being through him, Jesus was not of this world; he came from above, and for this reason he was an alien in his own country.

Finally, it seems fitting that Jesus would be recognized as an alien because he is not bound to one culture or region. One does not travel to the holy land to see Jesus: he is made known in the breaking of the bread and in this way makes all lands holy.

Is this association of Jesus with an alien a fleeting one that becomes irrelevant once he is recognized? The unknown author of 1 Peter (let’s call him Peter) doesn’t think so. Peter charges his reader to "live in reverent fear during the time of your exile." Christian time is time of paroikia, of living as an alien. Peter and the early Christian community believed that the church was a paroikia (the root behind the words "parish" and "parochial"), a community of aliens gathered to commemorate the death of one who died outside the gate, one who died as an illegal. This is not simply a ghetto of resident aliens, but an assembly of illegal aliens, meaning people who literally have no citizenship here because, as Paul says, "Our citizenship is in heaven" (Phil. 3:20). In other words, Jesus’ alien form does not vanish -- it is assumed by the church.

So perhaps "alien" is not such an ugly word. Perhaps those two Mexican men saw more clearly than most of us what the church both is and is called to be. Maybe if I walked with some illegal aliens for awhile, listened to what they have to say and invited them to stay, my eyes too might be opened and I too might confess: The Lord has risen indeed!

Video Ventures: Two Alternatives to ‘Alpha’

Since Alpha appeared in 2001 in Great Britain, several efforts have been made to create alternative versions of that popular evangelistic video series. Though approaches differ, the new versions are generally inspired by Alpha’s success in helping seekers to learn about the Christian faith, and in helping churches to offer a compelling overview of the faith in an informal, encouraging setting.

One recent series, Living the Questions, bills itself as an "unapologetically liberal alternative to Alpha." But whereas Alpha offers a somewhat systematic introduction to basic issues -- God, Jesus’ life and death, the Holy Spirit -- from the perspective of a theologically conservative believer (Nicky Gumbel), LTQ offers a collage of persons, stories and arguments which seems to assume an audience of people involved enough in church to have been wounded by its fundamentalist versions.

Another new set of video catechetical materials is Beginnings, put out by Cokesbury, the United Methodist publishing house. Like LTQ, though in a different key, Beginnings tries to do non-fundamentalist outreach.

Beginnings is hosted by Rob Weber, pastor of a United Methodist Church in Shreveport, Louisiana. He is such a relaxed presenter one may get impatient for him to get to the punchlines and reveal the relevance of his stories. But he wears well. After a few presentations, the listener is eager for the next anecdote, knowing that it will be entertaining and that it will address a vital question. Weber uses humor and speaks with plainspoken conviction. He creates a safe space for believers or nonbelievers to talk.

For Weber, the important question is not "If you died tonight, do you know where you would go?" but "If there’s a loving and creative God, why is the world so messy? And how do I find purpose in it?"’ To expect quick and tidy answers to prayer, he observes, is to treat God like a gumball machine. Weber treats the Bible critically but not as a dead historical document. He quotes Martin Luther: "the Bible is alive -- it has hands and grabs hold of me, it has feet and runs after me."

The videos offer 20-minute sessions filmed before a small group gathered in a studio. Topics are organized roughly according to the traditional "way of salvation" -- from creation, to sin, to justification, to sanctification and so on. The topics are introduced not with churchy lingo, but with questions like "Is this all there is?"; "Who is Jesus and why should I care?"; and "What happens when I die?"

The accompanying book with the same title by Andy Langford and Mark Ralls offers material for students who want to dig deeper. Video segments and chapters alike begin with a story from the Gospels in which a character meets Jesus, told -- especially with Weber narrating -- so that we identify with the character and meet Jesus in judgment and grace. Intellectual qualms are not ignored – one segment is called "If I don’t feel lost, why do I need to be found?"

While contemporary in its references, Beginnings also embraces classical forms of faith. Weber tells of being drawn by Thomas Merton’s work to worship at a Trappist monastery. The result: "In the hospitable living of some people who loved Jesus, I met Jesus. Or Jesus met me." The videos include allusions to lots of other theological figures (John Ortberg, Mother Teresa, Frederick Buechner, Anne LaMott, Richard Foster, Walker Percy) who serve as reference points for listeners and suggest resources for further study.

If there is a criticism to be made of Beginnings, it is that it seems aimed primarily at individuals, without much attention to politics or social justice. Its writers do aim to shift from asking "I questions" to posing "We questions" in a forthcoming series that will consider spiritual practices, life in community, and mission in the world. This first series has been used in some 1,600 churches in North America and seen by 20,000 people.

The 13 presentations that constitute Living the Questions include "Restoring Relationships,".

"Compassion: The Heart of Jesus’ Ministry" and "Lives of Jesus." The sessions are made up of interviews with a dozen participants, each of whom is seen several times throughout the series. Each presentation is a collage, with a musical introduction (jazz versions of hymns), reference to a spiritual practice (walking a labyrinth, journaling), and a kind of aesthetic interlude (scenes of an orchid nursery, shots of a potter at work).

Some participants share personal experiences: a childhood in Korea (Siyoung Park), the life of faith in the segregated South of the U.S. (Emilie Townes), a childhood lived in poverty (Minerva Carcaño). Tex Sample’s stories, always entertaining and compelling, are a highlight of the series. But while the testimonies and stories are moving, their relevance to the topic at hand is not always clear.

LTQ conveys the richness of the Christian tradition in the various personalities, stories and cultures presented. It also succeeds in lifting up the importance of social justice in Christian faith (for example, one clip shows El Salvadorans and North Americans working on a Habitat for Humanity effort). In this respect, LTQ improves upon Alpha.

The central figures of the series -- Marcus Borg, John Dominic Crossan, John Shelby Spong and John B. Cobb Jr. -- are all known for their revisionist views of Christian tradition. Most members of congregations will not know who these figures are or why they are important, and people who are investigating Christianity will have a hard time deriving from their comments a coherent introduction to Christianity

What the speakers clearly have in common is an antipathy to fundamentalism. "Fundamentalism has a genocidal germ: ‘We alone have the truth,"’ says Crossan, who offers what he calls a safer alternative. Spong, a retired Episcopal bishop, declares that "the people who think they understand God are always hurtful to other people. . . . Certainty never gives love, righteousness never gives love, orthodoxy never gives love." For Lloyd Geering, a minister from New Zealand and a member of the Jesus Seminar, a group that has investigated the historical Jesus, the church is fast becoming the enemy of Christianity rather than its guardian.

Much of LTQ is devoted to articulating what these Christians do not believe in, which includes Genesis as a literal account of creation, the miracle stories in the Bible, and the divinity and physical resurrection of Christ.

These videos might generate some good discussion if the audience is familiar with the Jesus Seminar and has come prepared to discuss critical arguments. But the series may confuse and even dismay those who have chosen to pursue questions of faith within the church.

The critical claims about the dangers of certainty are offered with disturbing certainty. Orthodoxy "never" expresses itself in love? What about the orthodoxy of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Martin Luther King Jr., Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero and Mother Teresa, to name a few counterexamples? If fundamentalists are those who see the world as divided into the "saved" and "damned," LTQ comes close to being a perfect mirror image.

This posture of over-againstness causes LTQ to fall into incoherence at times. For example, Geering is featured declaring that that the liberal nation-state guards the aspirations of Christianity better than the church does. But the chief opponent of such a view, Stanley Hauerwas, also makes an appearance in these videos. He is shown arguing that the doctrine of the Trinity keeps Jesus’ death from being a case of divine child abuse, since it’s God himself who dies on the cross.

Hauerwas fits the series, apparently, because he is arguing against a "literalistic" view of atonement -- never mind that he would sharply disagree with other participants on many other issues. Given the discordant mix of voices assembled for the series -- Jesus Seminar scholars, a womanist theologian (Townes), a process theologian (Cobb), and the likes of Hauerwas and Sample -- one has to have a seminary degree to detect the real theological battlelines.

The Hauerwas segment on the Trinity reveals another problem: Wait, what’s the Trinity? We are never told -- an odd omission for any introduction to Christianity. A similar problem arises when Heather Murray Elkins, a liturgist at Drew University Theological School, recounts a lovely story about a young man who is told that his father’s disapproval of him is overcome in baptism, in which God proclaims "you are my beloved son, with you I am well-pleased." The viewer may well wonder at this point: So what’s baptism?

Bringing Economics and Theology Together Again

The basic agreement of all religions about core moral values is increasingly being recognized by religious leaders. It is urgent that these values are now translated into practical policies that will reduce the economic inequalities in our world, bring relief to the very poor, protect the environment and reduce the dangers of violence and terrorism. Such policies can only result from detailed co-operation between religious thinkers and economists, politicians, business leaders and members of other relevant disciplines. Interfaith dialogue should also be interdisciplinary dialogue.

Yet the thought of religion interfering with economic and political life will be greeted with alarm and protest by those who are afraid of the influence of extremists in the world of Islam or of conservative evangelicals in the USA.

One of the criticisms leveled at Islam by many Western writers is its failure to draw a separation between Church and State. This separation, however, has contributed to the privitization of religion and the virtual absence of moral considerations in political, economic and business life. The divorce of ethics from economics and politics is dangerous and some economists and business leaders are now recognizing this. Business Weeks chief economist has said that ‘A New Economy needs a new morality ... there’s a moral vacuum at the heart of the New Economy that needs to be filled.’1 The guru of the World Economic Forum, George Soros, has said the same, arguing that a purely transactional approach to economic activity governed by the principle of self-interest, which he labels ‘market fundamentalism’, is in danger of undermining social values and loosening moral constraints.2

This morality, I believe, should not be imposed. It needs to be consensual and it needs to draw upon the moral teaching of all the world religions and indeed should also appeal to those who have no belief in God. Several valuable attempts to articulate what is often called ‘a global ethic’ have already been made, but inevitably they are expressed in general principles. If they are to have practical influence they need to be applied to economic policy. Such application requires the combined efforts of theologians and economists.

Islam

Although it is true that Islam does not distinguish between the secular and the sacred, its position is more nuanced than Western critics allow. Islam affirms that the whole of life is under God’s control and that all human behavior should be in obedience to God’s will. A committed Christian might well say the same, but, in the West, secular society has made a distinction between the sacred and the profane. Sociologists have spoken of the ‘privatizing’ of religion in the West, by which they mean that religious adherence has become a leisure-time activity -- some people go to church on a Sunday, other people go sailing or shopping Religion is seen as a personal choice and should not interfere with politics or business. Indeed, a number of Christians seem to ‘compartmentalize’ their lives. Their religion is for their family life and weekends in leafy suburbs, but is irrelevant to the boardroom or stock market.

Muslims traditionally do not make a distinction between the sacred and the secular. It is the whole community which should submit to God. This concern for a society that is obedient to God goes back to the Prophet Muhammad himself. At first he met with hostility and ridicule in Mecca but in 622 CE he was invited to become leader of the neighboring town of Madina. There he tried to create a community obedient to God and from Madina, in due course, he attacked and captured Mecca, which was to be ruled in accordance with the teaching that had been revealed to him. Muhammad, like Calvin later in Geneva, tried to shape a society that lived in obedience to God’s word. The logic of this position is clear. If God is God, then all life should be lived in obedience to God’s laws.

The early caliphs inherited Muhammad’s role as ‘commander of the faithful’, but they were nor ‘messengers of God’, as the prophet had been. The early caliphs combined spiritual and temporal leadership -- as Christians would understand these terms. Gradually the political rulers of Islam lost their religious aura and the rulers came to be replaced, as the conscience-keepers of the community, by the ulama or learned men, who had studied the holy law in depth. In time only the first four caliphs came to be regarded as truly orthodox. The Umayyad dynasty (661-750) was seen as a reversion to secular kingship. The Abbasid caliphs, who ruled in Baghdad from 750 to 1258, had rather more prestige and some called themselves Khalifat Allah or God’s deputy, or even ‘the shadow of God upon earth’ -- phrases that would have shocked Muhammad. With the loss of effective power by the Abbasids in the tenth century, ‘all genuine political authority in the mainstream Muslim tradition’, writes Edward Mortimer, ‘was secular’, although developments in the Shi’ite tradition were rather different.3 In the Sunni world ‘virtue and justice’, Mortimer adds, ‘were no longer regarded as indispensable qualifications of a ruler.’ By the eleventh century most of the ulama were teaching that obedience was an absolute duty, even to an unjust ruler, since an unjust ruler was better than none at all.

Radical Muslims today reject these developments and insist that there should be no divorce between State and religion. They are therefore very critical of the lifestyle and secular policies of some Muslim rulers, often thought to be in the pay of the West. They have, with success in some countries, campaigned to replace legal codes, which they inherited from Western imperialist rulers, by the introduction of Shari’a -- often in its harshest and most conservative form. (Too often Westerners are unaware that there are four different classic schools of Shari’a law.) As in the early days of Islam, many Muslims want to live in an Islamic state. Moreover, although Muslims, when they are in a minority, are taught to obey the laws of the country where they live, some groups, like the Muslim Parliament in Britain, hope that their country of residence will in due course become Muslim.

The Secular and the Sacred in Christianity

In some ways, states where Islamic Shari’a law is rigidly enforced are reminiscent of mediaeval Christian society. ‘The order of society’ (in mediaeval Christendom), writes David Edwards, ‘was at bottom upheld by religion . . . It was God who decreed the acceptance of the rights and duties of each grade in society. Indeed a sacred order or a "hierarchy" was thought to exist in the whole of Gods creation.’5 Islamic societies were certainly not so hierarchical as feudal Europe but, just as the laws of Christendom were shaped by the Christian faith, so Shari’a law is based on the teachings of the Qur’an. In Christendom there were, of course, disputes about whether the sovereign or the Church should control society and at the Reformation there were radically different understandings of how to interpret the Christian faith. These differences were a cause of the prolonged religious wars of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

From the seventeenth century, in reaction to these wars of religion, some politicians began to ignore moral constraints and to base their policies on reasons of state’, which allowed a nation to deviate from the ethical norms required of the individual. Machiavelli (1469-1527) in his Il Principe (1513) had already argued for the ‘self-preservation of the state with all means and at any price’, which was equivalent to the ‘suppression of any morality with a transcendent basis from the field of politics’ f But it was under Cardinal Richlieu (1585-1642) that, for the first time, in Hans Küng’s words, ‘reasons of state guided solely by political interests took the place of confessional interests and ethical considerations.’7 Henry Kissinger, who greatly admired Richlieu’s ‘novel and cold-blooded doctrine’, recognized that it ‘was deeply offensive to the universalist tradition founded on the primacy of moral law . . . In an age still dominated by religious zeal and ideological fanaticism, a dispassionate foreign policy free of moral imperatives stood out like a snow-covered Alp in the desert.’8

Reaction to the wars of religion was also one of the factors which led to the separation of Church and State. For example, the United States of America, to which many of the first settlers had come to escape persecution, was, in 1791, the first Western nation to separate Church and State. Even today the teaching of religion in public schools is prohibited, although religious observance in the USA is far higher than in Europe. By contrast, in England there is still an established church -- the Church of England. In the nineteenth century, the bishops in the House of Lords used their votes to delay the emancipation of Catholics and ‘Dissenters’, and of the Jewish people. Today they will often be a voice for the various faith communities but their position is certainly anomalous -- but perhaps no more archaic than the House of Lords itself. In some Western European societies, such as The Netherlands, political life is partly molded by Church allegiance. By contrast, in Communist countries the Church was stripped of political influence and in some, such as Albania, the practice of religion was illegal.

The situation differs from country to country. In some countries the Church still has considerable influence, but even where this is so it is disputed. It is therefore difficult to generalize about ‘secularization -- a word which itself is used in various senses. The term usually signifies the process by which religion loses social significance, but the emphasis may be on the relationship of Church and State or on the social influence of religion, or used to speak about individual belief and practice.9

The Enlightenment, with its assertion of the autonomy of human reason, is also a factor in the process of secularization. Many of the leaders of the Enlightenment, such as Voltaire, Hume, Gibbon and Lessing, challenged Christianity. ‘Dare to be adult and let go of the church’s apron strings; trust your own reason and measure revelation against it; be prepared to use your own reason critically in any context, as Alistair Mason summarizes the Enlightenment’s challenge to Christianity.10 In Kant’s words, the Enlightenment was ‘the emergence of human beings from a tutelage to which they had voluntarily acceded.11

Hans Kung suggests that the Enlightenment led to the unprecedented progress of the sciences, a completely new social order and a revaluation of the individual.12 Today the Enlightenment approach is subject to strong criticism, especially from post-modernists, but it helped, for good or ill, to divorce political and economic thinking from a basis in a religious view of life.

But are the only alternatives religious zeal and ideological fanaticism on the one hand, and the absence of moral considerations and political cynicism on the other. Is there a third way? Indeed, Erasmus in the sixteenth century called for an ethically responsible, realistic peace policy, far removed from the mediaeval fanaticism of the Counter-Reformation or the cynicism of modern real politics.13

The key question for us, therefore, is whether politics and economics are autonomous, or whether they should have a basis in a religious or moral view of the world. Is politics just the pursuit of power and national self-interest? Is economics just the attempt to maximize wealth?

This has been a continuing matter of debate. The view that they are not autonomous was clearly put by the nineteenth-century Anglican theologian F.D. Maurice, who said his job as a theologian was ‘to dig, to show that the economy and politics have a ground beneath themselves, that society is not to be made anew by arrangements of ours, but is to be regenerated by finding the law and ground of its order and harmony and the only secret of its existence in God.’14 This has been the view of many church people, perhaps most notably Archbishop William Temple, as Kamran Mofid indicates, and is also expressed in Vatican documents. Such an approach is evident also in Judaism and Islam and among Socially Engaged Buddhists and a growing number of Hindus.

A notable attempt to bring moral values to bear on international politics was President Wilson’s peace program at the end of the First World War, with its famous Fourteen Points. Wilson was, however, defeated by the self-interested cynicism of Clémenceau and Lloyd George, which almost inevitably sowed the seeds of further conflict. Political realism became dominant in the mid-twentieth century and found its classical expression in Hans J. Morgenthau’s Politics Among the Nations, which was published in 1948. In contrast to what was labeled ‘historical optimism’, Morgenthau’s realist theory rejects the view that ‘a rational and moral political order, derived from universally valid principles, can be achieved here and now.’15 The starting point is that human nature is driven by different contradictory forces and ‘this being inherently a world of opposing interests and of conflict among them, moral principles can never be fully realized.’16

A similar attitude has developed in economic thinking. The ‘realist’ market theory, developed especially by Milton Friedman, stresses competition. The market should be autonomous and left to its own self-regulating forces, without State intervention or moral constraints. Essentially, individuals should be allowed to pursue their economic interests freely, whether they choose to do so in a selfish or generous way. In 1970 Friedman chose, as a title for an article in the New York Times Magazine, ‘The Social Responsibility of Business Is to Increase Its Profits’.17

F.A. Hayek, who was well aware of the complexity of economic development, also rejected any external moral standard by which economic activity should be judged. Brian Griffiths, summarizing Hayek’s view with which he does not agree, says that for Hayek

Ethics are not immutable and eternal’, determined outside of the system, but the result of a process of adaptation to changing circumstances, namely cultural selection. It is precisely because there is no external moral standard that globalization is considered an autonomous and amoral process, without the need for any system of governance.18

Hayek sees the growth of capitalism, including its moral systems and institutions, as spontaneous and not related to any external system of morals. Brian Griffiths suggests that Hayek’s approach suffers from three weaknesses:

There would be no external standards of what is right and wrong, just and unjust, moral and immoral, by which its results could be judged; there would be no guarantee that, even in the absence of outside intervention, globalization would be a benign process; and there would be no assurance that in a free society, left to itself, we could count on an evolution of moral beliefs to generate values which would continue to underpin the market order.19

As we have suggested above,20 leading figures in the business and economic world are warning of the danger of a moral vacuum. Religious thinkers, I believe, need to be more vocal in their support of those who affirm the need for political and economic life to be based on moral principles. They should encourage their followers to apply their moral convictions to the business and political world.

The question then becomes, who provides the values? In the past, most societies have been shaped by a dominant religion -- or, in the twentieth century, by an ideology. Where people of more than one religion lived together, there was often a struggle for dominance. The subordinate group -- such as the dhimmi in the Muslim world or Jews in those countries in mediaeval Europe where they were allowed to live -- were tolerated under certain conditions. Indeed in Europe, where one Christian denomination was dominant, other Christians often suffered from discrimination and sometimes persecution.

Increasingly societies in the West are becoming multiracial and multi-faith. Some in Asia have been so for a long time. If one faith tradition seeks to dominate a multi-faith society, it is a recipe for social tension. Those who are the victims of discrimination will feel alienated and may seek to subvert existing political structures. In some cases they will do this by peaceful protest, sometimes by violent action.

A Global Ethic

Is there a third way? Without some shared values, a society falls apart. If there is no concept of truth, business agreements become impossible -- and indeed the presence of lawyers at every negotiation today are a sign that trustworthiness has been too much undermined. But even a legal system is an expression of underlying values. A society -- and this is also true of our international society -- needs values, but in a multi-faith society and world, if they are imposed by one faith community, even if it is the majority faith community, this will be resented and these values are likely to prove divisive. This is why it is urgent that faith communities articulate the values that they have in common in what is often now called ‘a global ethic’.

Many spiritual leaders recognize the need for such a global ethic. Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, Hindus, Jains and others, as well as Christians, have said ‘Yes’ to a global ethic.21 Let Pope John Paul II serve as an example. In 2001, he said:

As humanity embarks upon the process of globalization, it can no longer do without a common code of ethics . . . This does not mean a single dominant socio-economic system or culture which would impose its values and its criteria on ethical reasoning. It is within man as such, within universal humanity sprung from the Creator’s hand, that the norms of social life are to be sought. Such a search is indispensable if globalization is not to be just another name for the absolute relativization of values and the homogenization of life-styles and cultures. In all the variety of cultural forms, universal human values exist and they must be brought out and emphasized as the guiding force of all development and progress.22

The best known effort to produce a global ethic is the declaration that was signed by most members of the 1993 Assembly of the Parliament of the World’s Religions. At a time of intense conflict in former Yugoslavia, and of communal trouble in India, the Parliament sought to show that religions need not be a cause of division but could unite on basic ethical teachings. Much of the immediate preparatory work for this had been done by Professor Hans Küng, but interfaith organizations for some years had been working to identify the basic agreement of different religions on moral values.23

It is important to be clear that the global ethic is not intended to be a substitute for the specific moral teaching of particular religions. Hans Küng himself says:

The global ethic is no substitute for the Torah, the Gospels, the Qur’an, the Bhagavad Gita, the Discourses of the Buddha or the Teachings of Confucius and other scriptures. [It is concerned simply with a] minimal basic consensus relating to binding values, irrevocable standards and moral attitudes which can be affirmed by all religions despite their dogmatic differences and can also be supported by non-believers.24

Certainly the ethical element in a religion has to be understood in the context of the whole. ‘The source of vision and motivation for people of religious belief is their experience of the supreme reality, the transcendent, or the divine.’25 Moral concern cannot be separated from inner transformation, but, as twentieth-century religious leaders of several traditions have insisted, such inner transformation also embraces a concern for the well-being of the whole society. Mahatma Gandhi said, ‘The only way to find God is to see him in his creation and to be one with it. This can only be done by service of all, sarvodaya.’26 The Dalai Lama has also spoken of ‘compassion in action’ and Rabbi Soetendorp of the Netherlands has spoken of ‘prayers with legs’.27

Although for most believers their ethical conduct is part of their whole faith commitment, it is I believe possible to recognize fundamental agreements, which the global ethic attempts to express. Indeed, the Golden Rule is to be found in almost all religious traditions. In the same way, as I argued in the introduction to Stepping Stones to a Global Ethic, the contemporary concern for human rights, even if expressed in the thought forms of the Enlightenment, is grounded in faith traditions.28

It may be that attempts so far to articulate universal human rights and to identify a global ethic have been too much expressed in Western thought forms. This does not invalidate the efforts, but it indicates that wider participation is necessary to improve them. Both the books, For All Life, which Leonard Swidler edited, and Testing the Global Ethic, which Peggy Morgan and I edited, include comments on the global ethic from members of several world religions. The task, as Leonard Swidler makes clear, is not complete:

But when the Universal Declaration of a Global Ethic is finally drafted -- after multiple consultation, revision and eventual acceptance by the full range of religious and ethical institutions -- it will serve as a minimal ethical standard for humankind to live up to, much as the United Nation’s 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Through the former, the moral force of the world’s religions and ethical institutions can be brought to bear especially on those issues which are not susceptible to the legal and political force of the latter. 29

Does the global ethic appeal only to those with a religious faith? Hans Küng made clear that the intention was that it should be convincing and practical for all women and men of good will, religious and non-religious’.30 The underlying principle, therefore, was that

. . . every human being must be treated humanely . . . This means that every human being without distinction of age, sex, race, skin colour, physical or mental ability, language, religion, political view, or national or social origin possesses an inalienable and untouchable dignity . . . Humans . . . must be ends, never mere means, never objects of commercialization and industrialization in economic, politics and media.31

For me, as a Christian, this emphasis on treating every human humanely resonates with words attributed to Jesus: ‘I came that they might have life and have it in all its fullness.’ 32 Augustine said, ‘The glory of God is man fully alive,’ and several Christian writers have claimed that Christianity is the true humanism. Likewise members of other faiths have shown that there is support for the global ethic in their tradition. Certainly the principle ‘treat every human humanely’, which is really the Golden Rule, can be found in most faith traditions, although the scriptural or theological support for this statement will be particular to each faith. It is also a principle that should appeal to many people who have no belief in a transcendent reality.

It is, of course, a very general principle and in the Declaration Toward a Global Ethic an attempt was made to give it more substance. Four ‘Irrevocable Directives’ were affirmed, based on this fundamental demand that every human being must be treated humanely.

They are:

1 Commitment to a culture of non-violence and respect for life.

2 Commitment to a culture of solidarity and a just economic order.

3 Commitment to a culture of tolerance and a life of truthfulness.

4 Commitment to a culture of equal rights and partnership between men and women.

‘Commitment to a culture of solidarity and a just economic order’ is, of course, still very general. People of faith may disagree sharply about how to implement this. Indeed, this can be seen in current debates on how to make globalization good. For example, the Hindu reformer Swami Agnivesh puts the dilemma very clearly:

There are two radically different approaches to dealing with the issue of human greed. The first is to put in place checks and balances so that the predatory and exploitative instincts In human nature do not become socially subversive. This approach is centered in law. . .

The second approach, however, rejects this assumption and assumes that the persistence of greed and its power over individuals and societies stems from a materialistic world view. If lust for material acquisition can be tempered with love for one’s fellow human beings and accountability to God, it becomes possible to deal with the problem of greed effectively.33

This is a question that needs to be discussed together by religious thinkers and economists -- especially economists who are themselves people of faith.

There are many other and more practical issues that also need to be discussed by religious thinkers and economists. Some religious leaders call for those in the affluent world to adopt a simpler lifestyle. But would reduction of consumption in the West, on a large scale, really transfer resources to those who live in poverty, or would it trigger a recession? What is the goal of development? The views of the World Bank and of faith communities are often very different?

A great deal of study and discussion is taking place, but groups often work in isolation. A center is needed to ensure that the fruits of these efforts are better coordinated and communicated to the faith communities so that they have a real impact on a dangerous and divided world. There is a feeling among some interfaith activists that the 2004 Parliament of World Religions in Barcelona, for all its achievements, missed the opportunity to be the catalyst for this necessary development.

The editors of Interreligious Insight ask readers to

Imagine a world in which religious and spiritual communities regularly and creatively engage with other powerful and influential institutions to build a better future for all. Imagine a world in which the deepest wisdom and values of the great spiritual traditions touch the critical questions of the age, and in which religious communities are in deep and thoughtful dialogue with experts on all those critical questions.35

We need to make this vision a reality. If those who believe that economics should serve the good of all people, and should be based on and reflect the moral values upheld by the great religions, are to have a practical impact then religious thinkers and economists need to work together on derailed policies which embody these moral values. It will then be possible, as with the Jubilee 2000 campaign, to focus on specific issues and win popular support. It is time for the global ethic and talk of Globalization for the Common Good to move from the conference hall to the political agenda.

 

References:

1. Michael Mandel in Business Week, 25th February, 2002, p. 115.

2. Quoted by John Dunning in Making Globalization Good, p.32, referring to G. Soros. The Crisis of Global Capitalism, Little, Brown & Co. London, 1998, p.75.

3. E. Mortimer. Faith and Power in the Politics of Islam, Faber & Faber, 1982. p.37.

4. Ibid.

5. David L. Edwards, Religion and Change, Hodder & Stoughton, 1969, p.57.

6. H. Munkler. Machiavelli, Frankfurt, 1982, pp.283 and 281, quoted by H. Küng, A Global Ethic for Global Politics and Economics, SCM Press. 1997, p.17.

7. H. Küng, A Global Ethic for Global Politics and Economics, p.16.

8. H. Kissinger, Diplomacy, New York, 1994, pp.62 and 63.

9. Hugh McLeod, ‘Secularization’ in the Oxford Companion to Christian Thought, ed. Adrian Hastings, Oxford University Press 2000, pp.653-4.

10. Alistair Mason, ‘Enlightenment’, in The Oxford Companion to Christian Thought, pp.200-1.

11. I. Kant, Werke VI, 53-61:53, quoted by H. Küng, The Religious Situation of Our Time, SCM Press, 1995. p.684.

12. H. Küng, The Religions Situation, p.687

13. Quoted by H. Küng, A Global Ethic for Global Politics and Economics, p.20, with reference to his Christianity, C IV5.

14. Quoted by S.C. Carpenter, Church and People. 1789-1889, SPCK, 1959 edn, Part II, pp.317-18.

15. H.J. Morgenthau, Politics Among Nations: The Struggle for Power and Peace, New York, 1948, 1961 edn, p.4.

16. H.J. Morgenthau, Politics Among Nations, p.4.

17. New York Times Magazine, 9th September 1970, quoted by Küng, p.191.

18. Brian Griffiths, ‘A Christian Perspective’ in Making Globalization Good, ed. John Dunning, Oxford University Press, 2003, p. 168.

19. Brian Griffiths, p.168.

20. See p. 43.

21. See Yes to a Global Ethic, ed. Hans Küng, SCM Press, 1996.

22. Pope John Paul II in an Address to the Papal Academy of Social Sciences, 27th April 2001. Vatican website.

23. See Stepping Stones to a Global Ethic, ed. Marcus Braybrooke. SCM Press, 1992, and For All Life, ed. Leonard Swidler, White Cloud Press. Ashland, Oregon, 1999.

24. Hans Küng, A Global Ethic for Global Politics and Economics, p.109.

25. See Millennium Challenges for Development and Faith Institutions, Katherine Marshall & Richard Marsh, The World Bank. 2003.

26. Mahatma Gandhi, Harijan.

27. Quoted by David Johnston in Interreligious Insight, Vol. 2, No. 4, October 2004, p.15.

28. Louis Henken said that ‘all major religions proudly lay claim to fathering human rights.’ Louis Henken, The Rights of Man Today, Westview Press, 1978, p. xii. Likewise, Section 4 of the report Poverty and Development says that ‘the present articulation of human rights is a secular formation of the spiritual notion of the dignity inherent to each person, and thus has its grounding in the basic principles of all religions.’

29. For All Life, ed. Leonard Swidler, p.18.

30. A Global Ethic, ed. Hans Küng and Karl-Josef Kuschel, SCM Press, 1993, p.21.

31. ibid., p.23.

32. John 10.10.

33. Swami Agnivesh in Subverting Greed, ed. Paul Knitter & Chandra Muzaffar Orbis 2002, pp.50-l.

34. See Millennium Challenges for Development and Faith Institutions.

35 Interreligious Insight, Vol. 2, No. 4, October, 2004, p.7.

Further Reading:

Barney, Gerald, Threshold 2000, CoNexus Press, 2000.

Braybrooke, Marcus ed.), Stepping Stones to a Global Ethic, SCM Press, 1992.

Camilleri, Joseph A. & Chandra Muzaffar eds.). Globalization: The Perspectives and Experiences of the Religious Traditions of Asia Pacific, International Movement for a Just World, Malaysia, 1998.

Day, Herman E. & John B. Cobb, For the Common Good, Beacon Press, Boston, 1989, revised edn 1994.

Dunning, John, Making Globalization Good, Oxford University Press, 2003.

Edwards, David L., Religion and Change, Hodder & Stoughton, 1969.

Heslam, Peter (ed.), Globalization and the Good, SPCK, 2004

Knitter, Paul & Chandra Muzaffar (eds.). Subverting Greed, Orbis 2002.

Kong, H., A Global Ethic for Global Politics and Economics, SCM Press. 1997.

Küng, H., Global Responsibility, SCM Press,1993.

Küng, H., The Religions Situation of Our Time, SCM Press, 1995, p.687.

Küng, Hans (ed.), Yes to a Global Ethic, SCM Press, 1996.

Küng, Hans & Karl-Josef Kuschel(ed.), A Global Ethic, SCM Press, 1993, p.21.

Marshall, Katherine & Richard Marsh. Millennium Challenges for Development and Faith Institutions, The World Bank 2003.

Millennium Challenges for Development and Faith Institutions, The World Bank, 2003.

Morgenthau, H.J., Politics Among Nations: The Struggle for Power and Peace, New York, 1961.

Mortimer, E., Faith and Power in the Politics of Islam, Faber & Faber, 1982.

Soros, G., The Crisis of Global Capitalism, Little, Brown & Co., London, 1998.

Swidler, Leonard (ed.), For All Life, White Cloud Press, Ashland, Oregon 1999.

Do Christians and Muslims Worship the Same God? Part Five

(In late 2003 President Bush said, in response to a reporter’s question, that he believed Muslims and Christians "worship the same God." The remark sparked criticism from some Christians, who thought Bush was being politically correct but theologically inaccurate. For example, Ted Haggard, head of the National Association of Evangelicals, said, "The Christian God encourages freedom, love, forgiveness, prosperity and health. The Muslim god appears to value the opposite."

Do Muslims and Christians worship the same God? The question raises a fundamental issue in interfaith discussion, especially for monotheists. We asked several scholars to consider the question. Umar F. Abd-Allah’s article is the fifth in a series.)

As a Muslim, I am led by my understanding of religious history, languages and Islamic theology to say unequivocally that Christians and Muslims worship the same God. But at the outset I wonder if it is appropriate to ignore the political setting for discussing such a topic and its possible bearing on human lives. The quotations from George Bush and Ted Haggard -- the first timely, the second reckless -- give the appearance of offering theological clarifications, while each is firmly grounded in political bedrock. Can we undertake our query as an academic exercise and set aside its political context within the charged ambience of our times?

It is suggested that we not be encumbered in the discussion by what is politically correct. Political correctness is good etiquette and sensible advice for not getting punched in the nose. But this topic implicates much weightier concerns than mere political correctness -- like fundamental considerations of moral responsibility and human rights.

As an educator, I have rarely encountered students who liked being told what they are to think; as a Muslim, I am naturally sensitive to attempts by others to define what I or my community believes. Few Jews or Christians would delegate to others the definition of themselves or their private and collective devotion. While welcoming the CHRISTIAN CENTURY’S commendable undertaking of this discussion, I remain as fundamentally interested in the current implications of the question "Do we worship the same God?" as I am with answering it. Will the question be taken as inquisitive or Inquisitorial? Who carries the burden of proof? Do we make similar inquiries equally of all groups? Would a negative answer -- the preference of Ted Haggard and others on the Religious Right -- imply negative consequences? If we were to insist that Christians did not worship the same thing as Buddhists or Hindus -- not to mention agnostics and atheists -- would that jeopardize basic rights, constructive dialogue and positive social engagement?

I take pride in Islam’s centuries-long eminence as a global civilization, upholding religious tolerance at a time when it was little known and less practiced elsewhere and fashioning arabesques of unity in diversity out of the races and major denominations of Eurasia and Africa. I am also soberly conscious of the challenges of our time and the damaging, culturally predatory effect of religious fundamentalisms among us all. Human beings cast shadows, and so too the religious traditions in which they have a part.

Unity in diversity is a lofty goal and requires candor about what separates as well as what joins us; an arabesque begins with the integrity of its smallest parts. In 21st-century America, the quest for God’s wisdom in our plurality is a religious aspiration worthy -- and, I would add, natural -- for us all. But as we continue along this path, we do well to keep the Islamic adage in mind, "When the scholar slips, thousands fall." Not all questions are dispassionate; some affect people’s lives and well-being and should not be battered about in the political winds of the time.

We must first be clear about what we mean when we ask if Christians and Muslims worship the same God. Is it a question of indication and identity or of attributions, character and actions? Are we talking about subjects or predicates? Ultimately, we must talk about both. By focusing on the subject -- the ontological identity of the object we worship and the names we use to set it apart -- we enter into an area of common understanding and broad consensus.

Etymologically, Jews, Christians and Muslims originally called God by virtually identical names. The Arabic Allah comes from the same root as the biblical "God" (El hîm h_-El_hîm and h_-Elôh) invoked by the Hebrew prophets or the Aramaic/Syriac Al_h presumably used by John the Baptist and Jesus. Historically, we have identified our "object of worship" -- probably the literal proto-Semitic sense of All--h, El_hîm and Al_h_ -- as the God of Abraham. And, in general, homo religiosus -- within and without the Abrahamic traditions -- makes remarkably similar allusions to God, creator of the heavens and earth.

If, however, we insist on the predicates, then we enter into the difficult terrain of theological dispute and creedal dissonance. But predicates should not be forever avoided; they are detrimental only when emphasized to the exclusion or concealment of the subject.

We must, however, get our predications right. Closeness to God within Islam is not undeveloped or limited to the domain of mysticism; Islamic theological traditions affirm explicitly that God is at once both transcendent and immanent -- temporal opposition does not pertain to the uncreated -- and day-to-day Muslim culture reflects discernible intimacy with God even in mundane affairs.

Neither is the affirmation that humanity was created "in the All-Merciful’s image" -- an issue central to Jewish and Christian theology -- foreign to Islam. It is, in fact, more frequently attested in Islam’s authoritative scriptures than in the Bible and cannot be facilely attributed to "later traditions." While rejecting anthropomorphism, major traditions of Islamic thought -- within and without the domain of mysticism -- have given such texts a profoundly theomorphic explication, especially in conjunction with the epiphany of God’s names in creation.

Although Muslims and Christians do not share identical scriptures, the traditional Islamic view of the biblical narrative is nuanced and often very well informed. We must also be careful not to oversimplify marginal positions that, in our time, may owe more to the legacy of German scholars like Julius Wellhausen than they do to the Islamic tradition, which, for example, debated not whether Ezra was "a major villain" but whether he was a prophet -- and therefore infallible according to Islamic theology -- or a righteous Israelite.

When focusing on the diversity of religious predicates, we might ask: "Does anyone worship the same God?" Can any faith or its followers sport an essentialist label? Which religion can claim to have held a monolithic theological view even within its creedal schools? Hillel and Shammai -- the sagely Pharisaic "pair" -- sat together at the head of the Great Sanhedrin but posited sharply divergent visions of God’s character and actions. The Alexandrian Fathers and their counterparts in Antioch were not always affectionately immersed in Christian fellowship. For that matter, earlier Jews and Christians not only differed from their Hellenistic brethren on how they viewed God and Christ but held jarringly different notions of the basic structure of reality.

In Islam, the disparity between theological discourse of earlier and later centuries stands out visibly. Muslims can also hear to this day the echoes of earlier theological battles between the literalists and the rationalists, whose formulations often stand in sharp contrast to those of the great theosophical Sufis like Rumi or Ibn ‘Arabi.

At its inceptive and most basic level religion is unpredicated -- a direct experience, often numinous and ineffable, but in all cases utterly individual. Creeds and theological predicates bring religion’s original spiritual domain within the reach of reason. Experience is translated into thought and discourse; definitions and propositions delimit numinous reality. Parameters demarcate lines of inclusion and exclusion, standards of orthodoxy and heterodoxy, and, in due course, religion constitutes the basis of collective identity and social reality.

At the level of the worshiper, however, religious experience has a tendency to seek out its place of origin. Notwithstanding all of religion’s creedal statements and outward dimensions, worship grounds itself at the perceptual level within the heart and mind, where direct apprehension necessarily reveals patterns of infinite individuation. When a creedal formula is shared, each person sharing it forms, nonetheless, a unique psychological construct for what he or she believes about it. At the empirical level -- alone with God -- all believers, the religious and the less deeply religious alike, posit their own predicates and have their own compelling or not-so-compelling vision of God. At the existential level of living faith and inner constructs of belief, the clear-cut lines so essential to unified doctrine and distinctive creeds blur, and the world of faith becomes a kaleidoscope.

From a Muslim’s perspective, the premise that Muslims, Jews and Christians believe in the same God -- the God of Abraham -- is so central to Islamic theology that unqualified rejection of it would, for many, be tantamount to a repudiation of faith. From the Qur’anic standpoint, Muslims, Christians and Jews should have no difficulty agreeing that they all turn to the God of Abraham, despite their theological and ritual differences. Historical arguments between their faiths have rarely if ever been over what to call Abraham’s God or who was invoked by that call, and Islamic salvation history is rooted in the conviction that there is a lasting continuity between the dispensations of Muhammad, Abraham, Moses, Jesus and the biblical and extrabiblical prophets.

The Qur’an instructs Muslims to acknowledge openly and forthrightly that their God and the God of biblical religion is the same: "Do not dispute with the people of the Book [the Bible -- Jews and Christians] but in the best of manners, excepting those of them who commit oppression, and say [to them]; ‘We believe in what was revealed to us and what was revealed to you. Our God and your God is one, and we are a people in [willing] submission to him" (Qur’an 29:46).

As Jacob Neusner, Tamara Sonn and Jonathan E. Brockopp have cogently demonstrated in Judaism and Islam in Practice: A Sourcebook (Routledge, 2000), Judaism and Islam share a "concentric character," and their judgments about what matters between God and humanity generally agree. One would presume that, if Christians can accept partnership with Jews as worshiping the same God, they should have no insurmountable problems with Muslims, who historically have seen themselves as occupying the theological middle ground between Jews and Christians.

Bertrand Russell wrote, "The opinions that are held with passion are always those for which no good ground exists." Many of the grounds enflaming passions today between Muslims and non-Muslims have no good ground. If Judaism and Islam are concentric, Christianity and Islam have never been radically far apart. Not infrequently, they have been "too close for comfort" -- geographically and theologically -- although historically this was truer for Catholics than Protestants, to whom the Ottoman Empire gave active backing during the Reformation.

Süleyman I the Magnificent grounded his foreign policy on the defense of Germany’s Lutheran princes and the Huguenots of France. Safiyya Baffo, a Venetian convert and Ottoman queen with some influence over Turkish foreign policy, wrote to her friend Queen Elizabeth in 1594, addressing her as "chosen among those which triumph under the standard of JESUS CHRIST" (her capitals) and emphasizing how Elizabeth’s Protestant policies had stirred hope in Muslim hearts.

The 21st century may turn out to be a time of acute religious rivalry. New religious movements seem to be born every day; on all continents and in all faiths, fundamentalism is unlikely to prove transitory; and even liberal Christianity may find itself threatened by a new reformation emanating from the geographic South. Interfaith dialogue and cross-denominational understanding have never been more important. Perhaps the conviction that all the Abrahamic family worships the same God will help us triumph under his standard and stir hope in believing hearts.

Bush’s God Talk

Most discussions of George W. Bush’s religious faith draw heavily on his campaign autobiography, A Charge to Keep: My Journey to the White House (1999), which puts religion at the beginning, middle and end of the story. Deliberately vague in its chronology, the book describes a man who drifted until middle age, when Billy Graham "planted a mustard seed" in his soul and helped turn his life around. Modifying the conventions of conversion narratives, the book acknowledges Bush’s youthful indiscretions but downplays the nature and severity of his sins. It does not single out one decisive born-again moment, but describes a gradual transformation that included such steps as Bible study, repudiation of drink and a recommitment to God, church and family.

All this took place in 1985 and 1986, as Bush’s oil business in Texas was floundering, his marriage was in trouble and his father was preparing his White House run. The following year, Bush became senior adviser on the campaign team. One of the core responsibilities assigned to him, probably as a result of his newfound faith, was to serve as liaison with the Religious Right. He was coached and assisted in this by Doug Wead, an Assemblies of God minister, good friend of Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker and a longtime Republican operative.

Wead introduced him to the right people and taught him to win their support by showing he shared their values and spoke their language. "Signal early and signal often," he counseled, urging that the candidate’s speeches be larded with biblical allusions. The elder Bush demurred, but his son took the lesson in earnest. (Wead goes unmentioned in A Charge to Keep, but is discussed in many other publications. See, for example, A Man of Faith: The Spiritual Journey of George W Bush, by David Aikman [W. Publishing Group, 2004] or The Faith of George W Bush, by Stephen Mansfield [Jeremy Tarcher, 2003]. Wead’s motto, "Signal early and signal often," is quoted in Guy Lawson’s "George W.’s Personal Jesus," Gentleman’s Quarterly, September 2003.)

A Charge to Keep opens portentously. "Most lives have defining moments. Moments that forever change you. Moments that set you on a different course." The first such moment for Bush is "renewing my faith." Marriage and fatherhood are listed next, and the last is a sermon he heard in January1999 as he began his second term as governor of Texas. Taking as his text Exodus 3-4, the familiar story of how God appeared to Moses in the burning bush and called him to free Israel, Pastor Mark Craig emphasized the way Moses initially hesitated to respond to God’s call, feeling himself unworthy. Connecting this critical moment in sacred history to concerns of the present. Pastor Craig observed that America was hungry for leadership, moral courage and faith. Good men, when called, could not hesitate. This prompted Barbara Bush to inform her son: "He’s talking to you."

Bush’s response was attractively modest: "The pastor was, of course, talking to us all, challenging each of us to make the most of our lives." His words sit side by side with his mother’s in this doubly coded tale. Those so inclined will see a humble man of faith, moved to do the right thing by good advice and a thoughtful sermon. Others will recognize a divine call, issued through an inspired preacher and accepted, after initial hesitation, by the Lord’s chosen: the new Moses. The text is designed to admit both readings. It suggests the stronger interpretation to those who find it congenial, but allows for a more modest reading for anyone who considers such views either presumptuous or preposterous.

Yes, Bush believes God called him to office. But he is careful to say this obliquely and to connect it with a broader theology of vocation, in which all are called to take their place and do their best. People’s stations may vary, but we all receive God’s grace and serve his will.

The title of Bush’s book foregrounds these concerns. It comes from a well-known hymn that was played at the church service with which he began his first term as governor in 1995. Written by Charles Wesley, its words and music are much beloved by evangelicals throughout Texas and the South.

A charge to keep I have,

A God to glorify,

A never dying soul to save,

And fit it for the sky.

To serve the present age,

My calling to fulfill;

O may it all my powers engage

To do my Master’s will!

In his book, Bush told America what he told Texas with the hymn: he regards public office as God’s calling and a sacred trust. He shares the hymn’s inspiration with his staff, whom he expects to give their highest and best. To dramatize the point, he invites them to come see the picture hanging over his desk, where a determined rider on horseback charges up a steep hill, a picture also titled "A Charge to Keep." "This is us," he tells them, "we serve One greater than ourselves."

At the end of the chapter devoted to this theme, Bush cites a Bible verse, 1 Corinthians 4:2: "Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful." The verse is appropriate for the theme, but the way he introduces it feels a bit awkward and heavy-handed. Although Bush often alludes to scripture, he does not frequently cite chapter and verse this way. But this is a signal for his core constituency, making strategic use of their specialized reading practices. Full citation invites those with such habits to consult the passage. Anyone who does will find that the verse is embedded in this paragraph:

This is how one should regard us, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God. Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful. With me it is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by any human court. I do not even judge myself. I am not aware of anything against myself, but I am not thereby acquitted. It is the Lord who judges me. Therefore do not pronounce judgment before the time, before the Lord comes, who will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will disclose the purposes of the heart. Then every man will receive his commendation from God.

One has to wonder: Is this how Bush regards himself? Is this how he would like to be regarded? More likely, this is another instance of double coding. If such things please you, he wants you to know he thinks of himself as a faithful servant of Christ, and feels himself accountable to no law save God’s, no court save the Last Judgment. But if such things make you uneasy, he would prefer that the question never arise. Following the strategy of "Signal early and signal often," Bush employs biblical citation to communicate with his base, the linguistic equivalent of winks and nudges.

The practice lets him convey things the faithful love to hear, while also letting them feel that they enjoy a privileged relation to him by virtue of sharing biblical reference points. At the same time, it lets him veil these things from people who would be put off by the biblical language or might challenge its propriety. Should anyone point out what he is doing, it is easy to deny any but a general meaning, while dismissing the criticism as verging on paranoia.

A Charge to Keep ends with a chapter explaining how the virtue of compassion informs Bush’s policies and makes him a visionary leader. Here and elsewhere, however, he invests the term "compassion" with a particular meaning. To appreciate this, one has to consider his mythic account of the fall in American culture:

During the more than half century of my life, we have seen an unprecedented decay in our American culture, a decay that has eroded the foundations of our collective values and moral standards of conduct. Our sense of personal responsibility has declined dramatically, just as the role and responsibility of the federal government have increased. . . . We can now say, without question, that the belief that government could solve people’s problems instead of people solving people’s problems was wrong and misguided.

The reason government cannot deal with social issues, he asserts, is its lack of compassion. He understands compassion as a quality of spirit that characterizes (religious) individuals and groups, but is categorically different from the soulless, bureaucratic nature of the state. When government attempts to care for the needy, it does so for practical and political, not moral and spiritual, reasons. And in doing so, it obscures and inhibits the compassion of godly individuals, thereby compounding the problem.

However rhetorically attractive it may be, "compassionate" conservatism differs only slightly from rougher forms of the same creed. It remains laissez-faire in its approach to social welfare and justice, and justifies this stance by claiming the state has no ability (rather than no right or no reason) to intervene in such matters. Since compassion is a spiritual quality, according to this perspective, social welfare and justice are best left to religious institutions -- whence the specialized form of privatization (and patronage) that is the president’s "faith-based initiative."

For our culture to change, it must change one heart, one soul, and one conscience at a time. Government can spend money, but it cannot put hope in our hearts or a sense of purpose in our lives. This is done by churches and synagogues and mosques and charities that warm the cold of life. They are a quiet river of goodness and kindness that cuts through stone. . . . Government should welcome the active involvement of people who are following a religious imperative to love their neighbors . . . . Supporting these men and women -- the soldiers in the armies of compassion -- is the next bold step of welfare reform.

Bush made compassion a centerpiece of his 2000 campaign, actively courting religious people as well as suburban soccer moms who found other conservatives too callous. To counter the risk that his emphasis on compassion might make him seem effeminate, however, he often paired it with courage, describing these two as the quintessential American virtues. Like the other attributes that mark the U.S. as exceptional among nations, these are not just secular qualities. Rather, they are gifts of grace and the instruments of grace through which Americans do God’s work in the world. Though the state, in Bush’s view, is somehow incapable of compassion, nothing inhibits its capacity for courage, especially in the form of military action.

For about eight months after his inaugural, Bush held courage and compassion in rough balance. If anything, the latter seemed to prevail, albeit in his specialized sense. Tax cuts, a smaller role for government and a shift of social service to the faith-based "armies of compassion" were his chief agenda items.

The events of September 11, 2001, changed things. Initially rendered almost speechless, Bush searched for a way to comprehend and describe what had happened. "A difficult moment for America" was his first attempt, quickly followed by "a national tragedy" and "an apparent terrorist attack." (For the text of Bush’s post-9/11 speeches, see We Will Prevail: President George Bush on War, Terrorism, and Freedom (Continuum, 2003). Once the latter had been confirmed, he promised to "hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts," and he asked the country for prayer. In his third speech of the day, he renewed this request and quoted the 23rd Psalm: "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for You are with me."

The verse was well chosen, and it resonated with other aspects of this address, in which Bush first introduced a discourse on "evil." He used the term four times (more than any other, save "terror/terrorist/terrorism") and it let him characterize the situation with a stark moral simplicity. Elsewhere he spoke of America as defender of all that is good and just, "the brightest beacon for freedom and opportunity," thereby implying a struggle of light and darkness ("And no one will keep that light from shining"). His dualistic vision was best captured, however, in another passage.

Today, our nation saw evil, the very worst of human nature. And we responded with the best of America -- with the daring of our rescue workers, with the caring for strangers and neighbors who came to give blood and help in any way they could.

Courage here was of a defensive sort -- the daring of rescue workers -- while compassion took varied forms (caring for strangers, etc.). Both showed America at its godly best, confronting demonic evil. In subsequent days, Bush recalibrated the balance between the two virtues so that courage overshadowed compassion but never eclipsed it completely. At the same time, the kind of courage he invoked was increasingly aggressive. He pledged to pursue and destroy not just al-Qaeda, but terrorism; not just terror, but evil. Meanwhile, he informed the world there could be no neutrality in the coming struggle. "Every nation, in every region, now has a decision to make," he announced on September 23. "Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists."

To his credit, Bush never (with a single unfortunate exception) cast the conflict as a crusade. When influential evangelists (Franklin Graham, Pat Robertson), academics (Samuel Huntington, Bernard Lewis) and generals (William G. Boykin) have construed Islam as the enemy, Bush has not rebuked them, thereby permitting some to believe he shares their views. In his own statements, however, he has staked out a more temperate and prudent position, speaking of Islam as a religion of peace. Our enemies are not those of a different faith, but "barbaric criminals who profane a great religion by committing murder in its name," a phrase he used when commencing war in Afghanistan (October 7, 2001).

Countless changes can be rung on Manichaean chimes once the binary opposition of Us and Them is aligned with plots pitting Good against Evil. Among the many variants Bush employed during and after the Afghan war were narratives of American courage vs. cowardly terrorist attacks; American goodness and compassion vs. blind hatred and resentment; true American piety vs. self-deluded fanaticism; and modern civilization vs. medieval resistance to progress.

The last of these binaries implies a temporal sequence: the good future will succeed an evil past, just as surely as spring follows winter. Toward the end of the Afghan war, Bush began to develop this into a theological position, as when he told the United Nations: "History has an Author who fills time and eternity with his purpose. We know that evil is real, but good will prevail against it."

When the time came to make his case for another war, Bush returned to this idea. In his third State of the Union address, after rehearsing charges about weapons and terrorist ties and portraying Saddam Hussein as evil incarnate, the president lifted his argument to the grandest of terms.

We go forward with confidence, because this call of history has come to the right country . . . Americans are a free people, who know that freedom is the right of every person and the future of every nation. The liberty we prize is not America’s gift to the world, it is God’s gift to humanity. We Americans have faith in ourselves -- but not in ourselves alone. We do not claim to know all the ways of Providence, yet we can trust in them, placing our confidence in the loving God behind all of life, and all of history.

Ten months later, when the situation in Iraq had turned ominous and sour, he reaffirmed these views in an address to the National Endowment for Democracy (November 6, 2003). He began by observing that between the 1970s and the present, the number of democratic governments in the world had grown from 40 to 120. "Historians in the future will offer their own explanations for why this happened," he said, and went on to anticipate their speculations. Such human factors as American leadership or the rise of a middle class paled, however, in comparison to the hand of the unmoved mover. "Liberty is both the plan of heaven for humanity and the best hope for progress here on Earth," he announced. These are no secular matters.

The advance of freedom is the calling of our time. It is the calling of our country. . . . We believe that liberty is the design of nature. We believe that liberty is the direction of history. We believe that human fulfillment and excellence come in the responsible exercise of liberty. And we believe that freedom, the freedom we prize, is not for us alone. It is the right and the capacity of all mankind. And as we meet the error and violence of the world, we can be certain the author of freedom is not indifferent to the fate of freedom.

Much the same language was recycled last month in the speech with which Bush accepted his party’s nomination. The sole major addition was the passage with which he concluded the address and moved to his benediction.

Like generations before us, we have a calling from beyond the stars to stand for freedom. This is the everlasting dream of America, and tonight, in this place, that dream is renewed. Now we go forward -- grateful for our freedom, faithful to our cause, and confident in the future of the greatest nation on earth. God bless you, and may God continue to bless America. (Text from the New York Times, September 3.)

All of these texts convey a sophisticated theology of history that rests on five propositions: 1) God desires freedom for all humanity; 2) this desire manifests itself in history; 3) America is called by history (and thus, implicitly by God) to take action on behalf of this cause; 4) insofar as America responds with courage and determination, God’s purpose is served and freedom’s advance is inevitable; 5) with the triumph of freedom, God’s will is accomplished and history comes to an end.

This is the fullest and most sophisticated theological position Bush has articulated in the course of his presidency. As we have seen, it follows several earlier systems, each of which had its own force, rationale and moment. These include an evangelical theology of "born again" conversion; a theology of American exceptionalism as grounded in the virtue of compassion; a Calvinist theology of vocation; and a Manichaean dualism of good and evil.

In developing these concepts, however, he has shown little concern for consistency and coherence. His theological systems simply pile up, much like his rationales for war in Iraq -- of which 27 appeared over the course of one year. (Devon Largio delineates the 27 rationales in a much-cited honors thesis written this past spring at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.)

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What is more, there are serious tensions and contradictions among the various systems. The one with which Bush ends, for example, differs sharply from the one with which he started. In his theology of history, salvation is an impersonal and inevitable process of gradual world-perfection, in which the Creator’s goals are achieved through the collective actions of a chosen nation. By contrast, his evangelical faith makes salvation individual and by no means inevitable; it comes in a blazing moment of faith and decision, when a lost soul accepts Jesus as personal savior. If the theology of the early Bush is Pauline, his more recent stance is Hegelian, but without the dialectic and with America, not Prussia, in history’s starring role. It is hard to imagine how one man can hold both doctrines.

I am persuaded that Bush’s evangelical convictions, which he embraced decades ago in a period of life crisis, matter to him deeply. The other parts of this theology are more recent overlays. They took shape after he learned his trade as a successful politician, and they were worked out in collaboration with a talented staff. It is hard to say how committed he is to any one of these later formulations. Indeed, it is hard to know in what sense they are his, or what it means to speak of "belief’ in such a context. Does he own and inhabit these beliefs, or simply profess and perform them? When he tried to explain his theology of history without a prepared text, just a few weeks ago, the results were not pretty.

See, what’s happening is that freedom is beginning to rise up in a part of the world that is desperate for freedom, a part of the world where people are resentful because they are not free human beings. And we believe that freedom is the Almighty’s gift to every person in this world. It is the basic belief of the American system. And so -- I say this to the families of the soldiers I meet. I tell them their sons and daughters or husbands and wives are on an incredibly important mission for history. See, when Iraq is free, it will begin to change the vision of those in Iran who want to be free. When Iraq is free, it will say to the Palestinians, who have been subjected to leadership that has not led in their interest, that it’s possible to live at peace with our close friend, Israel. (Remarks at victory dinner in Santa Monica, California, August 12, available at www.whitehouse.gov/news/ releases.)

When this text is placed beside Bush’s more formal addresses, the contrast is revealing. In the speeches written by his staff, the same phrases (or more elegant versions thereof) articulate sophisticated ideas that are born of serious reflection. In his version, they are reduced to a jumble of feel-good slogans, with which the president rallies a loyal constituency to support controversial, even dubious policies (in the current example, the Iraq war and his Middle East policies).

When speaking in his own voice, the president transforms his writers’ subtle instruments of persuasion into clumsy parodies of themselves. Even Manichaean dualism -- a doctrine not known for its subtlety -- can be vulgarized in this fashion.

I see things this way: The people who did this act on America, and who may be planning further acts, are evil people. They don’t represent an ideology, they don’t represent a legitimate political group of people. They’re flat evil. That’s all they can think about, is evil. And as a nation of good folks, we’re going to hunt them down.

Bush made these remarks two weeks after 9/11, as the Patriot Act was being drafted, and he made them to employees of the FBI. In this heated context, his blunt language construed al-Qaeda not just as quintessentially evil, but as having no political beliefs and no legitimacy. It also appears that its followers have no legal rights, since his words convert criminal suspects into beasts fit for hunting.

One is forced to conclude that Bush’s theology and his deployment of it is less systematic than pragmatic. Although he fosters the impression that his policies are grounded in deep religious conviction, the reality is often the reverse. Vague notions and attractive terms such as "compassion," "history" and "freedom" are given rhetorical, sometimes even intellectual, coherence by his staff. Bush may resonate to some of the ideas and some of the language they prepare for him, but for the most part he uses these to justify policies that have already been decided on quite other grounds. Preemptive wars, abridgments of civil liberty, cuts in social service, subsidies to churches, and other like initiatives are not just wrapped in the flag; together with the flag, they are swathed in the holy.

Many of those responsible for shaping these policies are tough-minded neoconservatives who share with political philosopher Leo Strauss a cynical view of religion as unfit for elites, but useful in swaying the masses. To Bush falls the task of securing broad support for this team’s agenda from his fervently evangelical base. It is not an easy business, and it requires all the linguistic skill, theological ingenuity and tactical acumen his staff can muster. The apparent sincerity with which Bush displays his convictions while delivering their lines is a significant piece of his own very real genius. It is also the condition of his success. We will see if it gets him through the elections.

Summoned (Luke 14:25-33; Philemon 1-21)

Paul was in Rome, the epicenter of empire, the magnet for people on the lam such as fugitive slaves. He was a "prisoner of Christ Jesus" not only because the Messiah had captured his heart but also because he had boldly proclaimed the grace and peace he had found. Somehow, through the Christian grapevine, Onesimus found Paul and sought shelter with him. Now Onesimus is going back to his owner.

Is it a shock to our modern sensibilities that the man who wrote the "neither slave nor free" line does not strike out at the institution of slavery when Onesimus is a legal "prisoner" of his master Philemon? Perhaps Paul weighed the cost of speaking out, and decided that this was not a winnable fight in his time and place. It was not until the late 18th century that William Wilberforce and others finally embraced abolition. When they did, they framed arguments based on Paul’s writings.

Slavery is appallingly not anachronistic even 20 centuries out. Fair-trade advocates lament that it is almost impossible to purchase chocolate that is untainted by forced labor. Women lured by the promise of good jobs wind up indentured to the global sex trade. Boys and young men slave away in diamond mines and carpet factories. It’s enough to make God weep.

We are not sure that Paul is asking Philemon to manumit his slave from bondage. What is clear is that Onesimus and Paul have bonded. Onesimus -- whose name means "profitable or useful one" -- has become highly useful to Paul, his "father," in his gospel ministry. Now this "old man" (presbytes) wants Philemon to understand that his slave has become a child of God the Father through the Son. This implies that Onesimus’s relationship with Philemon has changed. Yes, he is still a slave and a runaway at that. Yet to bondage has been added the bond of baptism. Onesimus is now family, a brother in the faith.

Paul emphasizes the slave’s altered status in his letter of entreaty taking the legal and financial situation into consideration. "If he owes you anything," Paul writes, "charge that to my account." Yet he refuses to treat his charge as mere property, and he urges Philemon to receive him "no longer as a slave but more than a slave, a beloved brother." In fact, so close has Onesinius become to Paul that it is as if he is sending himself.

As he does elsewhere in his letters, the apostle reflects on his authority as one called and sent by the Lord himself. By this authority he could have turned his request into a simple command. After all, Philemon owes Paul his "very self" because he has won him for Christ. But Paul uses persuasion rather than the imperial imperative; he wants Philemon to acquiesce in his request "in the Lord" and "on the basis of love." "Refresh my heart in Christ," he writes.

This approach is consonant with the gospel Paul preaches. Almighty God certainly has the power and authority to command and demand. Yet how does he choose to approach humankind? In the weakness of Jesus who, though in the form of God, emptied himself of power and became the servant of all. The glory of God is disclosed on a cross: while we were yet sinners, disobedient to Authority, Christ died for us. Love that cannot be commanded is evoked by love. God is not the cosmic bully who demands our compliance with the divine directives . . . or else. Rather, he risks conditionless love in perfect freedom, knowing it might not be returned. The summons to a holy life does not come blunt from heaven but issues from the cross. And we are free as Philemon was to demur from doing "the good that we may do for Christ."

What we may do for Christ seems utterly unattainable in the version of Jesus Luke presents in chapter 14. In the previous chapter the evangelist tells us that Jesus was "casting out demons and performing cures." No wonder large crowds were mobbing him wherever he went. It was squarely in their self-interest to do so. Still, it must have come as a shock when this hard-working exorcist and healer suddenly unleashed his stark criteria for discipleship. Hate, he says. Not, "Put your family in proper perspective, given God’s prior claim on you." He doesn’t remind them that all life comes from God and therefore permanent gratitude is in order. Such teaching would have made perfect sense. Instead he tells the cure seekers that the key family value is hatred for it. Loathe life, he recommends. They are not to busy themselves usefully, like Onesimus, but to engage in cross-carrying (whatever that might mean) and itinerancy.

What could the crowd do with this wild counsel? What are we to do with it? Yes, Jesus once described his true family not biologically but theologically as those who do the will of his Father. But he also basked in the "family" of Mary and Martha, gave a once-dead daughter back to her father and created an instant family for his mother with his dying breaths. Will the real Jesus please stand up?

Perhaps we can do no more than leave the tension in place. We are not prepared to hate, carry, follow or give up all our stuff. Therefore, having counted the cost and declared it excessive, we cannot be counted disciples of Jesus. Our only recourse is to the God of the cross we’re incapable of carrying, to a grace that requires nothing, including discipleship. And perhaps mercy will allow us to (mis)interpret the Master’s words as calling us to give up all our plans and possessions to God and let this impossible Jesus be Lord of every relationship, and of every last penny.

Guest List (Lk. 14:1, 7-14; Heb. 13:1-8, 15-16)

I got into trouble once. Big trouble. I was enjoying myself at a barbecue supper with several clergy in a small northern Kentucky town. When we ran out of some food items, I volunteered to drive my MG -- with the top down, of course -- to find a grocery store. I was on my way back to the barbecue when a local officer nailed me for speeding. He informed me that I would have to appear before a judge that very evening.

Feeling unfairly charged and in righteous dudgeon, I decided to ignore my appointed rendezvous. Big mistake. The town was small and I was driving a sports car with out-of-state plates. When the long arm of the law found me, I was escorted to the municipal lockup.

"Remember those who are in prison," admonishes the Christian moralist. No luck in my case. Back at the barbecue, my colleagues had finished their brats and beer before they "remembered" me and dispatched an emissary to bail me out. I was extremely grateful to see them. No one wants to be left friendless behind bars.

Remembering the incarcerated is only one of what Harold W. Attridge calls a "series of discrete and staccato admonitions" in the final chapter of Hebrews, but that directive carries personal poignancy for me after my experience. As a member of the Freedom Writers program (http://www.amnestyusa.org), I write letters to officials in countries that detain prisoners of conscience (as determined by Amnesty International). This is one way that I can respond concretely to the biblical admonition. As I write the letters, I reflect on the fact that they are going to places around the world where to be jailed also means to be tortured.

The writer of Hebrews 13 groups this and other paraenetic points under a broader one: "Let mutual love continue," which echoes Jesus’ "new command" to his disciples. Yet turning that wide-open imperative into something pointed, contextual and behaviorally measurable is seldom easy or straightforward. How do we begin? Perhaps we might make a start by reflecting on our daily experience of other people. Is it just me, or is there a certain coarseness at the mall or the supermarket, an attitude of entitlement that has the self always in prime view? Are drivers -- of both grocery carts and SUVs -- increasingly aggressive? Would it hurt to slow down so that we can be ready to offer kindness to strangers?

No, one doesn’t want to reduce discipleship to (un)conventional pleasantness; Jesus’ command that we bless those who curse us, for example, is not a small thing. Yet perhaps something can be said for simple niceness, for decorating our mundane transactions with a quiet graciousness. These simple acts and words can be a welcome, civilizing social lubricant. The "it" done to the least of us, after all, can be as small as the amount of water that fills a cup for a thirsty child.

It is easy to let strangers remain strangers and thus avoid any potential claim they might have on us. But this won’t work for those of us called to a Christ-mirroring vulnerability, one that regards the other as brother or sister, and a claimant on our concern.

And the text challenges us to redefine strangers as angels, after all, or as "friends we’ve yet to meet."

"Let marriage be held in honor." This is more complicated. Some would honor marriage by unequivocally restating its traditional, restrictive definition by constitutional amendment or religious sanctions or both. Others, regarding this issue as one of justice, would offer an expanded understanding of marriage that opens it civilly and sacramentally to same-sex couples.

And fornication? The free-wheeling frolics of Sex and the City and its imitators set the tone for many and render the term itself risibly antique. Adultery fares no better, with many couples embracing what psychologist John Gottman calls a "conditional commitment" rather than the risky, come-what-may promise cherished by the church.

Executive avarice and corporate greed, still high in national consciousness, will be part of any discussion of "How much would Jesus accumulate?" and of Christ as the one thing needful. But the second clause, about satisfaction with the status quo, is meant for the reasonably fed, attired, housed and paid. On behalf of those who are not, those who are ought to be malcontent with the scandalous American toleration of dying (as opposed to living) wages, the widening income gap and the inability of millions to afford decent health care.

Rich and poor alike need to know that "My Lord is my helper," but those who have the wherewithal are enjoined to please and praise God by sharing what they have with those who need it. Taken seriously, this evangelical counsel can quickly lead from small gesture to major sacrifice, from charity to political involvement.

Hebrews offers us an album of snapshots of a love life offered as a sacrifice of gratitude to God, whose Christ has already given himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God (Eph. 5:2). He who has taken the lowest place and been exalted on high bids us follow his example of humility in social situations. Then Jesus proclaims what John Dominic Crossan calls the principle of "open commensality": invite everybody, all the nobodies; transgress class boundaries; don’t lower your standards, have none. This is the way to entertain strangers -- all of them angels -- sent by God. So we prepare a limitless table, and there, surrounded by a cloud of witnesses, we remember Christ in bread and wine, Christ present, remembering us and calling us by name.