Avoiding Heresies - Docetism

This week's heresy, Docetism, isn't really a heresy at all...at least not a single, codified heresy. Instead, it's a collection of heretical thought that shares a common thread--denying the full humanity of Jesus Christ. In some ways, this heresy is similar to Arianism, which involved denying the full divinity of Jesus Christ. This time, those who can be labelled as Docetic have swung too far in the other direction--so interested in asserting the Son's equality with the Father that they have lost touch with his humanness.

In the slide show below, we explore Docetism in general and Apollinarianism in particular. The questions behind Docetism are ones we might ask ourselves. For example, "How can Jesus Christ be both fully human and fully divine? What happened to his humanity when the divinity was united to it?" Or "Was Jesus born with all the attributes of God (omnipotent, omniscient, infinite, etc.), and, if not, what happened to those aspects of his divinity? Did he leave them behind in heaven, and, if so, doesn't that imply a change in God--whom we understand to be changeless?" Clearly, there's a lot to consider.

One of the arch-opponents of the Arian heresy was Apollinaris, a friend of Athanasius. Apollinaris was worried that splitting Jesus Christ into two distinct natures would result in a savior who was unable to save. In his mind, the only way to preserve the efficacy of JC's death & resurrection was to envision the Incarnation as the total unity of Jesus' divine and human natures, and he explained (over-explained, actually) that by attributing the "living principle" (flesh) of Jesus to his humanness and his "thinking principle" (mind) to his humanness. in other words, the Logos (Word) took the place of Jesus' human mind...because, let's be honest--how could a human being (mind and all) really contain the fullness of God? (Well, that's a heresy, and we call it Apollinarianism--a brand of Docetism). Basically, the Jesus Christ of Apollinaris was a divine mind contained in a human body--a mixture that results in an entity with hardly any humanity left at all (other than skin, bones, etc.).

Undoing the heresy of Apollinarianism (and Docetism, more generally) enables us to appreciate the Incarnation at a much deeper level. God didn't just come to earth in the form of a human. God himself became human. He took on our human nature--not just our human body. That gives us a whole new way of thinking about ourselves, about each other, and about the Eucharist.The slide show below explores that (and scriptural references) in more detail. Enjoy!

Crumbly Grace

My wife and I shot each other a look that conveyed both astonishment and humor. After throwing some of her supper onto the floor, my daughter, still young enough to sit in a high chair, had just exclaimed, “Don’t worry! Elbow will get it.” Elbow is our dog, and he had a habit of “eat[ing] the children’s crumbs” when they fell from the table. Apparently, our daughter had picked up on the fact that her parents didn’t mind so much when the family pet helped keep the kitchen clean.

Nowadays, Elbow has some competition. Our son has taken our daughter’s place in the high chair, and, like all infant/toddlers, he occasionally scatters some of his food onto the floor. But now there’s a 3-year-old sister to scavenge alongside the dog—though her tastes are somewhat more discriminate than those of her four-legged rival. Although she might pass on a mushy piece of banana, if a sizable chunk of grilled cheese makes it to the floor and neither parent is paying close attention, there’s a reasonable chance that either daughter or pet will scoop it up and eat it.

Cast-offs. Leftovers. Second chances. This morning’s gospel story from Mark (7:24-37) describes God’s grace as those crumbs that fall under the master’s table. The image suggests that even when God’s love isn’t fully received by its target, there’s enough there to spill over, producing unintended consequences. In other words, God’s grace is so big that even those who never expected to receive a gift of love can be recipients of God’s blessing.

I find it distracting, however, that Jesus frames this description of grace in shocking language that equates the Gentile woman and her ailing daughter with dogs. I don’t really know why he does that, except to challenge society’s understanding of race and class. Perhaps in Jesus’ mind, God’s love (as expressed in his earthly ministry) really was reserved for a Jewish-only audience. Some argue that Jesus was only highlighting a racial disparity that he intended to overthrow. Or maybe he was just tired and cranky—“he entered a house, and would not have any one know it”—and spoke a little too harshly to the desperate woman. I must confess that I don’t know why Jesus did what he did.

But I can see that her response to his harshness reveals something surprising—for her, for the onlookers, for me, and maybe even for Jesus. God’s love, no matter whom we think is its object, is bigger than we expect. It filters down. It spills over. It makes a mess—like crumbs that collect under a table. God’s love isn’t a valentine stuffed in an envelope with a specific addressee written on the outside. God’s love is an all-you-can-eat buffet. If I think of myself as elite, I find it offensive that everyone gets to partake. But if I’m famished and wasn’t sure if I was invited to the party, the banquet is almost more than I can handle.

Run-ins with God

Yesterday morning, before I left Fairhope, Alabama, for EFM Mentor Training in Pensacola, Florida, I went for a run. As I started down the hill towards the Mobile Bay, I could feel a fairly stiff breeze blowing up from where the water is. Although I couldn’t see the bay yet, I could already picture what the water looked like. Given the path and pace that I run, it took me a while to the waterfront, but, when I did, I was very surprised. I had pictured a choppy, brownish seascape, dotted with whitecaps, which the wind had whipped up. Instead, I discovered a blue-gray mirror so still and calm that the sky above was reflected with almost no distortion.

Not long after I saw that magnificent surprise, I stumbled onto another one: two good friends, whom I knew from my days at Birmingham-Southern College, were walking their dogs along the bay. Although I should have remembered that they had retired to Fairhope a few years ago, I still associate them that chapter of my life that took place two-hundred-fifty miles north of the coast. As a result, I nearly ran past them without realizing who they were. Once I figured it out, I stopped for a chat, but they, too, needed a minute to figure out who this oddly dressed and out-of-place stranger was.

In this morning’s Gospel lesson from the Daily Office (Mark 6:47-56), Jesus walks out on the wind-whipped sea to meet his disciples, who were struggling against the waves. He almost passed them by, but, when they saw him and were frightened by the unexpected apparition, he stopped and hopped into the boat. And as soon as he climbed into the boat, the wind ceased, and the sea became still.

Even more remarkable to me is what happens when Jesus and the disciples make it to the other side: “And when they got out of the boat, immediately the people recognized him, and ran about the whole neighborhood and began to bring sick people on their pallets to any place where they heard he was.” The disciples, who supposedly knew Jesus well, didn’t recognize him when he walked passed them on the sea. The crowds, many of whom may have only heard about Jesus, dropped everything they were doing to bring their sick friends and relatives in a confident expectation of healing. It seems that the disciples didn’t expect to see their master while they were struggling against the wind, but the crowds were able to recognize a healer even though they hadn’t ever seen him before.

What I expect to see usually limits my ability to see what’s really happening. When I have something in mind and then encounter something different, I either get distracted by the unexpected sight or miss it altogether. Occasionally, like the disciples, my reaction is fear of the surprise. More often, as with my chance-run-in with two old friends, I almost pass it by completely. In my experience, however, God usually works through those unanticipated avenues that I’m not looking for. When I realize what’s happening, I am sometimes gripped by fear, but often I’m so focused on what I expect to see that I can’t even see how God is working in my life. Why can’t I be more like the people of Gennesaret? Why can’t I be ready for the unexpected? What must I do to open myself up to recognizing and embracing God’s surprising work in my life?

Faith to Move Mountains

One of St. Paul’s favorite verses in the Hebrew Bible seems to have been Genesis 15:6—“Abram believed the Lord, and he reckoned it to him as righteousness.” Paul quotes that verse a couple of times—once in this morning’s New Testament lesson (Galatians 3:1-14)—and writes about it extensively. For many contemporary Christians, that verse represents a summary of Pauline theology—salvation through faith.

From where I sit, I agree wholeheartedly—it’s a great verse. And it does encapsulate much of Paul’s theology of grace and faith. But I think many contemporary Christians miss the message behind that verse. In our recent Sunday-morning class on Romans, we used Kathy Grieb’s book, The Story of Romans, and her take on Paul’s emphasis on faith was enlightening for me. Yes, it is all about faith, but faith isn’t an easy thing.

As Grieb explored the faithfulness of God and humanity’s response of faithfulness, she points out that we are called to have faith like that of Abraham (and faith like that of Christ). Although our faith might be reckoned to us as righteousness, that’s harder than it sounds. What faith? Usually, in the bible, we get stories of humanity’s faithlessness—how Israel doubted that God could keep his promises, how Peter denied Jesus, how Thomas doubted the resurrection. Abraham demonstrates a level of faith that exceeds anything I can usually muster. He trusted that God would make him the father of a great nation despite his age (and that of his wife). He believed when there was no reason to believe. And that’s the kind of faith I’m supposed to have.

What do you believe in? Do you have the kind of faith that believes in the face of enormous difficulty? Can you hold firm to God’s promises of redemption when salvation seems all but impossible? Abraham’s faith (and the faith we are called to have) is a willingness to remain confident in God’s plan of salvation no matter what. Sure, all it takes is faith, but where does faith like that come from?

Too Light a Thing

One of my favorite lines from the Old Testament is found in this morning’s lesson (Isaiah 49:1-12): “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the preserved of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” It is too light a thing… In that verse, I hear God saying, “That which you thought was important is far more significant than you could have ever imagined. My plan is even bigger than you dreamed it would be.”

Countless moments in my life pass by without me ever grasping their significance—either before or after they occur. But other moments come along that I realize are important—a conversation with a grieving widow, an assistance check to help pay someone’s mortgage, a hug for a tired friend on a bad day. When those instances present themselves, I unconsciously prepare for them. “This is a big moment,” I don’t actually say to myself, but I feel it. “Don’t let this opportunity go by without making the most of it.” A little kick of adrenaline or an extra shot of sympathy help me approach the moment with the right attitude.

But in truth, I have absolutely no idea what’s really going on in those instances. I pretend that I do. I operate under the illusion that I have knowledge of how everything will play out and what role I play in fulfilling God’s plan for that moment, but I don’t. I’m not even close. I might, on occasion, be an important actor in a particular situation, but I rarely—if ever—am able to appreciate that before or during the event in question. After it’s over, someone might come to me and help connect the dots by confessing how a conversation or a sermon or an otherwise passing moment left a lasting impression in their lives, but I can’t anticipate that. I can’t plan for it.

As God’s chosen and beloved people, Israel was being delivered from their captivity as part of God’s repeated plan of salvation. But there was more to it than that. In the moment, being set free from their oppressors felt like enough. That alone was sufficient to merit labels like “important” and “substantial.” Yet, even in the midst of the miraculous, God had something else in mind. “It is too light a thing…” Something else was going on whether anyone could see it at the time. That’s true time and time again.

Fiery Communication

Every once in a while, I get an e-mail that I don’t really want to open. In those cases, it’s not a virus or offensive content that I’m worried about. Instead, I hesitate because I don’t want to read what that person has written me. When that happens, it’s usually because I’ve said something or done something that I regret. Perhaps, in a moment of carelessness, I’ve fired off an e-mail that quipped a little too frankly my displeasure at someone or something. Inevitably, the unavoidability of my mistake comes back to haunt me in the form of a reply e-mail. When the inbox shows me whom that message is from, I’m afraid to open it because I can imagine just how bad the damage might be.

Eventually, after swallowing hard and gritting my teeth, I click on the message. (Trust me: it won’t go away by itself.) Usually, however, I discover that I didn’t really have anything to worry about after all. People are typically more gracious than I give them credit for. I have usually blown out of proportion any brokenness that I might have been feeling in our relationship. In fact, almost always I’m relieved to have opened the message, read it, and let go of my anxiety.

In this morning’s New Testament lesson (Galatians 1:1-17), Paul begins his letter to the churches in Galatia with the kind of language that might have made them wish they hadn’t opened the message: “I am astonished that you are so quickly deserting him who called you in the grace of Christ and turning to a different gospel…” Usually, letters like this start with some words of thanksgiving, but, in the place where an author would normally praise his addressee, Paul hits the Galatians over the head with their own failures. With particularly strong language, Paul wastes no time in calling out the Galatians for their mistakes, writing, “As we have said before, so now I say again: If any one is preaching to you a gospel contrary to that which you received, let him be accursed.” At that point, I might have put down his letter for a little while—unable to handle that much criticism all at once.

When I read passages from the bible, I easily forget the passions with which the original authors penned their works. Paul wrote so sternly because he loved the Galatians. He had invested a great deal of emotional, spiritual, and physical energy in building up their community. He had helped them realize God’s love for them in a new, grace-filled way. When he learned how his beloved community had forgotten all that he had taught them and returned to their infighting, he was devastated. And his pain and disappointment come through in his letter.

Usually, when I send or receive an e-mail that is laced with heated emotion, it’s because I love someone or because they love me. People who get by dander up with a stupid comment or a thoughtless letter are easy to dismiss or ignore completely if they aren’t people I care for deeply. When someone dear to me says or does something to hurt me, I’m likely to fire off a defensive reply. It’s not the right thing to do, but it does reflect a relationship that’s important to me. Perhaps, when my inbox “dings” with another e-mail that I’m not eager to open, I’ll remember that there’s more love to it than I might think.

Avoiding Heresies - Arianism

In this second installment of the class on heresies, we look at Arianism. Named for Arius, a presbyter from Alexandria in the early 4th century, this heresy focuses on the origin and nature of Christ. Is the Son of God eternal? Was the Son created by the Father? Do the Son and the Father share the same nature? Are they of the same substance ("homoousios") or are they of like substance ("homoiousios")? Although those questions may seem to belong more in a seminary lecture hall than in a Sunday school classroom, I argue that contemporary Christians struggle with Arianism as much as the Church did in 325 CE.

The heresy took form when Arius heard his bishop, Alexander, give a sermon on the Trinity (always dangerous), and, unsatisfied with some of Alexander's explanations of how God was three persons yet one God, then wrote a letter critiquing his bishop (even more dangerous). At that point, the Church had already dispensed with Sabellianism (the heresy that Father, Son and Spirit are three different modes of the same person and not three distinct persons of the Trinity). Alexander's emphasis on the unity of the three persons reminded Arius of that other heresy, and he reacted to his bishop's teaching by questioning whether the Son and Father could both be eternal, equal, and of the same substance if the Son became incarnate. In other words, he asked, "How can God be one (monotheism) and identical with God's self (unity) if one of the persons of the Trinity became man?" Given God's unchanging nature, Arius concluded that the Son must not be eternal and, therefore, must not be equal with the Father. The seeds of controversy were sown, and, since Arius was a gifted preacher and teacher and the presbyter of an important church in an important city, his message quickly spread through the Church.

At that point, the Church didn't have any collectively defined Creeds...yet. But in 325 CE, in response to Arius' teaching, the first great ecumenical council was convened at Nicaea. Out of that meeting came the first Nicene Creed, which is found in the slide show video below. The text of the Creed shows that the early Church wasn't quite ready to define exactly who Jesus Christ was (and certainly wasn't ready to say much about the Spirit), but the Church was certain (or appeared to be) about what they didn't believe. Thus, the teachings of Arius and his followers were anathematized (see the end of the Creed). Actually, as so often happens in the church, it took a while for this orthodox position to take hold, and the consubstantiality of the Son and Father (and Spirit) wasn't secured until the next ecumenical council at Constantinople in 381 CE.

All settled, right? Well, maybe not. I still hear people say things about Jesus Christ that sound a lot like Arianism.

1. "Jesus was a great teacher. He taught us how to live." That's Arianism. If Jesus Christ isn't fully God (equal and consubstantial with the Father), then he's no more than a wise man who had a lasting (though limited) impact on history. 
2. "Jesus came to show us how to live so that, following his example, we might go to heaven." Again, that's Arianism. If Jesus isn't fully God, then his death and resurrection don't do anything for us other than show us what true selflessness looks like. But we can't get to heaven by being nice (even nice enough to die for someone else). Jesus' death on the cross isn't an example to be repeated; it's a moment when all sin is put to death so that we might share in the new life of the resurrection.
3. "God the Father sending his Son to die on the cross isn't love; it's brutal violence." Surprised that's Arianism? Well, if God the Father and Son aren't equal, then the Son becomes a subordinate demiurge who is subject to the whim of the Father. Instead, we believe that the will of God the Father is identical with the will of God the Son--they share the cross as the ultimate expression of selfless love.

There are other ways that Arianism has crept into our faith, but, since we've forgotten what heresy is, we've forgotten how wrong belief limits our understanding of God's love. The PowerPoint slide show addresses these and other issues (including scripture). Take a look and let me know in the comments below if you have any other insights to share.