This week's heresy is Nestorianism. As we progress through these Christological (i.e., having to do with the nature of Christ) heresies, we take a logical path, following the 3rd-5th century Church's path of discovery. This whole time, we're asking the same question: "Who is Jesus Christ, and how does that affect our salvation?"
With the Arian heresy, the Church struggled with the question of whether Christ was fully divine, and they concluded that in order for him to offer humanity any salvific benefit he must be. Then, the Church asked whether Christ was fully human (Docetism/Appolinarianism)--the logical outgrowth of the Arian debate. Concluding that Christ must truly be fully human, the Church articulated its belief that God didn't just take the form of a human but God actually became human, and that also was essential for salvation. This week, having established that Christ is both fully divine and fully human, we turn to the question of how those two natures become united in the Incarnation. And that was the question of Nestorius and his followers.
The debate began with the question of Mary--the one who gave birth to Jesus Christ. For centuries, the Church had understood her as Theotokos or "God-bearer," but Nestorius (and Theodore and others) took issue with that designation. How, they asked, could Mary have given birth to the divine? If in the Arian debate we established that Christ, as fully divine, is coeternal with the Father, how could Mary have borne God the Son? Instead, he suggested that Christ's two natures (fully divine & fully human) be united but also held distinctly separate, saying that Mary gave birth to the human nature ("Christotokos") but not the divine nature. As that theological conversation continued, the result was a Christ with very split natures. (Actually, Nestorius chose some poor language to describe the union, offering words that implied that Christ might have been two persons. Cyril of Alexandria latched on to this use of language and took Nestorius to the cleaners for it--even though that was likely a distortion of Nestorius' actual teaching.)
Convinced of his correctness, Nestorius, patriarch of Constantinople, called for an ecumenical council, and in 431 CE the Council of Ephesus was held. Unfortunately for Nestorius, Cyril's polemic against him was too strong, and Nestorius and his followers were anathematized. Mary was declared Theotokos, and the union of the divine and human natures in the person of Christ was declared to be ontological ("really real") rather than simply accidental ("just because").
Why bother with the Orthodox position? Are we really just worried about the BVM getting offended because her title changes? Not at all! This is a heresy that, like the others we've covered, focuses on salvation. If the human and divine natures were not fundamentally (ontologically) untied to each other, then the only way they hold together in the person of Christ is as a result (accident) of Christ's will. In other words, unless the natures are fully bound to each other, it's up to the Jesus, by the sheer power of his will and self-control, to hang on to both. If that were the case, the only way our human nature could be bound to God's divine nature (essential for salvation) is if our wills were as powerful as that of Jesus. But, of course, they aren't. We fail to align our will with that of God (a state called "sin") all the time. Only if in Christ the human and divine are fully united can we have our human nature fully united to the divine nature. And that's how salvation happens.
When our human nature is united to the divine (by virtue of our baptism into Christ's death and resurrection), something happens to our humanity. It changes. It is refined. It is purified by its union with the divine nature (which, by definition, cannot be changed or soiled by its union with our human nature). As a result, the Council of Ephesus affirmed that our salvation is accomplished in the Incarnation--when the human and divine are fully united.
Here's the PowerPoint slide show from this week's class. It explores this in more detail, including the place of scripture in the debate. Next week, we turn to Eutychianism--the next logical question about Christ's nature. In that class, we'll ask more about the nature of the union of Christ's two natures, exploring what happens to the two natures when they come together so fully.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Sunday's Sermon - 5 Epiphany A (02/06/11)
February 6, 2011 – 5 Epiphany A
© 2011 Evan D. Garner
You can listen to this sermon here.
A while back, I knew a father who was having difficulty relating to his youngest son. He had never really had a close relationship with any of his children, but, as he had gotten older, he seemed to have even less patience to deal with this latest installment of rebellion and angst that any adolescent boy directs at his father. Although his love for his son was genuine and unreserved, there remained a distance between father and son that left both feeling uncomfortable whenever they were alone together. For whatever reason, this youngest child had never developed the confidence that his older siblings possessed, so, when his father asked whether he had studied for a test or remembered to do a chore, the son always took it as an expression of doubt rather than as good-natured parenting.
Finally, the unspoken tension between the two became too much for the son to handle. He came home from college and confessed that he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. His grades, although decent, were not spectacular, and his looming graduation with no specific plan beyond that had created within him a feeling of desperation. He wasn’t quite able to put it into words, but his conversation with his parents revealed that he felt like he had failed them. Over and over, his father had asked him about medical school, probing to see whether a long-ago expressed dream might come true. The father was trying to encourage his son to make that childhood aspiration a reality, but the boy felt pressure rather than support, and the conclusion that his academic performance probably didn’t merit an admission to medical school had sent the son into a tailspin.
Beneath the surface, the father loved his son more than anything. And he loved him without regard for his son’s successes or failures. Ultimately, it didn’t matter to the man what his son did. Whether he went to medical school or nursing school or ski school, his love for the boy was certain. But the son didn’t know that—at least not for sure. Perhaps, if he thought about it long enough, the boy could convince himself of his father’s unwavering love, but that love was hidden within a world of paternal expectations.
How do you convince a teenager that you love him no matter what? That question first occurred to me ten years ago, when I sat in the office of an experienced youth minister. At the time, I was exploring a possible call to ordained ministry. And, since I didn’t know a whole lot about what goes on in a parish office, I took turns meeting with various staff members at my church to see what it was that they did all day. When I asked the youth minister to tell me about his job, he replied, “My job is to convince kids that God will love them no matter what they do even though their parents are constantly telling them that there are consequences for their actions.” I was amazed. I had only recently finished my teenage years, but no one had ever pointed out to me that God’s unconditional love and my parents’ desire for exemplary behavior might be in conflict.
Can you convince a teenager that he or she is loved unconditionally and still put conditions on that love? In a Sunday school class a while back, we toyed with the notion of how to be a responsible parent and still embrace a grace-over-law philosophy that says to a child, “You can do anything, and I’ll still love you.” We came up with a great summary situation for the dilemma—that of prom night. Right before your child walks out the door, would you say to him or her, “I will love you no matter what you do tonight?”
Unconditional love means that nothing you could ever do would ever change, diminish, inhibit, restrict, or limit the love that I have for you. It means that our relationship, which is built upon that love, will never be damaged no matter how badly you mess things up. And that might be true in many households, but often that truth is buried deep beneath a surface which says, “I’m watching you, and I’ll be disappointed if you screw this up.” How many of us grew up with parents who routinely uttered the phrase, “Remember who you are and whom you represent?” How many of us say something similar to our children? But is that grace? Is that unconditional love?
When I read this morning’s gospel lesson, I find myself transported back to my childhood. Jesus speaks to the crowd much as my father or mother once spoke to me: “You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored. It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.” My parents did a good job of reminding me both that I could do anything I set my mind to and that they expected me to do great things. That created a good balance in our home between recognizing one’s potential and then living up to the expectations that accompanied that potential. But that combination of encouragement and obligation could have been disastrous. Had I bumped up against any real adversity or had I ever felt as if my parents’ love for me was conditional on my success, I could have been paralyzed by the pressure of earning their love and affection.
How do you hear Jesus’ words? This week, as I’ve read and reread this passage, I find that it hits me in two very different ways. Is Jesus offering us the assurance of unconditional love, or is he chiding us with paternal expectations? Parts of this passage are so full of hope and promise that they seem to liberate us from any doubt or anxiety: “You are the salt of the earth…You are the light of the world.” But the rest of Jesus’ teaching seems to question whether we’ve lived up to his expectations of us: “No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket…Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Which Jesus is it? Can his love for us be unconditional if he sets conditions on his love?
It’s a difficult passage, and I admit to you that I don’t have an easy answer for the questions it presents. But I do believe that God loves me no matter what—even more so than either of my parents. And I also know that it’s easy for me to invent divine expectations where they don’t actually exist. That’s because I look at God a lot like I view my own father. I can’t help it—he’s the only father I’ve ever known. And, more than anything else, I want my father to be proud of me. That’s not because I’m worried he won’t love me if I screw things up—though there is a little bit of that mixed into our relationship. Mostly, I want him to be proud of me because I already know that he loves me. When someone tells you that they love you, you want to live up to that.
For me, finding grace in this gospel lesson is the same as finding grace in parental expectations. In order for either to be redeemed, we must begin with an unquestioned belief in our belovedness. Only when we are fully confident that Jesus loves us can his words come across as an expression of unconditional love. Likewise, only when we trust completely that our parents love us without regard for our actions can we receive their expectations as an expression of unqualified love.
When Jesus tells us that he expects great things from us, his commandments would be too much to bear unless he had already demonstrated beyond a doubt his unwavering love. As Christians, you and I don’t need to worry whether Jesus will love us no matter what. The cross upon which he died is the ultimate expression of his selfless love. Remember that he died for you even though you are imperfect. In fact, he died for you because you are imperfect. Our response to that love is a deeply felt desire to please God—not out of obligation but as a gracious response to God’s overwhelming love. What that means is that your faith begins when you hear Jesus say, “You are the light of the world,” and you actually believe it. Amen.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Last Resort, Only Resort
Today’s gospel lesson (Mark 9:14-29) features Jesus, Peter, James, and John returning from the Transfiguration mountain top to find a man and his demon-possessed son waiting for him. The other disciples were unable to cast out the demon, which had thrown the boy into fire and water all his life. The “dumb spirit,” Jesus says, could only be cast out by prayer. That makes me wonder what sort of technique the disciples were using.
There are many things that can only be changed through prayer. Often someone will present me with a desperate situation, and the only thing that can be done is prayer. In moments like that, when an individual faces an insurmountable challenge, prayer might seem like a flippant, ineffectual response, but I believe that prayer has power in situations when ordinary tools (modern medicine, etc.) do not. What power it has, however, is a little harder for me to understand. Do I believe that sometimes miraculous healings occur when modern medicine has all but given up on a patient? Yes, I do. Do I trust that prayer can accomplish a reconciliation in a broken relationship when nothing else will work? Yes, that’s how reconciliation happens. Do I believe that God intervenes in human affairs in supernatural ways that modern science could never explain? Well…maybe not.
Prayer works, and it may be the vehicle for God’s miraculous will to be exercised on earth, but it isn’t magic. The laws of physics and nature do not cease when someone opens their mouth to pray. Instead, prayer works by changing the framework in which a situation occurs. There is a sign in the Wintzell’s Oyster House in downtown Montgomery that expresses a well-worn spiritual truth: “Prayer doesn’t change the world. Prayer changes people who then change the world.” I think that’s true. Prayer creates shifts in our perception. It makes it possible for us to see what is possible when previously nothing seemed possible.
When Jesus and his inner circle descend from the exalted mountain top and return to the busyness of life, they are confronted by a conundrum—a circumstance that represented “being stuck” without hope. The father’s initial request reveals just how immovable the situation had appeared: “[I]f you can do anything, have pity on us and help us.” Often when I snap back into reality, having left a place of spiritual connection, I find myself dazzled by just how real the world around me is—how stuck it can be and how stuck I am in it. Prayer frees up the world around me, making space for God’s action, because prayer opens me up to see how God works in the world. The only way I can ever be an instrument of God’s will and perceive myself as such is through prayer.
Friday, February 4, 2011
One Fabulous Fruit
I don’t like being wrong. And, while that’s probably true of just about everybody, I’m guessing that I’m up there in the top decile of people who react most poorly when someone else points out that they’re wrong. Maybe that’s why I can remember fairly vividly those moments in my life when someone has pointed out just how wrong I was. One of those moments involved fruit.
I think I was either in seminary or about to go to seminary, and I was speaking with my mother about Paul’s letter to the Galatians—specifically that part that is our New Testament lesson for today (Galatians 5:16-24). I mentioned that I had recently heard a good teaching on the “fruits of the Spirit.” “Fruit of the Spirit,” she quickly corrected (and in that loving yet definite tone that mothers know so well). “What?” I asked. “Fruit of the Spirit,” she replied. “Go look it up.” At the time, not willing to fully embrace my wrongness, I couldn’t see much difference—fruit or fruits. Whatever. I didn’t give it much thought, but the incident stuck with me for a while.
Years later, when taking part in a youth event, I heard a youth minister begin a teaching on the same passage. She had drawn various pieces of fruit on a flipchart, and she invited the youth to come and pick whatever fruit went with each of the various “fruits of the Spirit.” (Kiwi was a popular albeit ecologically discouraged choice.) I didn’t say anything, but I thought it. “Fruit of the Spirit”—singular—and for the first time I got what my mother was saying.
We don’t bear one or two of the fruits of the Spirit. We bear all of the things Paul lists as the (singular) fruit of the Spirit. That is contrasted with the works of the flesh, which as a plural expression, may include any number of the things Paul cites (“fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, anger, selfishness, dissention, party strife, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and the like”). Notice how Paul concludes that rather exciting list of sinful works—“and the like”—as if to suggest that the list could go on and on. The fruit of the Spirit, on the other hand, is “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.” When the Spirit is in you, you bear fruit, and that fruit will be those nine things.
The Christian life isn’t a fruit salad, of which you can take or leave your favorite parts. When God dwells in you, certain things happen. It’s unavoidable. Unlike the gifts of the Spirit, which may be parsed out on an individual bases, the fruit of the Spirit is something we share. And it’s something to celebrate. Don’t ask yourself which “fruits of the Spirit” are manifest in your life. Ask whether you are fully bearing the “fruit of the Spirit,” but don’t write off any of them as “not for you” or “something you’re not good at.” As a Christian, you bear them all—no matter to what degree.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Spiritual Obesity
Our nation, it seems, has a problem with childhood obesity. The First Lady has made combating that epidemic her top priority. As I read today’s Old Testament lesson (Isaiah 55:1-13) I wonder, though, whether the problem has more to do with human nature than with childhood eating habits. Through the prophet’s words, the Lord asks, “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy?”
The question is one many ask of today’s generation: “Why do overweight people eat unhealthful foods? If they’re dying of obesity, why don’t they stop eating? Why do they keep going to places like McDonald's rather than eating more sensibly?” Although Isaiah was using food as a metaphor for spiritual sustenance, I think the reply to the question is the same then as it is now: “Because it tastes good.” People eat unhealthful foods (and practice other harmful habits) because it feels good. It doesn’t matter that I know better. I also know that a tub of ice cream tastes good, and that reality is a lot easier for me to grasp than the concept of calories and weight gain.
Even though he already knows the answer, God wants to know why his people keep chasing after those things that cannot satisfy them. And the image of “spending money for that which is not bread” is the perfect way to convey that human predilection for false nourishment. Imagine this: a mother surprises her six-year-old son by giving him a $100 bill and telling him to go buy the family’s groceries for the week. With what sort of goodies will he return? If given a choice (and long enough to screw it up), human beings will always make the wrong choice. Part of the human condition is preferring what feels good over what is good for us. (Welcome to humanity!)
But in the lesson from Isaiah, God seems to have something else in mind. He declares to his people, “[H]e who has no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.” Buying things without money sounds a lot like not buying something at all. It sounds like being given something. To me, it seems as if God has decided to circumvent that side of the divine-human exchange that involves us—at least that part of us that pretends to know what’s best for us. Instead, God offers, “I will make with you an everlasting covenant.” Not a covenant that will continue only as long as you make good choices. Not an agreement that depends upon your contribution to the exchange. Instead of allowing humanity to choose God, God is making a covenant with his people that only involves his choice of us.
I wonder whether the cycle of poor choices breaks down when we hear someone say, “No matter what choice you make, I still choose you.” In that case, we no longer find ourselves needing to make a choice at all. Sure, we can make a choice. We can even make a bad choice—and we do…all the time. But God has already chosen us. He isn’t waiting on us anymore. That hasn’t worked for a long time.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Bundle of Joy
Two days ago, friends of mine had a baby—their first. Last night, for the first time, I saw a picture of the sweet little girl, and I was amazed (again) at how tiny newborn babies are. At the time, I noticed that the person holding the baby in the picture was a mutual friend—not either of the parents—but I didn’t give it much thought…until today.
From the Gospel lesson for the Feast of the Presentation of our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple: “Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying…”
If you’ve spent much time at an Episcopal camp or hung out with an EYC group or said the service of Compline with any regularity, you know the words that follow. In fact, they’re so ingrained in my experience of the tradition that I almost forgot what happens right before Simeon begins his famous song. Before he opens his mouth to exclaim the words of consolation, he takes the baby Jesus into his arms. He holds the baby. He looks down at the 40-day-old boy, smiles as only one holding a baby can smile, twirls around, and exclaims, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace…”
Something special happens when you hold a baby. That’s definitely true when it’s your own child you’re holding. But I also think something happens to friends or extended family when they hold a tiny little bundle of new life in their arms. I’ve seen grown men wilt with sensitivity. I’ve seen women tear up with emotion. I’ve seen teenagers and older children display a unique combination of excitation and fear when they cradle such vulnerability against their chest. And when a new, first-time parent hands over their most precious possession to a loved one, something changes within them as well. They experience a new sensation—sharing their deepest love in bodily form with someone else they care about. It’s a moment of pride, joy, connection, anxiety, and celebration all wrapped in a little blanket and capped with a pink or blue hat.
I forget that Mary and Joseph hand over their little boy to this border-line crazy man, Simeon, who has been waiting in the Temple for a long time—waiting for the messiah to come. I forget that these new parents watch this ancient stranger take their baby in his arms and dance (perhaps gingerly) around the Temple courts with the joy of a love-struck teenager. I forget that this story involves the most powerful interchange a mother and an outsider can have—the sharing of a little child.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Mistakenly Unimpressed
Is anyone else disappointed with today’s miracle story from the Gospel lesson (Mark 8:1-10)? Only a short while ago, Jesus fed the five-thousand with five loaves and two fish. Now, he’s feeding four-thousand with seven loaves and a few fish. Not only is he feeding fewer people with more starting materials—he’s also doing the same miracle twice! Hasn’t he learned how to be a performer yet? A miracle worker isn’t supposed to do the same miracle twice to the same audience—especially if the second time around isn’t as impressive as the first. Perhaps, had he fed ten-thousand people with only two loaves and one fish the second time around, maybe that would have been ok. But this?
My reaction, of course, is a bit hyperbolic…but not totally inaccurate. And that says a lot about how easy it is for me to miss the point of the miraculous. I confess that I want Jesus to put on a show. I want him to amaze me with his “magic.” I want to look at the extraordinary and be overwhelmed by his power. But that’s not why Jesus performed his miracles. Each miracle reveals something previously unseen about who God is and how he works in the world. Jesus often chose expressions of power to disclose those truths, but I believe he did so because no one was noticing the disclosures that came in every-day packages. I argue that, had the world realized who God is and how much he loves the world, the “miracle show” wouldn’t have been necessary.
Yes, Jesus works his breathtaking feats of amazement partly because he was the Son of God and able to do things that no other human being could do, but he never performs a miracle simply for the sake of “wowing” an audience. He’s inviting them in. He’s asking them to consider the bigger picture. He wants the crowd (and us) to ponder what the miracle says about God and his kingdom. When I find myself gaping at the magic show, clapping my hands like a little child, saying, “More, more!” I know I’ve missed the point. In those moments—like when I initially read this morning’s lesson—I’m more interested in the content of the miracle than in the context into which it was wrought.
Feeding four-thousand with seven loaves and few fish is Jesus’ answer to his disciples’ question, “How can one feed these men with bread here in the desert?” And his reply isn’t just to provide a miraculous quantity of bread—seven baskets full leftover. Jesus uses the miracle to show them (and us) that in a place of wilderness and desolation he can still feed us. And he does it a second time to set us free from the historical moment of the event and to demonstrate that his ability to sustain the weak and weary isn’t confined to any specific time or place. First time, second time, any time—Jesus offers to feed us in ways we didn’t think were possible. If I only care about loaves and fish and five-thousand or four-thousand, I’ll never understand that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)