Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you; but rejoice when they get a bullet to the head
– Jesus, Matthew 5:44

I’m late to the party. Bin Laden is dead, and everyone and their mother has blogged their brains out about it. Alas, it cannot be helped…

I’m at a loss for words because I’m genuinely filled with sadness about this day. I’m saddened because I’ve seen Christians–many of them unwittingly–rejoice and exult in the death of Bin Laden. I sincerely don’t mean this in a judgmental way–I have enough flaws of my own to not waste my hypocritical breath on others. But I’m saddened because my tongue-in-cheek revision of Jesus’ directive to love seems to have actualized itself in far too many ways.

I’m saddened because barely one week after Easter, we’ve forgotten the profundity of forgiveness and the depths of divine love (did we realize it to begin with?) that was displayed unconditionally to an infinitely twisted, broken, hostile, rebellious, and murderous race.

I’m saddened because on Divine Mercy Sunday, where all are invited partake of the Eucharist and find salvation, hearts are yet closed and actually rejoice in the destruction and presumed damnation of a human person…even if he was an enemy.

The Face of the Enemy

So what about this? If Jesus calls us to love our enemies, what does this mean for us? And by “us,” I’m not talking about “Americans.” I’m talking about Christians. If you’re under the impresion that your “Americanism” somehow entitles you to a special response in these circumstances…well, you might as well stop reading.

Are “enemies” simply the generic “annoyances” that live across the street and make our lives difficult by not picking up after their dogs, or not mowing their lawns regularly enough? If so, it’s easy to love them. Are “enemies” the competition at work against whom we strive for better pay, flashier titles, and a better street-view-window? If so, it’s also easy to love them. It is easy to love these people because, while they may cause us some minor emotional or psychological distress, they are not “evil.” They don’t pose an existential threat to us or our families.

But Jesus had real enemies. They were not the scribes that disagreed with him theologically, nor the misguided zealots who wished to use him for their own political ends. No, Jesus’ real enemies wanted him dead. Not in the metaphorical “I-want-your-job-and-wish-you’d-move-to-Antarctica” sense of the phrase. Nope, they wanted nothing more, nothing less than to see him cold and six-feet under. And they even went out of their way, calling in every favor they had, to make it happen.

And what was Jesus’ response to his would-be-murderers?

Did he pray to God for the “justice” of heaven to reign down and obliterate them in a great show of violence? Nope.

Did he publicly rage against them, screaming at the top of his blood-filling lungs that they “deserved” to die? Nope.

Did he secretly plead with God to make sure that they “got what they deserved” in a fiery hell for such a brutal act? No.

Rather, in keeping with his own command, Jesus loved them, prayed for them…and forgave them. He didn’t even pray for himself to be spared, or even for an unlikely, last-minute rescue. Rather, he spent his final prayers pleading with the Father that his enemies would find forgiveness, his dying breaths expressing the hope that divine restoration would win the day. And you know what? It got him killed.

The Paradox of the Kingdom

It’s a sobering thought, but this is the paradox of kingdom living. Life in the kingdom of God is not based on the pattern of the world, a pattern that embraces violence as a means of establishing “rightness” and “justice.” Rather, it is a way of living that–shocking as it sounds–actually submits to evil and violence, trusting as Christ did not in the power of brutal struggle and violent resistance, but only in the vindication of the Father…even in the face and inevitability of death. This pattern of kingdom living, this “ethic of love,” is one whose hope for “justice” is the divine restoration of all things, not the ultimate dispersal of divine hell-fire and retribution to “the evil ones.”. It is a mindset that does not find hope, peace, or beauty in death and destruction, but sees these as precisely the blinders which Christ came to remove in his revelation of the perfectly unconditional forgiveness and love of the eternal Father.

Is this realistic? Can peace and mercy really reign in such a hostile environment? Can non-violence and love really win out against the insatiable thirst of demonic hatred and violent aggression? The hope of Christianity is that it can; the challenge of kingdom living is that it is a road paved with a bloody cross.

To Athanasius, the assumption of human nature is the means by which the corruption and dissolution which has infected humanity can finally be undone. Through his suffering and death, Christ tastes the annihilating power of sin and death.  Yet because he is at the same time the incorruptible Word of God made manifest in the flesh, the corruption of sin and death which would normally obliterate the human person severed from God is of no permanent effect on him.  By virtue of his justification and “grace” in the resurrection granted to him by the power of the Father, Christ reveals the powers of sin and death to be ultimately vacuous, and in this triumph over the grave, he crushes forever their claim on his brothers, the race of humankind that has been set free by the miracle of God’s Incarnation in the person and work of Christ.

Disappearing Death

He, the Mighty One, the Artificer of all,

Himself prepared this body in the virgin as a temple for Himself,

And took it for His very own, as the instrument through which He was known and in which He dwelt.

This He did out of sheer love for us,

So that in His death all might die,

And the law of death thereby be abolished

Because, having fulfilled in His body

That for which it was appointed,

It was thereafter voided of its power for men.

Thus He would make death to disappear from them as utterly as straw from fire.

Thus He would make death to disappear from them as utterly as straw from fire.

Thus, taking a body like our own,

Because all our bodies were liable to the corruption of death,

He surrendered His body to death instead of all,

And offered it to the Father.

This He did that He might turn again to incorruption

Men who had turned back to corruption,

And make them alive through death by the appropriation of His body

And by the grace of His resurrection.

Thus He would make death to disappear from them as utterly as straw from fire.

Thus He would make death to disappear from them as utterly as straw from fire.

For those who have read my previous thoughts on the subject, it should be plainly obvious where I come down on the issue, and I have argued strenuously that I believe it is possible to assume the latter position while still putting forward a thoroughly biblical and theologically tenable understanding of the nature of human existence in relationship to God, the problem of evil, and the ultimate purposes of God within the universe.

Nevertheless, I was extremely intrigued to come across a fairly developed argument from St. Athanasius on this very topic.  The selection from which I’ll be quoting is from his famous On the Incarnation of the Word, a book which I’ve read at least a dozen times.  That notwithstanding, this passage came as a bit of a surprise to me, so I thought I’d set down a few reflections from the great defender of orthodoxy’s thoughts on the nature of human mortality and the problem of unbecoming.

NOTE: All the quotations that follow can be found in the first chapter of On The Incarnation of the Word, a free translation of which can be found here.

Some Context

Of course, the purpose of On The Incarnation of the Word is ultimately apologetic.  In this short treatise, Athanasius follows several lines of argument in his efforts to establish a start to a fully developed understanding of the purpose of Christ’s Incarnation, and what–exactly–Christ has accomplished to secure the salvation and recreation of the human race.  I say “fully developed,” for Athanasius does not simply focus on the bare act of Atonement in describing the work of Christ; rather, his argument spans from the creation of the universe all the way through the consummation of history. His intention in establishing such an all-encompassing scope for the discussion of Christ’s atonement is ultimately to show that in all things–from creation, to Incarnation, to consummation–Christ is beginning and end, the Artificer and grand completer of the Godhead’s purposes in the universe.  As he powerfully asserts at the beginning:

…the renewal of creation has been wrought by the Self-same Word Who made it in the beginning. There is thus no inconsistency between creation and salvation for the One Father has employed the same Agent for both works, effecting the salvation of the world through the same Word Who made it in the beginning.

The Incarnation of Christ, therefore, is not a fluke, nor it is an alien notion, as if one should find it peculiar that the Godhead is made manifest in the flesh through the Word.  To the contrary, in Athanasius’ view, such a miracle is entirely keeping with the eternal nature and purposes of God in creation, and is therefore the most “fitting” thing that one might perceive God to do.

In the Beginning

So it is at the moment of creation that Athanasius begins his grand argument, and his fundamental principle here is clear: the universe exists because of the good will and intentional designs of the Godhead by which God has created all things through the Word.  The Epicureans, he argues, err because they see the universe as self-originated and inherently random (e.g., meaningless and haphazardly proceeding), when in fact there is Mind behind the ordering and purposing of its constituent and diverse parts.  So also the Platonists have a deficient view, for as Athanasius criticizes, they make God no Creator at all, for the Mind “behind” all things is merely an organizer of pre-existent matter.  Such a God is not worthy of the honorifics of “Maker” or “Artificer” if this God, like a carpenter, is merely capable of only shaping and crafting the raw materials which must exist independently of himself if he is to support his trade.  And finally, Athanasius quickly brushes off the Gnostics, for they erode God of any part in the creation whatsoever, adding to the story their inventions of intermediary deities who carry out the work of origination and construction of the cosmos.

In these criticisms, Athanasius is not terrifically thorough, but his point is not necessarily to a launch a full-on polemic against any or all of these philosophies of universal origination.  Rather, he raises the specter of their error in order to establish his own point: all that exists, exists because the eternal God has, through the eternal Word of God, brought it into being.  The notion of creation ex nihilo is especially important for Athanasius, for later in this work he will use this understanding to show that God’s motivations in salvation are not merely out of love or mercy. Rather, there is, for Athanasius, something of God’s honor at stake.  After all, if God has called creation out of existence from nothingness, this creation could only proceed by God’s determined and purposed will through the power of Word. For Athanasius, a Platonic understanding does not suffice in describing God’s motivations for Incarnation, for what would the Deity care if that which were merely shaped or organized were to fall to ruin?  If, however, this creation which proceeds originally and ultimately from the Divine will were to return to nothingness, would not God’s purposes in creation be shown ultimately to be vacuous of power and glory? So then, to understand God’s Word as the source and originator of all things ex nihilo is foundational for any entry into understanding the nature of the great salvation which God has wrought though the self-same Word.

Having established Athanasius’ clear insistence on the fundamental understanding of creatio ex nihilo, what does he understand to be the nature of human mortality?

The Nature of Creation

To Athanasius, the creation is brought into being out of nothingness, but is to be understood in this state as “impermanent.”  In the Athanasian theology of creation, this impermanence is circular and enduring, for even as the creation is called forth out of non-existence, so too in its impermanence it is bound, in its natural state of impermanence, to return to the same.  However, God has reserved a special state of being for the human race, and he notes that it is this special distribution of grace upon the human species that grants unto it a permanence not to be found elsewhere in creation:

Grudging existence to none therefore, [God] made all things out of nothing through His own Word, our Lord Jesus Christ and of all these His earthly creatures He reserved especial mercy for the race of men. Upon them, therefore, upon men who, as animals, were essentially impermanent, He bestowed a grace which other creatures lacked—namely the impress of His own Image, a share in the reasonable being of the very Word Himself, so that, reflecting Him and themselves becoming reasonable and expressing the Mind of God even as He does, though in limited degree they might continue for ever in the blessed and only true life of the saints in paradise.

So we see that in Athanasius’ thinking, human persons are created “essentially impermanent”–there is nothing naturally distinguishing in the human species’ measure of permanence from the whole of the universe in which it finds itself.  In this way, the hope of permanence, of immortality, rests not in the manner of creatureliness, but rather in the bestowal of grace by God to the human race that enables the transcendence of the inevitable impermanence of mortal unbecoming. In other words, immortality and awareness of the divine is a gift from God to humanity, a miracle of creating-divination by which humanity is endowed with the imago dei, and is in this state able to commune with God, both rationally and immortally.

What is particularly interesting about this perspective, then, is how Athanasius applies this understanding to the story of the Fall of Adam and Eve.  While it is certainly to him the first pinnacle turning point in the experience of mortality for the human race (Christ’s recreation of humanity through Incarnation will be the second…), what distinguishes Athanasius from many modern perspectives on the Fall is that the mortality to which Adam and Eve become subject is not the advent of a state of being previously alien to the creation, but is–in fact–a manner of return to the fundamental aspect of creation from which humanity has been heretofore preserved by the grace and mercy of God:

[God] set them in His own paradise, and laid upon them a single prohibition. If they guarded the grace and retained the loveliness of their original innocence, then the life of paradise should be theirs, without sorrow, pain or care, and after it the assurance of immortality in heaven. But if they went astray and became vile, throwing away their birthright of beauty, then they would come under the natural law of death and live no longer in paradise, but, dying outside of it, continue in death and in corruption.

In many of the modern theological perspectives of human mortality, the Fall signals the advent of something entirely new for the nature of the creation, the beginning of impermanence where immortality and pristine perfection has previously held sway.  But for Athanasius, the Fall changes nothing for creation, but changes everything for humanity’s place within it.  Thrust outside the Garden (the metaphor of God’s grace and preserving mercy), humanity is now re-integrated into the impermanence of the creation, having cast off the preserving mercy of God through their self-willing disobedience.  In this wild, untamed world of unbecoming, they become enslaved to the natural law of death, and the final outcome of this enslavement can only be the inevitable spiral into unbecoming and non-existence:

Instead of remaining in the state in which God had created them, they were in process of becoming corrupted entirely, and death had them completely under its dominion. For the transgression of the commandment was making them turn back again according to their nature; and as they had at the beginning come into being out of non-existence, so were they now on the way to returning, through corruption, to non-existence again.

An Existential Crisis

The implication of humanity’s plight, in Athanasius’ thought, is thus quite clear.  The corruption and death which humanity has been thrust into by its sinfulness is not simply an issue of “spiritual” death, or even of the prospect of an immortal existence in “hell.”  To Athanasius, the problem of the Fall is of the most profound existential crises possible.  That is, humanity is not just separated from God and heading toward an eternity of eternal torment or punishment or fill-in-the-blank.  Much more serious to Athanasius is the inevitability that the corruption which has taken root in the human existence is ultimately annihilating.  Humanity is not simply ostracized from God; it is actually going to be snuffed out into the oblivion of non-existence by the weight of its own natural impermanence, and there is nothing that it can do to fight against the tide of unbecoming.  In its sinfulness, humanity has sold itself over to the consuming power of corruption and death, and its enslavement will result in absolute and irrecoverable dissolution and destruction.

For some theological ears, these notions of “annihilation” and “unbecoming” can sound not only alien, but even heterodox.  Annihilationism, of course, is not an orthodox perspective regarding the fate of the human person, so it is difficult to discern Athanasius’ real point in these passages if one is too quick to cast judgment.  Ultimately, Athanasius is, of course, not arguing that human persons are annihilated by God. He does rhetorically stress the point of corruption and unbecoming, however, because, in his understanding, a return to non-existence is precisely the hope for humanity if God in Christ does nothing to intervene.  Over and against those who would argue for the automatic immortality of the soul as a safeguard for the persistence of human persons beyond death, Athanasius paints the grimmest picture possible of the human prospect in its enslavement to the corruption of is nature: it is enslavement from which there is no escape.  Death is a voracious, all-consuming corruption which devours all until literally no-thing is left. And Athanasius’ purpose in depicting such an extreme existential crisis is to show forth precisely how desperate humanity is for rescue, and how ultimately gracious God is in sending a rescuer for the “pitiable race,” even the self-same Word that had made all things in the beginning.

Theological Implications

While books could (and should) be written on the theological implications of this understanding, I think one of the most important is Athanasius’ insistence on the absolute dependency of the human species on the mercy and grace of God for salvation.  Even before its fall into corruption, humanity is understood by Athanasius as remaining in permanence and immortality only because of the good will and pleasure of God’s gift.  And following the descent into corruption and re-entry into the creation-cycle of death and unbecoming, humanity’s only prospect for return to permanence and immortality is the gracious rescue of the species by its beneficent creator who comes to save the day and restore the good purposes of God within creation.

Such a perspective is healthy and needed in today’s theological landscape, for I think that dualism has created something of a laziness in theological renderings of the problem of sin and death. Because our dualistic theologies presume a permanence of the human person on the basis of sheer possession of an immortal soul, the problem of sinfulness is not one of existence and permanence, but merely of experience of the afterlife.  While there is something certainly existential in this perspective, it does not reach the levels of crisis of being that Athanasius’ thinking leads us.  Salvation, in these theologies, is resolved primarily on the level of working out what God does to save us from “hell”, while Athanasius’ perspective, I think, more directly engages the problem of corruption and death which are the hallmarks of the human condition separated from God.  Athanasius’ offering also goes “all in” for the necessity of the resurrection, for apart from this recreating work of Christ by the power of God, there is ultimately no transcendence of the impermanence of the natural order of creation, and humanity can have no recourse to permanence and escape un-becoming apart from God’s gracious intervention.

More Athanasius!  In this installment, Athanasius–in his distinct way–nicely summarizes some of the more important aspects of Trinitarian theology.  Definitely a great passage

It will not be out of place to consider the ancient tradition, teaching and faith of the Catholic Church, which was revealed by the Lord, proclaimed by the apostles and guarded by the fathers. For upon this faith the Church is built…

Light, radiance and grace are in the Trinity and from the Trinity

Light, radiance and grace are in the Trinity and from the Trinity

We acknowledge the Trinity, holy and perfect, to consist of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

In this Trinity there is no intrusion of any alien element or of anything from outside, nor is the Trinity a blend of creative and created being.

Light, radiance and grace are in the Trinity and from the Trinity

Light, radiance and grace are in the Trinity and from the Trinity

It is a wholly creative and energizing reality, self-consistent and undivided in its active power,

For the Father makes all things through the Word and in the Holy Spirit, and in this way the unity is preserved.

Light, radiance and grace are in the Trinity and from the Trinity

Light, radiance and grace are in the Trinity and from the Trinity

Accordingly, in the Church, one God is preached, one God who is above all things and through all things and in all things.

God is above all things as Father, for he is principle and source;

he is through all things through the Word;

and he is in all things in the Holy Spirit.

Light, radiance and grace are in the Trinity and from the Trinity

Light, radiance and grace are in the Trinity and from the Trinity

In the second part of Auto-Tuning Theology, we stick with Athanasius and select a passage for which he is probably most famous: his outline of the doctrine of Theosis.

As, then, he who desires to see God Who by nature is invisible and not to be beheld,

May yet perceive and know Him through His works,

So too let him who does not see Christ with his understanding at least consider Him

In His bodily works and test whether they be of man or God.

If they be of man, then let him scoff; but if they be of God, let him not mock at things which are no fit subject for scorn,

But rather let him recognize the fact

And marvel that things divine have been revealed to us by such humble means,

That through death deathlessness has been made known to us,

And through the Incarnation of the Word the Mind whence all things proceed has been declared,

And its Agent and Ordainer, the Word of God Himself.

He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God.

He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God.

He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God.

He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God.

He manifested Himself by means of a body in order that we might perceive the Mind of the unseen Father.

He endured shame from men that we might inherit immortality.

He Himself was unhurt by this, for He is impassable and incorruptible;

But by His own impassability He kept and healed the suffering men on whose account He thus endured.

He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God.

He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God.

He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God.

He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God.

This selection is from St. Athanasius’ famous On the Incarnation of the Word, section 26.  This paragraph is an introduction to the argument which Athanasius makes regarding the necessity and efficacy of Christ’s death and resurrection.

Fitting indeed, then, and wholly consonant was the death on the cross for us;
And we can see how reasonable it was,
And why it is that the salvation of the world could be accomplished in no other way.
Even on the cross He did not hide Himself from sight;
Rather, He made all creation witness to the presence of its Maker.
Then, having once let it be seen that it was truly dead,
He did not allow that temple of His body to linger long,
But forthwith on the third day raised it up,

IMPASSIBLE and INCORRUPTIBLE

The pledge and token of His victory.

In describing the mechanism of God’s creative energy, the writers of the biblical creation narratives may have employed any number of devices to communicate the unfathomable act of creation ex nihilo.  Unlike other narratives that imagine creation taken from the body of a deity, or even one in which the universe springs forth from pure, divine thought, the whole of creation in the biblical drama issues forth from the spoken word of the Creator.  This is profound, for speech is ultimately not an act of isolated engagement, but as Heidegger notes, is equally speaking and listening, a hearing and uncovering, an equal state of showing and beholding.

In this way, the speaking-Creator in the act of primal, universal becoming signifies something of the way in which the Creator is related to the creation.  Because the spoken word underpins the entire drama and energy of the universe’s becoming, that which is brought into being–the spoken-into–is made to participate in the one who speaks.  Through its emerging existence, the creation forms a conversation with the Creator, concomitantly the outcome of the word and the reason for it.

Moreover, the logic of this creating/becoming conversation unveils a suggestion of the meaningfulness of the creation to the Creator.  Because this act of creating-speech is necessarily participatory, divine intent and purposefulness are shown to be hard-coded into the very ontology of creation.  Far from an unintentional emanation of the divine, the creation which ushers forth from the divine word is something purposed by God to exist within the continual and perpetual engagement of the same divine word.  God has created for conversation, for relationship, for purpose, and the creation which arises from this divine, creating word is imbued with eternal meaningfulness at this fundamentally primal level.  While the participants in this conversation remain individual (even as two conversant friends retain their own ontology), they nonetheless–by virtue of the enduring conversation–participate one within the other.  In the creating-power of the divine word, God has been revealed to that which God has created, and that which God has created has been itself appropriated to the divine.

The Named Imagers of God

Yet if the creation has been appropriated to the divine through the spoken word of God, how much more has humanity been brought near to God?  In the creating speech, God has initiated the eternal conversation between Godself and creation.  But as the narrative continues, the word of God uniquely comes to rest on the object of God’s peculiar creation in humanity.  Here, the spoken word of God moves beyond the general conversation of creating acts to the specificity of the divine nature and being.  In the creation of the human, the essence and characteristics of God [the imago dei] are rehearsed as an act of “naming”; the Creator proclaims:

As we are in our eternity, so shall you be in your createdness.  Upon you shall rest the name of God, and you shall bear our likeness.

In this intensification of language is revealed the crucial nature of the imago dei which underpins the creation narrative en toto.  This imaging of God by the spoken-into and the named-of-God is no mere nod to abstract rationality or even casual inter-relationality.  Rather, in the revelatory nature of this language-as-participation, the “naming” of humanity signals the impartation of very God to this special creation of God.  The participation imagined here is no longer simply on the level of pure ontology, but has rather progressed to the deepest levels of the nature of the inter-penetrating oneness of the persons of the Trinity. In the mystery of the Godhead as unity and relationality, the male and female as the united, “named” imagers of this divine mystery encapsulate, in their createdness, the nature of their speaking Creator.  As they, in their imaging of the united Godhead, reflect the ineffable nature of the Creator, so too the nature of the Godhead expresses something of that which they have been created and named to be.

Named to Name

Finally, it is revealed that the imager of the divine is endowed to be a speaking-creator as well.  If they are, in their createdness, the imagers of God, so they are, as the named-of-God, also endowed by God with creating-speech.  For the creating speech does not end with God, but is perpetuated in the named-of-God who in turn exercise the creative word.  The naming of the animals envisaged in the narrative is no simple explanation for some curiosity of human knowledge.  Rather, even as the Creator has, through the naming of the imager, signified the relationship of the named-one to God, so the named-one’s naming of the animals demarcates the relationship which exists between the one who names and the one who is named.  In this divinely imparted role of creating/naming to the man and woman, the full measure of the imaging and name-bearing of the spoken-into is finally revealed.

This is why, then, the naming of “woman” does not indicate the ontological or spiritual subordination of the one to the other as some might suppose.  To the contrary, they [male and female] are first seen as equally and inextricably the named imagers of God through their unity of flesh.  As they are one in flesh, their relational and ontological unity images, in part, the unity of the Godhead.  So then, the naming of “woman” [out of man], far away from describing some domestic “ordering” or hierarchy, principally articulates the unique relationship which the naming named-one has to itself [male and female] and to the Creator; it is the self-aware acknowledgement of its divinely appointed and simultaneous imaging and naming roles.  It proclaims that the creation is not the end of the divine, creating conversation, but merely the beginning.  For even as the Creator has spoken creation into being and signified the divine relationship to it through its divinely-appointed name, so too are the named imagers of the speaking-Creator to perpetuate the work by participating in and taking ownership of the creating speech of their divine namer.

Then Jesus asked them, “When I sent you without purse, bag or sandals, did you lack anything?”
“Nothing,” they answered.

He said to them, “But now if you have a purse, take it, and also a bag; and if you don’t have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one. It is written: ‘And he was numbered with the transgressors’[b]; and I tell you that this must be fulfilled in me. Yes, what is written about me is reaching its fulfillment.”

The disciples said, “See, Lord, here are two swords.”
“That is enough,” he replied.

(Luke 22:35-38)

If you’ve ever studied this passage from Luke 22, you’re sure to have come away with, at the very least, a modicum of uncertainty and perhaps a fair amount of confusion as well. While it’s quite simple in its construction, the ridiculously large number of interpretations that are assigned to it makes it a troubling passage from an exegetical perspective.

What makes this passage so difficult to interpret, however, is not the obscurity of its words, but rather the ends to which different interpreters press the passage. Principally, this passage is used by many to advocate something of a justification of Christian violence-through-self-defense, while others use the passage antinomiously to argue for an ethic of total Christian pacifism. More on this later…

In this post, I’d like to outline the major interpretations of this passage, highlighting the logic which drives the passage and theological and praxial conclusions toward which the interpretations are directed. And finally, I’d like to offer my own thoughts on how I think the passage should be treated. But first, let’s get some context.

The Context

These words of Jesus occur only in Luke, and are set narratively between the events of the Last Supper and Jesus’ retreat to the Mount of Olives where he will eventually be arrested. The appearance of the passage in this context makes some narrative sense, for mere lines later in the text we will encounter the famous altercation in which Peter (in Luke, “one of Jesus’ followers) uses a sword to injure a servant, whom Jesus miraculously heals.

Nonetheless, it’s still difficult to adjudicate the “fitting-ness” of this scene in the narrow context of these events between the supper and Jesus’ arrest, for the narrative proceeds at light-speed. Beyond the setting of the dinner and the arrival at the Mount of Olives, there are no textual landmarks to indicate where the 2-3 intervening conversations may have taken place. If the the textual indicators express the full setting, we must assume that the conversation took place either around, or near the table of the dinner.

Finally, an important element to pay attention to is the mention of the fulfillment of prophecy regarding Christ, and in the context of the conversation, the text seems to indicate that there is something of a relationship between the fulfillment of this particular prophecy (Jesus being “numbered among the trespassers”) and the advice which Jesus gives to his disciples to do what is in their means to procure a sword. And even if the sheer act of procurement is not intended to imply the fulfillment of prophecy, the textual proximity of this advice to Jesus’ claims about the fulfillment of Scripture must be taken into account.

Now that we’ve briefly sketched the landscape of the passage, let’s take a look at some of the interpretations.

Figurative Interpretation

Some commentators, like John Gill, suggest that Jesus’ instructions regarding the procurement of swords is not to be taken literally, but rather as something of a figurative explanation of the troubled times that await the disciples in the events that will follow Jesus’ arrest, crucifixion and death. To these interpreters, the mention of articles like the bag, the purse and the sword represent an internal preparedness for trials and tribulations which the disciples will eventually endure.  As Gill notes:

These words of Christ are not to be understood literally…but his meaning is, that wherever they came, and a door was opened for the preaching of the Gospel, they would have many adversaries, and these powerful, and would be used with great violence, and be followed with rage and persecution; so that they might seem to stand in need of swords to defend them: the phrase is expressive of the danger they would be exposed to, and of their need of protection…

While the “literality” of the swords seems apparent in the text (after all, the disciples display two of them for Jesus), proponents of this theory argue that the small number of weapons produced, and Jesus’ acknowledgment that this display is “enough,” is not an admission on Christ’s behalf that this show of force is sufficient for what is to come, but is rather a signal that Jesus’ mention of bags and purses and swords is to be taken in a figurative manner.

In regards to the question of pacifism vs. justified violent self-defense, proponents of this interpretation tend to suggest that this passage is not a warrant for circumstantial, physical violence against others. Coupled with Jesus’ verbal and miraculous denunciation of Peter’s violence several lines later, these interpreters argue that Jesus’ intention in telling the disciples to buy swords is to inculcate their understanding with the seriousness of the events that will soon transpire.

Some interpreters in this vein push the idea farther by rendering Jesus’ closing words in a bit different way. In many translations, Jesus’ responds to the display of the two swords with something like “It is enough.” In these alternate renderings, however, Jesus’ response is less declarative and more emphatic, imagined to be something more like “That is enough!”. In this way, Jesus is not approving of their display of the two swords, but is to the contrary expressing frustration at their [continued] inability to grasp the true meaning of what he has been teaching them. And as before, many interpreters feel that such an interpretation is further substantiated through Jesus’ actions in response to Peter’s later violence with [presumably] the same swords that Jesus had already rejected.

The Calculating Messiah

While the figurative approach to the interpretation of this passage significantly downplays the “sword-ness” of the swords (i.e., their utility as weapons, instruments of violence, etc.), another strain of interpretation places a significant amount of emphasis on the nature of the two swords as instruments for fulfilling Christ’s ultimate goals.

In this interpretive paradigm, Christ’s words about procuring swords are taken not only quite literally, but with great immediacy.  The reason for the urgency of the command is that these swords are to play a integral part in providing the impetus for Jesus’ arrest.  As the interpretation goes, possession and display of a sword in public is to be understood as illegal in Jerusalem, an act of sedition against the powers-that-be.  Therefore, the sheer fact of possessing such weapons would be sufficient reason for the authorities to instigate movements to arrest Jesus and suppress the armed insurgency of Jesus’ followers.

But why would Christ want to arouse the ire of the authorities?  For proponents of this theory, the answer lies in Jesus’ allusion to the fulfillment of prophecy which he quotes in concert with admonitions for his followers to don weapons of violence.  That is, if Jesus is to fulfill the prophecy about being “numbered with the transgressors,” then he must be arrested on grounds of illegality…and the disciples’ illegal possession of weapons would seem to fit this bill.

Interestingly, while this interpretive approach takes Jesus’ words about the swords very literally, it–like the figurative interpretation–is often promoted by those who would also wish to deny any justification of violence on the basis of self-defense.  And as with the figurative interpretation, the proponents of this theory also point to the rebuke of Peter’s later violence-with-the-sword as proof.  While Jesus is to be understood as advocating the possession of weapons, this advocacy is more of a political and religious calculation intended to bring about a particular end, not a transcendental exposition on the legitimacy of violence against others.  Jesus, it is argued, did not intend nor desire for his sword-wielding companions to commit any violence, only to provide the impetus for Christ’s arrest and, concomitantly, his fulfillment of prophecy.

The Literal Interpretation

The final interpretation I want to outline before I discuss my own is the most literal of the three.  In this approach, the words are to be taken at face value (whatever that actually means): Jesus instructs his disciples to procure real swords.  To these interpreters, the swords are not merely a means to an end of fulfilling prophecy through some obfuscated political calculation; rather, they are swords that are to be used as swords are used.

At this point, these interpreters are quick to point out the nature and normal usages of the swords in question.  The Greek words for the swords used here–machaira–indicates something of a short sword, or even dagger.  A far cry from the offensive weapon of the soldier, this sword was useful primarily for utility in a variety of scenarios (hunting, cutting, etc.), and partially effective as a means of self-defense against the roaming bandits that littered the roads and by-ways between cities.  In this context, then, the literalists argue that Jesus is commanding his disciples to prepare themselves for the coming trouble by not only providing for their resource-needs (money for food, lodging, etc.), but also by securing a means of defense, insignificant as it might be.

With this understanding established, many of these interpreters turn the argument for Christian pacifism upside-down, arguing that in this passage Christ is not only giving license, but moreover directly admonishing his disciples that there is some justification in certain acts of violence for the preservation of their persons.  They support this, interestingly enough, by conjuring the events of Christ’s arrest later that night.  While the pacifists find Jesus’ rebuke of Peter as a proof for the illegitimacy of violence, the literalists see within the rebuke a loophole.  In Matthew 26:56, Jesus tells the attacker-disciple to “put your sword back in its place,” and in John 18:11, Jesus’ rebuke of Peter’s action seems to stem more from Peter’s interference in the unfolding of events, rather than in his act of violence.  With these ideas in mind, the proponents of this theory point out that Jesus did not tell Peter to throw his sword away or to otherwise abandon it; only to sheath it.  In these words, they see the prospect of the legitimization of violence by Christ-followers in certain circumstances when the sword might be once again unsheathed.

My Own Take

Before I outline my view of this passage, I’ll give away the ending a bit.  I’m a pacifist.  While those who support the legitimization of Christian violence in particular circumstances might raise the specter of a million horrific and impossible scenarios, I am nonetheless convinced that the trajectory of Jesus’ and the apostles’ teaching compels Christian thinking to embrace a non-violent, non-harmful stance toward all of God’s children–even at the cost of our own lives.  In this particular passage, I see Jesus’ overturning of Peter’s judgment of violence through miraculous healing as a nail in the coffin of any effort to legitimize any manner of Christian violence.  Like Tertullian, I see that “…the Lord, in disarming Peter, disarmed every soldier.”

But with that conclusion, we are still left with the quite puzzling instance of Jesus’ instruction for the disciples to buy swords and the even more puzzling correlation that is made between this admonition and the fulfillment of prophecy.  How are we to understand this?  My suggestion is certainly not conventional, but perhaps it will stir some thinking.

First, I think we must remember the context in which this was written.  Unique among the Gospels, the book of Luke is something of a narrative-correspondence.  As the writer outlines in the introduction, the purpose of the writing is to give the reader an “orderly account” of things which have been investigated personally by the author.  While we must certainly not read to much into it, the notion of an “orderly account” raises the prospect that this writing is, at least in some measure, corrective in nature–perhaps to establish an apostolic understanding and perspective on the events of Jesus’ life and his teachings.

With this is in mind, I find it intriguing that this curious passage about swords occurs only in Luke.  While the uniqueness of this passage is in itself interesting, what is most intriguing is that it occurs in tandem with an important unveiling of prophetic fulfillment by Christ, something not found specifically in the other gospels.   That is, this is not simply a narrative “filler”–the author clearly meant to convey some point through this passage and its linkage to ancient biblical prophecy.

So here’s my suggestion.

By the time of the writing of Luke’s account, the apostolic tradition and authority–as infant as it was–was beginning to shape Christian thought into something unified and systematic.  Around this time, as well, persecution of the fledgling church was beginning to increase, and for all intents and purposes, the Christian response was not one of violent resistance, but rather resignation to, and sometimes embrace of, martyrdom in emulation of Christ.  In this milieu, the writer’s intention in the narrative is not simply that of the aloof historian merely reciting the “facts” of what transpired.  Rather, we see an definite and deliberate infusion of theological interpretation of history intertwined throughout the narrative.  Yet lest we find fault with the author, let us remember this is precisely his goal, the exposition of the fulfillment of theological and religious history in the person and work of Christ as preached by the apostles.

In relation to the question of “swords,” then, let’s imagine that Luke, in his research, comes across the story of the disciple’s violence during Jesus’ arrest.  In the face of the suffering and martyrdom of the saints for the witness of Christ that are occurring around him, we might understand if he finds it curious to discover the disciples wielding weapons when theirs is to be a message of God’s peace and good will toward humanity.

So perhaps the question for the author was how it is that the disciples came into possession of these weapons?  If the assumption of non-violence and the ethic of martyrdom suggested above is a compelling framework for understanding the sitz em laben of the author, then it is reasonable that we might find traces of this viewpoint in the construction of the text and the arguments the author seeks to set forth in his accounting of the life and mission of Christ and the apostles.

In that light, if such a question were posed, we might concluded that the place of this conversation between Jesus and his disciples forms something of a narrative device to hold together the events surrounding Jesus’ arrest with the author’s assumptions about the Christian ethic of non-violence.  In such an accounting, Jesus’ conversation with the disciples operates somewhat on the level of the figurative interpretation outlined above in which Jesus’ invocation of the image of “sword” is not intended to encourage the disciples to arm themselves, but to communicate something of what will soon transpire.  But unlike the figurative interpretation, my suggestion is that this figurative language is more of a literary retrospective on the events of Jesus’ arrest, rather than a precursor to them.  The correlation of the “swords” to the fulfillment of prophecy which Jesus cites is, to the author, a theological rendering of the arrest of Jesus and the curious violence which Peter perpetrates in the midst of it.  That is, to the author, the reality of Jesus is so great that even in the strange context of the disciples’ illegitimate violence, we still find the fulfillment of divine prophecy.  And it is through the retroactive, narrative correlation of the inappropriate violence to the fulfillment of prophecy that the author finds not only a reasonable explanation for these events, but more importantly a theological justification for the ethic which the suffering, martyr church now embodies.

Conclusion

As we’ve seen, this passage from Luke 22 is interesting in many ways.  Not only is it unique in its rendering in the Gospels, but its language and narrative setting are somewhat difficult to parse as well.  Through the centuries, this has led to dozens of interpretations.  But what is perhaps most interesting is how this text is used in the discussion of the Christian ethical stance toward violence.  Should Christians be total pacifists, or should we understand a place in which violence is necessary and justifiable?

Ultimately, I think the text is not clear enough to establish the ethic either way.  As we’ve seen in each of the renderings (including my own), the ethical conclusions drawn from the text generally require a prior infusion of ethical assumptions on the interpreter’s behalf.  So rather than establishing a Christian ethic regarding violence with any level of clarity on its own merits, we find that the interpretation of this text serves more as a reflection of the interpreter’s assumptions regarding the same.  Nonetheless, it is a fascinating exercise in interpretation and poignantly reminds us of how serious our approach to every text must be if we are not to unconsciously read only that which we assume is already there.

Update: For an interesting read on the subject of early Christianity and pacifism, check out this article from Bill Muehlenberg:  Were the Early Christians Pacifists?

To me, this is one of those tracks that epitomizes how lyrical meaning can be radically extended by the medium in which it is delivered.  While I think the lyrics on their own merits are pretty profound, their execution against the shrill guitars and angst of the vocal performance infuse them with a level of intensity and meaning that could not be captured otherwise.  This is definitely one of my new favorite songs.

Synopsis

This song is basically a conversation between Satan and the crucified Christ, or rather a monologue from two radically different perspectives.

Throughout the song, the devil exults in his apparent victory over the “weak forgiver,” the supposed savior who has been vanquished by the devil’s hand in the grave.  Satan continues by mocking the dead Christ, intimating that he should have used his power to save himself, rather than “wasting power on grace.”  And having triumphed over Christ in death, the devil promises that the same end which now enfolds the body of the redeemer will be that toward which he will lure all those Christ came to save.

But his boast does not end, for though his rise has at times been thwarted, surely this victory in the cross is his vindication.  It is Satan’s crowning achievement, the final necessity for fully claiming the world as his throne, using the very ones Christ failed to save as the backs upon which his rule will be built.  This is a glorious new reality, a “dawn which will last forever.”

Yet in the midst of the violence and provocation, against the boasting of victory and the relishing of death and decay, the words of the crucified break through simply, yet clearly:

“If you could see like me you’d see, you haven’t won anything”

Though the death of the savior appears to be a victory for the powers of sin and death, they see things from a false perspective.  Rather than a loss, through death Christ will be shown as the ultimate victor, triumphing over the power of sinfulness and death through the very means by which they sought to destroy him. Though Satan dons the crown of the “son of the morning” and the “lord of the air” and the “ruler of the world,” Christ will inevitably triumph.  By the newness of life granted to him by the Father, Christ’s resurrection has shown the powers of sin and death to be ultimately bankrupt and vacuous.  Unable to hold Christ in death, the chains of sin and violence are broken, and the rule of the devil and the darkness are shattered forever.

Surely, from a perspective of blindness, it seems obvious that Satan has the upper hand and has triumphed.  But if he could see things from the eyes of the resurrected Christ, he’d see the truth that his power has been broken; his victory is really an everlasting defeat.

I hope you enjoy the song, and if you do, please lend a few dollars and support the band.

Son of the Morning

I am the rival. I am the one who speaks in whisper.

Hear me now, dear, weak forgiver.

Hear me now, weak forgiver. Hear me now…

Don’t send an angel to face the devil.

You’re wasting power on grace. A maggot will always seek to feed from the grave,

where I’ll lead them and teach them to feast on the skin that defeats them, the skin they crave.

If you could see like me you’d see you haven’t won anything.

If you could see like me you’d see, it’s by my grace you’re breathing.

If you could see like me you’d see you haven’t won anything.

If you could see like me you’d see.

Every night I start my rise, climbing high into the morning sky,

but soon after I lose your bride and I damn your son for stealing my light.

This world is mine…

They call me the son of the morning. They call me the son of the morning.

I can mound all your fallen past the clouds as they roll in,

and when I do I will claim your throne through all these cowards you call your sons.

I am the lord of air and my dawn will last forever.

Go on pouring out because in the end I will have them.

If you could see like me you’d see you haven’t won anything.

If you could see like me you’d see, it’s by my grace that you’re breathing.

If you could see like me you’d see you haven’t won anything.

If you could see like me you’d see, your precious light is fading.

Your light is fading.

The Video

Quick note: There is a LOT of screaming in this song.  If that’s not your cup of tea, you’ve been warned

I suggest that the purpose of apologetics was never intended to be about converting others to one’s way of thinking through logic and argumentation.  Rather, to recall the famous Petrine passage, Christians are to give an answer “…to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have” (I Peter 3:15).  The words in bold are important, for they frame the course that apologetics are to take.  The “answer” we are to give is fundamentally about the hope we have placed in Christ through the existential committing of our entire selves to the purposes of the kingdom of God through the act and life of faith.  And since the hope we have is rooted irrevocably within this faith, it is not something that can be principally about the utilization of logic and reason to bring about a change of mind and philosophical orientation in those who raise the questions.

The Theistic Argument

A perfect example of this is the question of the existence of God.  In popular apologetics, the “question of God” is one that has taken form in a variety of answers across the centuries. From Paul’s argument in the Areopagus, to Anselm of Canterbury’s ontological argument, to the more recent Kalam cosmological argument supported by William Lane Craig, Christian theologians have made innumerable attempts to ground the “reasonableness” of theism in human logic, to widely varying degrees of success.  Given that we are still asking the questions and coming up with new answers, it’s clear that none of them have been answered satisfactorily.

But these arguments’ lack of success and “staying power” is not because they haven’t employed logic sufficiently.  To the contrary, I would argue it is simply because human logic is too limited to establish any argument about God in absolute certainty.  As human epistemology is necessarily boundary-limited by the parameters of the universe, logic is only capable of dealing with those things that pertain to the same domain.  As God is conceived of as “other-than” and “transcendent-of” the universe, the inability of human logic to apprehend the eternal nature of the divine is something that cannot be overcome by the same domain-limited logic.

This is not the most important point, though.  For even if one were to assume that logic is capable of exhaustively establishing the existence of God, what is gained from the perspective of apologetics?

The Outcome of a “Logical” Argument for Theism

To take a contemporary example, there are many who find promising avenues in the teleological argument for the existence of God, “proofs” which attempt to establish the nature and ontology of God on the basis of analyzing the “design” and history of the universe.  As scientists gain more and more data about the universe, there is increasing openness within some circles to the idea that the universe is somehow “ordered” by an intelligent creator, or at least grounded in some trans-universal rational principle. However, regardless of how seemingly convincing these arguments “from design” might be, their establishment does not de facto lead one to Christian faith, as if the “proof” of the idea of God on the basis of the ordered-ness of the universe encapsulates the Christian understanding of God.  There are many, like the British-born physicist Paul Davies, who are open to elements of the idea of theism because of the seeming force of the “rational” base of the universe.  Yet this openness to the idea of “God” or even, in Davies’ words, a “rational ground in which the whole scientific enterprise is rooted…a universe…with meaning or purpose underpinning it,” does not translate into “faith” or really anything remotely resembling it.

And here we come to the crux of the issue.  As I’ve been arguing, apologetics for Christian belief, for the vitality of the “content” of faith, is not something that can be established on the basis of human logic or any manner of phenomenological proof.  Moreover, I would suggest that Christians should be somewhat restrained in their attempts to do such things.  After all, to a Christian, the question of God’s existence is not one of logic or proof.  The force of theism within Christian belief does not derive from a “logically necessity” that the universe had to have a “first cause” (or any other ontological/teleological/cosmological argument). No, the meaningfulness of God’s existence is rooted in the revelation of Godself in the person of Christ.  This is the foundation for Christian faith not only in relation to the idea of the existence of a Creator, but also for how we think and theologize about God.  In this way, then, from the perspective of faith, all arguments for the existence of God are made ex post facto; Christians do not (or should not, at least) argue from the existence of God to the revelation of God in Christ; rather, the very revelation of Godself in Christ is the basis for how we approach understanding the nature and existence of God.  Apart from this unique understanding, the existence of God based on logical proofs does not begin to approach the meaningfulness of “God” within the complex of Christian belief.

The Crisis of Faith

Yet despite this seemingly self-evident conclusion, we find within popular apologetics a tendency to transform the very nature of faith into an act of intellectualism.  The “proofs” for this or that doctrine are offered up, not simply to convince antagonists of the “truth” of Christian belief, but also to provide a measure of surety to its professors that the content of their belief is ultimately logical and rational, that their “faith” is something demonstrable and provable on the basis of whatever philosophical worldview holds sway.

While those who do this are, I assume, well-intentioned, such an approach to apologetics, in my view, does irrevocable damage to the place of faith within the dynamic of Christian life and belief.  As mentioned before, the very nature of faith is that of crisis.  It is the call to commit one’s entire ontology–life, energy, soul, body, desires,etc.–to the sovereignty of a God whose existence cannot be encapsulated nor demonstrated on the basis of human logic and reason.  It is a call for the whole of one’s person to commit to a way of being that is “other-than” the patterns and paradigms of default human existence.  Such a call, such a life, is not something that can be entered into casually or partially.  To borrow the famous metaphor from Kierkegaard, faith is the total existential “leap” in which we abandon entirely our claims to ourselves and our abilities to “make” (understand, control, objectify) reality.  In this ultimate resignation, we commit ourselves rather to the unknowable darkness into which we leap, a darkness which is illuminated with divine light only after the plunge has been taken.

But if this is the true nature of faith, a life characterized by sheer existential crisis and the fundamental disavowal of any human ability to apprehend “truth” on the basis of its own powers, we see that attempts to integrate the fundamental nature of faith into the very paradigms that have been disavowed is ultimately self-destructive.  In “establishing” the articles of faith on the basis of logic, experimentation, historicity, and whatever other philosophical categories might hold sway, we ultimately emasculate faith, for it is no longer the wild, untamable force of crisis, but rather the comfortable conclusion of a ultimately self-justifying and self-deluding epistemology.

Is this Anti-Intellectualism?

So does this reorientation to faith-as-crisis mean that logic and reason in the articulation of belief are unimportant?  Is the life of faith essentially a call to anti-intellecutualism?  I would argue no, on both counts.

As I’ve stressed before, apologetics still has a very important role in the life of the Christian community.  My suggestion is simply that rather than utilizing logical, rational arguments to try to convince non-believers of the “rationality” of Christian belief over and against whatever-other-beliefs, the target of apologetics should be to articulate the place which Christian beliefs have in the life and faith of the believer.  So in the case of the idea of God, apologetics should not be about trying to use the power of sheer logic to convert non-theists to the acceptance of the idea of God (“Christian” or otherwise), but to rather lay out in an orderly and consistent way the place that theism has in the matrix of Christian belief, and how this article of faith informs the way Christians think about life, relationships, redemption, eternity, etc.  For questions of “origins,” we should be less interested in trying to scientifically (or psuedo-scientifically) establish particular interpretations of an ancient creation narrative, but should concentrate on allowing the meaning of this narrative to inform our understanding of God’s purposes and designs for creation and our place in bringing this to fruition.  And the list goes on and on…

If Christians are perceived as “anti-intellectual”, it is, I think, because so many have bought into the false paradigms of popular apologetics.  Within these approaches, logic and reason are ends in themselves, so in many cases the expression of Christian belief is forced into an artificial antithesis of other “logical” arguments. So whether one is speaking of origins, theism, sexuality, etc., many “Christian” conclusions can come off as “stupid” and “anti-intellectual”, not because the actual categories of faith are devoid of rational force, but simply because a flawed methodology has led to an equally flawed articulation.

But as we’ve seen, this is wholly unnecessary.  If we are truly about the work of apolgetics, we’d spend less time screaming and fighting trying to get non-believers to view “faith” as rational, and commit our energies to making sure that we have sufficiently articulated the meaning and place of Christian belief within the life of faith for ourselves.  After all, until we have come to grips with the crisis of faith and the place of Christian belief within it, we will never be “ready to give a reason for the hope that we have.”