From Single Issue to Seamless Garment

I thought I knew what terrible and low and shallow was until I was on social media in the week after The Alabama Human Life Protection Act was signed into law. To step directly in this cow pie, both sides have been putting up terrible and hateful and (again, yes) shallow bursts of characters and images, often with undocumented claims made by unverified sources, almost never intending to engage their opponents, let alone persuade them.

For those like me, who are pro-life but who eschew the professionalized mainstream pro-life movement, the main reason to avoid that movement is that it has deliberately narrowed what “pro-life” means to the human gestation period. In a sense, the decision to narrow has been strategic. For instance, advocates for research and development of treatments for pancreatic cancer would indeed get nowhere if they tried to get people to donate to the Cancer Is Bad Foundation. It’s too broad. You must narrow to be effective in your cause.  With pro-life causes, however, it’s different, because the ultimate goal is not to be against something, but to be for something. And for what? Life. Pro-life in the sense that it has been reduced by the mainstream anti-abortion movement–pro-life from conception to birth–in fact makes no sense as a concept to stand alone, because it fails to paint a large enough picture of the meaning of life. Being against abortion must be tied to a larger, cohesive vision of what human life is for, and what worth the individual human life has. For Christians at least this means an understanding of the value of a human life which can never be diminished by anything that human being does or anything that a human being has done to it, because we believe that humans are created in the image of God.

Thankfully for those of us who are persuaded at least that pro-life must mean something beyond birth, Catholic thinkers have been working on the question for a long time. Supposedly it was Eileen Egan (friend and biographer to Mother Teresa, marcher with MLK, correspondent with Thomas Merton, co-worker with Dorothy Day and Jim Douglass, and so much more) who first referred to the Christian understanding of the value of life as a “seamless garment.” This is a reference to the garments of Christ. When Jesus was stripped naked to be crucified, the Gospels say that his garments were gambled for as a whole cloth rather than ripped into pieces. Likewise, because God’s valuing of human life is irreducible, one pro-life issue cannot be separated from another without destroying the whole. Egan’s vision–known since then as either “the seamless garment” or the “consistent life ethic”–was deepened by Cardinal Joseph Bernardin, whose thought is now being extended by Cardinal Blase Cupich, and is easy to read within some of Pope Francis’ words.

But for many of my readers, that’s a lot of thinkers and leaders and activists who aren’t very familiar. What’s it all mean? It means that truly choosing life means choosing life in every sphere in which human life is trying to flourish. Yes, widespread abortion is, of course, a threat to human life. But so is the death penalty. So is poverty. So are many of our gun laws (and lack of them). So are our nuclear arsenals, endless wars, military budgets, military presence around the world, military equipment and tactics among local law enforcement, concealed carry in our church buildings, armed teachers in our schools, for-profit prisons, mandatory minimum sentencing, lack of access to healthcare (including women’s health care, and–sorry Catholics–contraception), euthanasia, human germline modification, our valuing economic growth as the sole measure of our corporate well-being, our trade policies, our immigration policies, our drug wars, our treatment of the environment, our relationships with other nations, our relationships across human difference (race, class, gender, sex, religion, and far more) within our own neighborhoods.

The seamless garment approach is flexible enough to still recognize that in terms of numbers and impact, some threats are harming or taking more lives than others. It also recognizes that because all these “issues” deal with human flourishing, they are interconnected too deeply to be separated.

That’s a lot, and to name so many things together might indeed muddle the issue. In this blog post I seemingly tried to lose pro-choice readers at the beginning and pro-life political conservatives by the end. But my hope is not that you agree with me or Dorothy Day or President Eisenhower. Rather, I hope that you are convinced that if any human life is worthy of defense, first you must define why life matters with a big enough picture to share with others, then you must train that lens to see where one life is being valued more than another life, and then you need to see that to encourage life, to be pro-life, you must encourage a life a whole lot better than getting it to birth. Finally, you must also realize that although formal politics–laws and the courts–can do some of this work, it is not their job to form one human conscience or a whole society to recognize and value life in all its forms. That’s our job, in relationship with one another.

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Bartimaeus

I am not Bartimaeus.
I am not the son of Timaeus.

When Jesus summons I do not leap up,
I do not leave everything behind,
I do not fly straight to Jesus,
Forgetting that I am blind.

I sit, I consider, I weigh the call,
Weigh it again,
Ponder my options,
Measure my abilities,
Guess my future.

When I stand, I creak, I groan,
Pins, needles, fire,
Spine having forgotten vertical.

I leave nothing behind.
I pack and repack:
Clothes and extra clothes, food, money, keys,
toothbrush, guitar, dishwasher, HOA dues,
401(k), Netflix subscription.

And now my toes stretch, grab earth, pull me
Forward into the dark,
Utmost concern to never stub,
Never stumble, never bruise,
Arms waving high and low,
Scanning for obstacles.
I take stops to rest,
I reverse, then move ahead again,
It takes years.

When I arrive I find
the Son of David has not moved on.
He’s still stopped in the road,
blocking traffic, waiting for me.

He asks me:
“What do you want me to do for you?”

Making Sense of the Bible: Rediscovering the Power of Scripture Today by Adam Hamilton

“Gifted” is an understatement when it comes to Adam Hamilton. In addition to writing this and 15-20 other books; in addition to planting Church of the Resurrection in Leawood, KS in 1990, then growing it to over 20,000 members; Hamilton is an incredibly influential preacher and Biblical teacher; and while I don’t know how much pastoral care ends up on his plate these days, his writing has always displayed a pastor’s heart.

Hamilton’s communication skills and pastoral skills are in full force in Making Sense of the Bible: Rediscovering the Power of Scripture Today. In the first three parts of Section One: The Nature of Scripture, he gives a helpful and well-done overview of his personal relationship to Scripture, overviews the contents of the Old and New Testament in fifteen minutes apiece, provides some history on how the early Church came to the Scriptures, and talks about the process of canonization.

It’s that last–canonization–when Hamilton begins to stumble. Hamilton opens Chapter 13, “Which Books Made It into the New Testament and Why” by talking about the emergence of the New Testament in the first four centuries of the Church, with reference to the Apostolic Fathers, Marcion, Tertullian, Clement of Alexandria, Origen, and Athanasius. I’m not sure where you would find a better introduction for the interested non-specialist than his summary here. As in his sermons, there is always enough depth for the intellectually wired hearers to go as far as they want. Then Hamilton moves to the criteria for canonicity.

“Criteria for canonicity” is the name we give to the reasoning used by the early church to determine if a given book was actually to be included in the canon. As Hamilton writes, “The process by which our New Testament books came to be seen as authoritative was not neat and tidy, but it does involve identifiable criteria. Typically scholars list these criteria as Apostolicity, Catholicity, Orthodoxy, and several others” (pp. 120-121). However, instead of Apostolicity, Catholicity, Orthodoxy, etc., Hamilton offers Usefulness, Consistency, Association, and Acceptance. The problem is not the admirable and pastoral desire to translate academic language for lay ears, but that his is sometimes a poor translation, which goes on to affect his teaching on the nature of Scripture and his exegesis of particular texts.

Hamilton’s first criterion is Usefulness. By this he means that the early Church found some writings to be “useful to large numbers of churches over a period of several hundred years” (p. 121). At one level this is accurate, because the writings achieved universality (or Catholicity, as most writers on the canon would put it) because the Church found that a letter initially written to one church with its particular issues was applicable to other churches and their own issues. That is to say, the Epistle to the Ephesians was always intended for wider consumption than the church at Ephesus. The Revelation of John was likely not addressed and sent only to the seven churches it names.

The difficulty with Usefulness as a criterion, however, is that it injects a big dose of pragmatism into our doctrine of Scripture right at the foundations. Immediately, it makes us ask what happens when a Biblical book or a section of a Biblical book no longer seems to be as useful. Rather than the criterion being the authority, we can easily become the the authority by which the criterion is to be judged. This isn’t just a slippery slope argument. It is actually what Hamilton goes on to do.

On page 177, Hamilton writes, “Christians may legitimately set aside clear teachings of scripture as no longer binding, seeing them as written primarily for another time and not reflecting God’s timeless will.” Hamilton’s examples are how Jesus reinterprets and often seems to break the Mosaic Law, and how the Council of Jerusalem discerned that the commandment of circumcision was not binding on Gentile converts. The problem is that Hamilton then says that we have the authority to do the same thing, but he never names who can legitimately take up the authority to do so, and he never lays out the deeply needed argument for how we make that discernment.

It’s the problem of Protestantism in general mixed with the problems of Wesley and of the US churches. The problem of Protestantism is that taken to its complete end, there is no authority beyond the individual and a single Bible verse. The problem of Wesley (or at least his followers) is a focus on the pragmatic, sometimes without theological reflection. (This is the definition of the work given to and accomplished by the Commission on a Way Forward.) The problem of the US churches is that we still think (despite ample evidence to the contrary) that we are a City on a Hill, here to enlighten the world. Saute this unholy trinity (sorry, Cajun readers) for a while, and you’ve got a great start to one hell of a gumbo.

Yes, Jesus and the New Testament writers read Scripture in ways I would never have read Scripture if they hadn’t first. Yes, the Council at Jerusalem came to a conclusion that was only right if the Holy Spirit was actually present to them and in the treif-filled dreams of Peter. (The Holy Spirit actually was.) No, we aren’t Jesus or Paul. No, we cannot wait for the church to be able to hold a truly ecumenical council once again before we interpret Scriptures for our context. Neither can we ignore that even without an ecumenical council for the last 1000 years, there are indeed interpretations of Scripture on which the Church has spoken with near unison. But Hamilton does not tend to these important interpretive questions, and so Usefulness remains a deeply flawed criterion for canonicity.

Hamilton’s second and third criteria–Consistency and Association–correspond to Orthodoxy and Apostolicity. In the first, I would have rather he simply defined orthodoxy, rather than substituting “consistency,” a definition which doesn’t recognized the chorus of different–not unison–voices at work in the Scriptures. Apostolicity likewise has much greater depth than mere “Association,” but it also requires an understanding of the church and the importance of the apostles, bishops, and elders that is more at home in the Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches than is common among Protestants. Finally, Hamilton’s Acceptance corresponds to Catholicity. I guess that’s fine, but as a United Methodist who leads people each week to say we believe in the “catholic church,” it seems like a missed opportunity to define an important term in the life of Christians.

As Making Sense of the Bible proceeds into its second half, I’m grateful to see Hamilton arguing for a “high” view of Scripture apart from using the words “inerrant” and “infallible.” I don’t know how these terms function elsewhere and I know they were well-intended, but in the US, they have often led to teachings that can be summed up as, “either you believe the earth is a few thousand years old or you are no disciple of Jesus at all.” I find it easy to believe that this has kept more people from Jesus than it has ever drawn to Him. We would never have had a Saint Augustine if Saint Ambrose had insisted on that belief in his catechesis.

On pages 176-177 Hamilton writes,

As we seek to interpret scripture faithfully, we must not set aside what is inconvenient or challenging to us simply because it is difficult. We will, however, read scripture in the light of the life, ministry, teaching, death, and resurrection of Jesus. When we find something that is inconsistent with the way God reveals himself and his will through Jesus Christ, we may legitimately ask questions. In those situations, it is Jesus who serves as the final Word by which other words of Scripture are to be judged.

I feel like I probably have written or preached something similar. I find Jesus to be supremely challenging, difficult, and inconvenient. What about this “light of the life, ministry, teaching, death, and resurrection of Jesus?” How do we read Scripture in light of those things when it is only by Scripture that we have received a witness to these things? I think this means I need to be constantly having my Jesus lens polished, ground, shaped, cleaned. I’m convinced that this is one reason to read the Gospels and preach from them often. This summer, I should finish up the Gospel of Mark after preaching 67 non-contiguous Sundays covering every verse of the book. I think it does make me read every other verse of the Bible differently, and it’s not even the only Jesus lens the Bible offers.

To finish up this review, I’ll move on to Hamilton’s 100+ pages worth of responses to particular questions (Creation; Historical Adam and Eve; Divine Violence; Revelation; Homosexuality). These are uneven, with some begging to be lengthened a good deal. It almost feels like a different book, because they aren’t truly case studies of an approach offered by Hamilton, but specific arguments about specific issues and texts. The one on homosexuality, which Hamilton must have known would have been the most controversial, is surprisingly weak, likely mostly because it’s very short.

Many negative reviews of the book at its release focused on a framework which Hamilton offers in that chapter, Homosexuality and the Bible. It’s notable, given those reviews, that this is very late in the book, page 272 out of 309 pages in the paperback. (Italics are his.):

As we read and interpret scripture, I’d suggest that there are three broad categories – let’s call them buckets – that biblical passages fit into. There are passages of scripture – I would suggest the vast majority – that reflect the timeless will of God for human beings, for instance, ‘Love your neighbor as you love yourself.’ There are other passages that reflect God’s will in a particular time but not for all time, including much of the ritual law of the Old Testament. And there are passages that reflect the culture and historical circumstances in which they were written but never reflected God’s timeless will, like those related to slavery.

For my part, I think Hamilton describes this as prescriptive, but I wonder if it’s more useful if it’s descriptive. Yes, we’re always tossing things into the buckets. Sometimes we mis-categorize something in one season of life and re-categorize it later, given new information or new life experiences. But once we notice that this is what our default setting seems to be, do we just continue doing it? Do we ever question our labels or the bucket system? When do we get to the question of how we do this work as a community rather than individuals? (To his credit, Hamilton makes a few slight nods to reading in community.) Do we ever get to the question of the criteria that precede the buckets, where those criteria come from, and what authority we ourselves hold?

In the end, while I could likely choose some quotes or some sections (particularly in the first half of the book) to recommend to others, this is not a book I would recommend for people seeking to develop a doctrine of Scripture. I could not just hand it off to someone and feel like it expresses questions of the doctrine of Scripture and of our relationship to Scripture well. It’s disappointing, because I’ve been looking for a while now for such a book. For anybody who has recommendations, leave it in the comments. (But please don’t recommend Incarnation and Inspiration or How to Read the Bible for All Its Worth. I’ve already been disappointed by those too.)

Bonus: The best, brief guide to “How to Read the Bible” is still here. Yes, Dr. Celia Wolff has held the title now for over five years.

A Vow Too Far (for Now)?

I’ve begun reading Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light, edited and with commentary by Brian Kolodiechjuk, M.C. This was the book that shocked many (but not all) at Mother Teresa’s death with its revelation that she had suffered from spiritual darkness and aridity for most of her ministry. But the book starts earlier than that, using her correspondence with her priest/confessor/spiritual director and her archbishop to tell the story of how she was formed and called to the streets of Calcutta.

The first piece of this calling, a “calling within a calling” was a private vow (meaning that she was already a professed nun, and then took a vow beyond her religious vows) she made in April 1942: “I made a vow to God, binding under [pain of] mortal sin, to give to God anything that He may ask, ‘Not to refuse Him anything.’” (p. 28, Kindle edition)

Just to share what this meant to Teresa, I’ll share a longer quote Kolodiechjuk supplies from her “Explanation of the Original Constitutions of the Missionaries of Charity” (p. 29, Kindle edition):

“Why must we give ourselves fully to God? Because God has given Himself to us. If God who owes nothing to us is ready to impart to us no less than Himself, shall we answer with just a fraction of ourselves? To give ourselves fully to God is a means of receiving God Himself. I for God and God for me.”

“Not to refuse God anything.” In theory, that is what being a disciple means. That is, there’s no disciple but the one who refuses Jesus nothing. The followers of Jesus we find in the Gospels and in history show us, however, that we all follow Jesus with daily varying levels of commitment and hourly varying mixtures of faithfulness and unfaithfulness in our deepest places. Sanctification can in this light be defined as our synergistic movement in the Spirit toward becoming those who refuse God nothing, just as the incarnate Son refused the Father nothing.

But I’m afraid.

There’s a common enough joke among Christians that you have to be careful about offering God all, or God might call you to the exact places where you most don’t want to go. In reality, the joke masks anxiety not about places or life conditions, but something at the bedrock: Is God to be trusted? Is God good? If God is actually trustworthy and good and loves me, then truly it wouldn’t matter where I go or what happens to me. But if I doubt those basics, it’s going to be very difficult to refuse God nothing.

We joke because we don’t want to admit that we are all that rescue dog brought home from the shelter who, at the offer of a kind touch, cowers, shakes, and pees himself. We all need a whole lot of healing and patience from a caregiver till we learn to trust. For some of us, we need a whole lot of healing before we even learn not to bite. Our hope is this: God chooses to bring us home knowing all that sometimes difficult road with us, having committed to not toss us back to the streets. Why? Not because God pities us, but because God delights in us. God is that friend you have who always has a new rescue dog, cat, squirrel, pigeon they found and are trying to home.

For now, maybe the question for me from Saint Teresa isn’t, “Will I vow to refuse God nothing?” but “Will I notice what goes on in my rescued heart (and body too) when God draws near?” Am I anxious? Am I afraid? Do I jump back? Or am I comforted? Do I more and more often jump up into God’s lap in affection and trust? After all, trust is just another word for faith. And from our dog’s-eye-view, affection is another word for love.

Heavy: An American Memoir by Kiese Laymon

These extended excerpts are a way to share Kiese Laymon’s beyond powerful and beyond devastating book, Heavy: An American Memoir. It is at least formally addressed to his mother (the “you” in the first quotation).

I understood that day why you and Grandmama were so hungry for black wins, regardless of how tiny those wins were. For Grandmama, those wins were always personal. For you, the wins were always political. Both of y’all knew, and showed me, how we didn’t even have to win for white folk to punish us. All we had to do was not lose the way they wanted us to.

p. 53

===================================================

I looked at Grandmama and told her I felt like a nigger, and feeling like a nigger made my heart, lungs, kidneys, and brain feel like they were melting and dripping / out of the ends / of my toenails.

“It ain’t about making white folk feel what you feel,” she said. “It’s about not feeling what they want you to feel. Do you hear me? You better know from whence you came and forget about those folk.”

p. 56

===================================================

Before both of us went to sleep, I asked Grandmama if 218 pounds was too fat for twelve years old. “What you weighing yourself for anyway?” she asked me. “Two hundred eighteen pounds is just right, Kie. It’s just heavy enough.”

“Heavy enough for what?”

“Heavy enough for everything you need to be heavy enough for.”

I loved sleeping with Grandmama because that was the only place in the world I slept all the way through the night. But tonight was different.

“Can I ask you one more question before we go to bed?”

“Yes, baby,” Grandmama said, and faced me for the first time since I gave her the notebook.

“What do you think about counting to ten in case of emergencies?”

“Ain’t no emergency God can’t help you forget,” Grandmama told me. “Evil is real, Kie.”

“But what about the emergencies made by folk who say they love you?”

“You forget it all,” she said. “Especially that kind of emergency. Or you go stone crazy. My whole life, it seem like something crazy always happens on Sunday nights in the summer.”

p. 60

===================================================

I’d heard Grandmama whimper over the loss of her best friend and her sisters. I’d heard Grandmama yell at Uncle Jimmy for daring to disrespect her in her house. I’d never heard Grandmama scream while begging the Lord to have mercy on her until that night in the hospital…
With one hand in the pockets of my mesh shorts, and one hand holding hers, I told Grandmama it was going to be okay. Grandmama said she had faith in the white doctor who was taking care of her. She kept calling him “the white-man doctor,” though he was really a short, light-complexioned black man with a dry, red Afro.

“The white-man doctor got my best interest at heart,” she said. “Grandmama will be fine directly.”

The black doctor with the dry red Afro asked me to leave the room because they had to do a small procedure. He said the infection was deeper than he thought. It started in the middle of her head and went down the back of her neck. “We’re gonna help her with this pain,” he told me. “The infection is seeping into her bloodstream.”

I walked out of the room but he didn’t close the door behind me. “Lord Jesus,” Grandmama kept saying before she screamed. “Please have mercy. Please have mercy.” I knew, but didn’t want to admit, why Grandmama was screaming, why the black doctor with the dry red Afro didn’t give her enough anesthetic, why he thought cutting a full inch and a half deep into the back of her scalp was for her own good.

Folk always assumed black women would recover but never really cared if black women recovered. I knew Grandmama would act like she recovered before thanking Jesus for keeping her alive. She would never publicly reckon with damage done to her insides and outsides at the hands of people who claimed to have her best interest at heart. She would just thank Jesus for getting through the other side of suffering. Thanking Jesus for getting us through situations we should have never been in was one of our family’s superpowers.

I spent the night in the room sitting in a chair next to Grandmama’s bed and holding her hand. Grandmama didn’t say a word. She just looked out the window of the room, with her cheek pressed into the thin mattress until the sun came up.

pp. 169-170

As you can see, Heavy is a difficult read, likely even re-traumatizing for some readers. That’s part of what the title means. My initial difficulty when finishing the book and attempting to review it was that I worried for its author. I had a similar experience reading Tara Westover’s Educated: A Memoir last year. A few years before that, it was something by Augusten Burroughs (although this makes me more hopeful). In each of these authors’ works, his or her story has many ups and downs, then things close on an up. In each case, I am left wondering whether this was an editor’s suggestion, whether it was for the purposes of narrative, or whether things really are getting better in some more or less permanent way.

Laymon, who shares his life to the bone and writes like a poet, also reminds me of the confessional poets. This article on that movement names some of its most important figures: John Berryman, Robert Lowell, Silvia Plath, Ann Sexton, W.D. Snodgrass. Of those Berryman, Plath, and Sexton all took their own lives. Lowell (my first favorite poet) was hospitalized multiple times for bipolar disorder. Snodgrass, meanwhile, wrote his first collection out of the experience of being separated from his daughter after his first divorce, and then was married three more times before he died of cancer in 2009. All this frightens me for artists who seem to sweat blood on every page.

It took me two or three days to realize the other piece that unsettles me in Heavy. It’s the same reality I opened with: Is Laymon writing about the 1920s and 1930s or the 1970s and 1980s? Does progress ever come for racial and economic justice? Heavy is not at all a hopeless book, but it makes clear–again back to the meaning of the title–that even to feel hope placed on your shoulders is to bear a heavy load, one which you did not choose, and one which Laymon does not feel free to un-choose.

Read this book, and be disquieted.

Bonus: While you are waiting 38 weeks for your local library hold to bring the book to you, check out this interview with Laymon (beginning at 26:19 with a reading from Heavy) from the always excellent NY Times Book Review Podcast.

Peter Enns, Inspiration and Incarnation: Evangelicals and the Problem of the Old Testament

I do not think I’d ever heard of Peter Enns until Inspiration and Incarnation apparently led to his being purged in 2008 from the faculty at Westminster Theological Seminary. It still took me another ten years to read it. I both can and cannot see the fuss.

To Fuss
Westminster Theological Seminary has always been a fundamentalist institution, in the most literal sense of the word, and WTS still tells its own story in those Evangelical vs. Liberalism terms. As someone whose earliest Christian faith was formed in American evangelicalism, I still had very little contact with the Reformed part of that world. In my experience, even religious historians miss some of the diversity present under the umbrella that is American evangelicalism. I’ve been around and worshiped among evangelical Baptists, evangelical Methodists/Wesleyans, evangelical non-denominational Christians, evangelical Charismatics/Pentecostals, evangelical Stone-Campbell descendants, evangelical Anglicans, evangelical Lutherans, and even a few evangelical Roman Catholics. But I’ve rarely actually been in evangelical Reformed circles, despite the fact that they’ve had a muscular presence in American evangelical thought and especially publishing for over a hundred years. I wasn’t formed by Christians who knew or cared enough to have an opinion about Westminster Presybyterianism vs. Princeton Presbyterianism. But it makes complete sense that an institution that was founded in 1929 order to separate to stay theologically pure would still work to stay theologically pure just 80 years later.

Not to Fuss
The title metaphor and thesis is this: there is a similarity between 1) the nature of the God-man, Jesus, and 2) the divine and human elements which together make Scripture. Enns then details “human” pieces of Scripture, such as similarities between the Old Testament and other Ancient Near Eastern texts (e.g., Utnapishtim‘s flood and Noah’s flood), as well as diversity of both historical (e.g., Samuel-Kings vs. Chronicles) and theological (e.g., Proverbs vs. Ecclesiastes) claims within Scripture. All in all, it seems to me exactly what an evangelical academic Biblical scholar would do, one teacher’s attempt to be honest about difficulties that arise when we read the Bible closely and as unique sacred Scripture, then try to reckon with those difficulties.

Review
The title metaphor is so loose that it’s not helpful. The doctrine of the Incarnation says Jesus is unique in being fully human and fully divine. By the end of his book, Enns has argued that the Bible is neither fully human nor fully divine. What’s more, because of the fallout from this book and because of the trajectory of his follow-up books and career into a comfortably progressive (or post-)evangelical space (complete with effusive blurb circles with Rob Bell, Rachel Held Evans, Tony Jones, Brian McLaren, Phyllis Tickle), I wonder if this book was Enns’ attempt to reach for a way forward but also stay right where he was. That is, I wanted a more daring book, and this is a cautious book which reads like Enns is pulling his punches. I will not widely recommend this book, but I am interested in at least checking out an audiobook of his work since.

Dale Martin’s Sex and the Single Savior: Gender and Sexuality in Biblical Interpretation

I thought it worthwhile to begin with this extended quote, representative of the book as a whole, and the most powerfully distilled argument I’ve yet come across while reading. One of Howard Thurman’s seminary professors told him not to waste his time with any book he could read faster than twenty pages in an hour. This one falls into that category for me. My comments follow, so as not to disrupt the momentum Martin builds.

Dale B. Martin, Sex and the Single Savior: Gender and Sexuality in Biblical Interpretation (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox), pp. 49-50 of the paperback:

My goal is not to deny that Paul condemned homosexual acts but to highlight the ideological contexts in which such discussions have taken place. My goal is to dispute appeals to “what the Bible says” as a foundation for Christian ethical arguments. It really is time to cut the Gordian knot of fundamentalism. And do not be fooled: any argument that tries to defend its ethical position by an appeal to “what the Bible says” without explicitly acknowledging the agency and contingency of the interpreter is fundamentalism, whether it comes from a right-wing Southern Baptist or a moderate Presbyterian. We must simply stop giving this kind of argument any credibility. Furthermore, we will not find the answers merely by becoming better historians or exegetes. The test for whether an interpretation is Christian or not does not hang on whether it is historically accurate or exegetically nuanced. The touchstone is not the historically reconstructed meaning in the past, nor is it the fancifully imagined, modernly constructed intentions of the Biblical writers. Nor can any responsible Christian–after the revolutionary change in Christian thought in the past twenty years, much less in the past three hundred–maintain that Christian interpretations are those conforming to Christian tradition. The traditions, all of them, have changed too much and are far too open to cynical manipulation to be taken as foundations for gauging the ethical value of a reading of Scripture.
 
The only recourse in our radical contingency is to accept our contingency and look for guidance within the discourse that we occupy and that forms our very selves. The best place to find criteria for talking about ethics and interpretation will be in Christian discourse itself, which includes Scripture and tradition but not in a “foundational” sense. Nor do I mean that Christian discourse can itself furnish a stable base on which to secure ethical positions; it is merely the context in which those positions are formed and discussed. Conscious of this precarious contingency, and looking for guiding lights within the discourse, I take my stand with a quotation from an impeccably traditioned witness, Augustine, who wrote, “Whoever, therefore, thinks that he understands the divine Scriptures or any part of them so that it does not build the double love of God and our neighbor does not understand it at all” (Christian Doctrine 1.35.40).
 
By this light, any interpretation of Scripture that hurts people, oppresses people, or destroys people cannot be the right interpretation, no matter how traditional, historical, or exegetically respectable. There can be no debate about the fact that the church’s stand on homosexuality has caused oppression, loneliness, self-hatred, violence, sickness, and suicide for millions of people. If the church wishes to continue with its traditional interpretation it must demonstrate, not just claim, that it is more loving to condemn homosexuality than to affirm homosexuals. Can the church show that same-sex loving relationships damage those involved in them? Can the church give compelling reasons to believe that it really would be better for all lesbian and gay Christians to live alone, without the joy of intimate touch, without hearing a lover’s voice when they go to sleep or awake? Is it really better for lesbian and gay teenagers to despise themselves and endlessly pray that their very personalities be reconstructed so that they may experience romance like their straight friends? Is it really more loving for the church to continue its worship of “heterosexual fulfillment” (a “nonbiblical” concept, by the way) while consigning thousands of its members to a life of either celibacy or endless psychological manipulations that masquerade as “healing”?
 
The burden of proof in the last twenty years has shifted. There are too many of us who are not sick, or inverted, or perverted, or even “effeminate,” but who just have a knack for falling in love with people of our own sex. When we have been damaged, it has not been due to our homosexuality but to others’ and our own denial of it. The burden of proof now is not on us, to show that we are not sick, but rather on those who insist that we would be better off going back into the closet. What will “build the double love of God and neighbor”?
 
I have tried to illustrate how all appeals to “what the Bible says” are ideological and problematic. But in the end, all appeals, whether to the Bible or anything else, must submit to the test of love. To people who say this is simplistic, I say, far from it. There are no easy answers. “Love” will not work as a foundation for ethics in a prescriptive or predictable fashion either–as can be seen by all the injustices, imperialisms, and violence committed in the name of love. But rather than expecting the answer to come from a particular method of reading the Bible, we at least push the discussion to where it ought to be: into the realm of debates about Christian love, rather than into either fundamentalism or modern historicism.
 
We ask the question that must be asked: “What is the loving thing to do?

1) Martin’s aim is indeed “not to deny that Paul condemned homosexual acts.” Instead, Martin argues that the way the Church has turned to Scripture as foundational for its ethics is flawed, because (according to him) foundationalism is a flawed and naive way to read any text, including the Scriptures. He himself is a near-complete postmodern, and his guiding lights within postmodern critical theory are (at least at the halfway point of the book) Michel Foucault and reader-response theory. Very briefly, reader-response theory claims that the meaning of the text resides not in the text itself but in the reading community’s experience of the text. Foucauldian analysis names the power and politics at work in the formation of texts, communities, and the discourse within those communities, including the formation of churches, interpretive traditions, individual scholars, and Christian ethics.

2) “explicitly acknowledging the agency and contingency of the interpreter”: While I agree that this is necessary, I’m not as convinced that this is a strong definition of fundamentalism. First, it collapses fundamentalism and foundationalism into one. But while Martin wants to sweep away the (for him) illusion of all foundations, among which Christian fundamentalism is one, the technical term “fundamentalism” when applied to Christianity usually includes groups whose theologies profess the limits and bent-, curved-, or broken-ness of human interpreters and interpretive communities. That is, there already is an explicit (although Martin would likely still argue not explicit enough) acknowledgement of the interpreter’s contingency. The other half–agency–does stand. Martin does a tremendous job outlining how Christians tend to deny their own agency in speaking of texts, not only when we say things like “the Bible says,” but in the publications of highly regarded Biblical scholars and theologians (of which Martin provides many examples) and when seminaries continue to teach preaching as “letting the text speak for itself” or “getting out of the way of the text.”

3) “We must simply stop giving this kind of argument any credibility.” This is much more easily said than done. For instance, at the General Conference of the United Methodist Church that just took place in St. Louis, recognized speakers voiced claims (not just conservative claims) based on “what the Bible says” in the flat, non-nuanced way that Martin is talking about. This understanding of reading the Bible and forming theology and Christian ethics seems to be baked into the Christian cake at this point. What does it take to change a cultural understanding of Scripture which is (at least) as old as Protestantism? I’m hoping that Martin will eventually address this question.

4) The rest of Paragraph 1: Here you can see the full diagnosis of the problem of Biblical interpretation as Martin sees it. The text has no meaning apart from its readers, history is of very limited use in aiding our meaning making, and Christian traditions are compromised in their usefulness because they are corrupted by the lust for power, like every other human institution (and this is a Foucauldian analysis, even though others could make a similar argument based on the doctrine of sin). And so we are set for the opening sentence of Paragraph 2.

5) “our radical contingency”: Yes, we are finite people with finite resources for understanding and meaning making, and even what resources we have are suspect.

6) “guidance within the discourse that we occupy and that forms our very selves”: The problem is that this suddenly makes Christian ethics and Christianity itself very individualistic, and it makes me the individual who matters and judges. I have this little spot of sand on which I stand, there is only water on every side, and when I am gone, my little spot of beach will be washed away too. It’s very possible I misunderstand the claims of reader-response theory, but Martin’s particular reading seems to be a trajectory toward shattering every possibility of community or shared meaning, which places it at odds with every form of historical Christianity. (I don’t believe I’m misreading; rather, I wonder how communities can be larger than one if reader-response theory is applied to saturation.)

7) Paragraph three (“By this light”) is the one that cemented for me that this was the passage to share. The primary reason is that I think every person holding to a conservative position on human sexual and gender identity and expression should face some important realities. Second, I am interested in how a foundational claim has now emerged in the midst of an anti-foundational argument. There is a foundation, and it is something like “Do no harm,” eventually reframed in the next paragraph as “Love.”

8) “demonstrate, not just claim”: This is a tremendous challenge. Sin isn’t a violation against God’s arbitrary rules, but something which does actual harm to actual others. An important caveat: just because I cannot see the harm does not make it not sin. More important caveat: I can see that the church has harmed LGBTQIA people. There are some parts of the church that simply hate their queer siblings, and some of those Christians (and this doesn’t make anyone less culpable) have no sense of the motivations for their doctrine and ethics of human sexuality. And there are many other voices and have been voices since the early church who have lived into community, and who have lived complete and fulfilled lives without ever having a sexual partner. (One could attempt to argue that far fewer lesbian and gay teenagers despise themselves and pray for changed sexual identities, but the truth is that there are still more than plenty of Christian teenagers in that situation, and the reason that there are fewer has had much to do with changing views among Christian churches.)

9) “worship of ‘heterosexual fulfillment'” is very real, and, at least in US Protestantism, celibacy (whether or not it’s chosen or out of a sense of vocation or just because life unfolds in unplanned ways) is viewed as somehow weird. That is, heterosexual marriage is viewed as normal, and any other adult life is viewed as abnormal. (The New Testament and most of the global church throughout history have viewed things differently. There are places, communities, and voices which are currently helping us to change, albeit slowly.)

10) The concluding paragraphs and sentence demonstrate why this book continues to be helpful to my thinking, even as I have shown I disagree fundamentally (sic) with the author on some issues. Martin, a Biblical scholar, is convinced that Biblical debates are the mischosen battleground for forming Christian ethics, so that he comes at it slant rather than repeating unhelpful, entrenched positions. Put simply, he seems less stuck than most of us, and he helps me even when I read some of those more entrenched positions.