An Evangelical approach to sexual ethics

I am just back from the annual meeting of the American Evangelical Theological Society (ETS) in San Antonio, TX. It is only the second time in my life I have been to the ETS conference, but they offered a slot for us to launch a book, Two Views on Homosexuality, that I’ve contributed to, and I decided quickly that I owed it to the publishers (who have been very generous) and to my fellow contributors (who in the process of arguing our points have become friends) to be there. I don’t suppose that it is a state secret that we were offering the launch around the conferences. If we’d got at slot at AAR/SBL, Wes Hill and I, who argued the conservative side of the question, would have been under fire, and would have looked to Megan DeFranza and Bill Loader, who argued the affirming side, to support us; at ETS it was rather definitely the other way around; Wes & I were—I think ‘denounced’ is the right word, but I will live with ‘challenged’—on the basis that even accepting the possibility that someone may find an affirming doctrine in Scripture was already a fundamental betrayal. I struggle with this because I am, by deep conviction, evangelical. I believe passionately in the core evangelical impulse, that I—not just can, but must—make common cause with all those who preach the necessity of the new birth, regardless of other disagreements. I live in a village where, in 1679, James Sharp, Archbishop of St Andrews and Professor of Theology in my own College, was murdered by those who thought that accepting episcopacy was repugnant to the gospel, and where in retaliation the Anglican establishment murdered six convinced Presbyterians, inhabitants of my village, who had no involvement in the crime, because the established church thought presbyterianism equally repugnant. When, sixty years later Presbyterians, Congregationalists, and Anglicans would invite each other into their pulpits because of a shared commitment to the gospel something quite miraculous had happened. What Americans call the Great Awakening and Brits call the Evangelical Revival was a move of the Spirit of God, not just in renewing the gospel of salvation by faith alone, but in breaking down the ecclesial barriers that separated believers in the gospel. I was slow to understand what went on in our session at ETS; the Rottweilers were out in some force, and challenging Megan and Bill on their understanding; OK, I did that sharply enough in the book. But there was repeatedly an extra step stated or implied in the questions, from ‘this is wrong’ to ‘you are not a Christian’. I admit I did not understand where this was coming from. Then someone came up to me at the end, and asked why I had been defending my friends. I began to say some stuff about love and loyalty but he cut across me, ‘They are leading people onto the highway to hell!’ Oh. I’m generally bad in live debate—my mind moves slowly enough that I need time to find an adequate response to challenges. But this one wasn’t hard—I am, as I say, by deep conviction, evangelical. ‘No, I know Megan and Bill, I know that they call people to believe in Jesus. They are leading people on the highway to heaven (even if I presently think that they are fairly seriously wrong on at least one aspect of the nature of that highway).’ The memory troubles me. I do not know who he was—his badge was turned around—but his conviction was clear: teaching false sexual morality was damaging the salvation of the hearers. Maybe I’m sensitive, because of the village I live in, because the blood flowed where I walk, but it matters to me desperately that salvation depends on our embracing of the forgiveness offered in Jesus and on nothing else. Nothing else. ‘Sola fide’ is not an interesting theological slogan for me. It is—literally—gospel truth. Add this or that condition, and you begin to justify the murder of members of my college or inhabitants of my village. More importantly than that, even, you begin to query the salvation of those who have put their faith in Jesus. Sola fide. I have to stand on that. Because the Blood flowed where I walk, and where we all walk. One perfect sacrifice, complete, once for all, offered for all the world, offering renewal to all who will put their faith in Him. And if that means me, in all my failures and confusions, then it also means my friends who affirm same-sex marriage, in all their failures and confusions. If my faithful and affirming friends have...

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Stigmatic: a poem for Good Friday

[Years ago I read an account of someone—at this distance I don’t even remember who—receiving the stigmata. The detail that has stayed with me ever since was that the wounds did not come all at once, but gradually developed over several months.]   You pierced me slowly, Lord. An itch at first. Mere irritation. Then four sores. Blood seeping, Staining sock and shirt. Skin scraped away as if by Sandpaper. Why not the quick urgent thrust of a lover Breaking my virgin skin with rush of blood? Penetration completed in a moment. As swift as when nails impaled you. Your mining as ponderous and painstaking As an archeological dig. Pits Excavated in my extremities With excruciating exactness. Pressing imperceptibly deeper Precise, damaging no bones. At last you break the further skin and It is finished, your languid lancing. Four fleshy tunnels oozing gore. Flies find passage through me. Strange and sluggish God, Lord of the fords of Jabbok, Why is it that You wound all those you love? A rough wooing, yours, that Leaves us scarred and limping. And the exquisite extension of your Infliction of injury! You could shatter my hip in a second But you wait till the night-wrestle is done. What did you discover As you dug into me? What did you uncover Between muscle fibres Behind bones Beneath veins? You are the God who sees; What did you want to show when You laid me more than bare? Or are the hurts my own? My Malignant mind, my agonistic soul So fixed on the pains that were yours that I have etched them into my flesh, Deeper and sorer than any tattoo? Is it our malformed love for you that cripples us, O God of Jacob? Is there so much pain in your penumbra that To draw near is to suffer? Is it our own distortions that Break us in your light? Your glory has Gored me. Your beauty has Broken me. Your grace has Gutted me. Is it masochism that drives me to seek you still? ‘Through death you have trampled down Death’. ‘Your wounds in Beauty glorified.’ Through this long Good Friday I choose To wait For a mountain Moved. For an answer Unimagined. For the repeal of An execution. For a vivified Corpse. You have tunnelled through my body. You have undermined my soul. Distorted. Partial. Broken. I see a displaced stone. I see discarded rags. I see an empty cave. I put my hope in absence. I cannot see you. I cannot not...

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On repentance, forgiveness, and the Church of the Second Chance

My friend Natalie Collins wrote a piece a few weeks ago for the (excellent) preachweb.org site responding to an earlier piece by Martin Saunders; both reflect on how a preacher might deal with the simmering news story concerning the footballer Ched Evans, who has recently been released from prison on licence for a rape conviction, and is looking for a club to resurrect his career. He is (or was) talented enough that a number of clubs are tempted; his crime, his refusal to acknowledge his guilt, and his public lack of remorse, are together sufficiently sickening that the opinion of the public and (perhaps more crucially) that of a significant number of financial sponsors is set against at having him at any particular club. As a result a rolling story is being played out, with one club after another testing the possibility of signing him and then – in every case, so far – refusing to do so, because the financial and reputational cost is too great. Natalie does an excellent job of pointing out the structural and sociological realities that lie behind this story, and I don’t really want to address the particular narrative, other than to note my agreement with what she says. The defence offered for Evans by those who wish to employ him, or to see him employed, is uniform: ‘he’s served his time’ and deserves ‘a second chance’. The first claim is factually untrue (he is released on licence and so in law he is still serving his sentence); it is also uninteresting, at least from a Christian perspective. The interesting question here (as Martin noted) is about repentance, which is a necessary precursor to rehabilitation. What does it mean to ‘repent’ adequately? What does one need to do to be granted a ‘second chance’? The phrase, inevitably, reminded me of Anne Tyler’s excellent novel Saint Maybe. (Actually, that is redundant: it’s a novel by Anne Tyler; obviously it is excellent). The novel tells the story of the Bedloe family, and particularly of Ian Bedloe, who is at high school as it begins, but some way in is nineteen and a freshman in college. At this point he also is (or feels) responsible for the suicides of his brother and sister-in-law. Struggling with guilt, and worrying how his parents will manage to bring up the orphaned children, he finds his way into a small storefront church called ‘The Church of the Second Chance’, pastored by the Revd Emmett. He prays for forgiveness, and falls into conversation with the pastor (quotations from pp. 122-124 of my Vintage paperback edition): ‘…don’t you think? Don’t you think I’m forgiven?’ ‘Goodness, no,’ Reverend Emmett said briskly. Ian’s mouth fell open. He wondered if he’d misunderstood. He said, ‘I’m not forgiven?’ ‘Oh, no.’ ‘But … I thought that was kind of the point,’ Ian said, ‘I thought God forgives everything.’ ‘He does,’ Reverend Emmett said, ‘But you can’t just say, “I’m sorry, God.” Why, anyone could do that much! You have to offer reparation–concrete, practical reparation, according to the rules of our church.’ ‘But what if there isn’t any reparation? What if it’s something nothing will fix?’ ‘Well, that’s where Jesus comes in, of course … Jesus remembers how difficult life on earth can be … He helps with what you can’t undo. But only after you’ve tried to undo it.’ The pastor calmly tells Ian that, for him, the path to forgiveness involves dropping out of college so that he can raise the children. Ian’s response: ‘This is some kind of a test, isn’t it?’ he said finally. Reverend Emmett nodded, smiling. Ian sagged with relief. ‘It’s God’s test,’ Reverend Emmett told him … ‘God wants to know how far you’ll go to undo the harm you’ve done.’ ‘But He wouldn’t really make me follow through with it.’ Ian said. ‘How else would he know, then?’ After working through the reality of this demand, Ian explodes: ‘…What kind of a cockeyed religion is this?’ ‘It’s the religion of atonement and complete forgiveness,’ Reverend Emmett said. ‘It’s the religion of the Second Chance.’ Then he set all the hymnals on the counter and turned to offer Ian a beatific smile. Ian thought he had never seen anyone so absolutely at peace. Ian follows through on the demand, despite the horror of his parents, and the latter two-thirds of the book trace the reality of the second chance he has found through his repentance. I have some theological questions about the language Revd Emmett uses in speaking to Ian – it is a bit too much like a classical American self-help religion, ‘God helps those who help themselves’ – but there is something deep here. Real repentance must, at least, mean a burning...

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The consolations of faith: on leading on non-religious funeral

Today I led a funeral service for my grandmother; in accordance with her views, and the wishes of her children, the service was devoid of any ‘religious’ content. I found this odd. Not difficult, but odd. Obviously, when asked to do it, I said yes; it did not take any thought to decide to help family members at such a time, and I rapidly worked out that, whilst I could not lead a ceremony speaking words I did not believe, I have no problem (indeed, a fair amount of experience, one way or another) in acting with integrity in public whilst not saying certain things that I do believe. What difficultly there was lay in working out what the service was for, in order to construct an appropriate form of words (I keep saying ‘liturgy’ in my head, although that’s the one thing it definitely wasn’t…). But for a funeral that was not so hard: we come to remember; to say goodbye; to stand together in grief. There is little trouble in finding words that speak well to these purposes. Inevitably, I looked around for help; I’ve done enough liturgical work to know that there are always riches from which to borrow. That said, the Humanist material I discovered surprised me – although on reflection the problem was predictable. Like most contemporary ‘humanism’, it all failed rather badly to be nonreligious. I looked at half-a-dozen or more published patterns for a humanist funeral; every one borrowed central Christian texts, deleted the obvious references to God, and then used the filleted remains to shape the service. (Even Scripture was not immune; Eccl. 3 was several times in evidence. John Donne’s Divine Meditation XVII was also referenced more than once.) This of course reflects the reality – and the tedious banality – of too much contemporary Western atheism: take a philosophically-rich account of things; delete surface references to the divine; and assume that what is left will be meaningful or coherent or interesting. Nietzsche, the world hath need of thee… The experience itself was interesting; the defiant rebellious joy of a Christian funeral was of course absent (‘Where, death, thy sting? Where, grave, thy victory?’ (a phrase I recall Graham Tomlin describing as the liturgical equivalent of ‘You’re not singing, you’re not singing, you’re not singing anymore!’); ‘Thine be the glory, risen, conquering Son – endless is the victory thou o’er death hast won!’), but that did not feel like a huge problem. We came to say goodbye, and goodbye was said; if I personally could have said so much more, that was the absence of a wonderful bonus, not the presence of a yawning absence. I know the philosophical stuff on the obscenity of death, but my grandmother died old and full of years, and it did not feel like that. My mind went to various nonreligious weddings/civil partnerships I have attended. They were far worse; duty was heaped upon duty, and responsibility upon responsibility, and not a finger was lifted in promised help. The offering of prayer for a couple newly-wed; the humility and confidence expressed in the confession, ‘by God’s grace, I will’; the sense that these open-ended and absolute promises are undergirded by benevolent divine power – all of this, for me, is necessary to the uttering of wedding vows, or their equivalent. To commit oneself in one’s own strength to such things is an act of promethean courage, of which I at least would not be capable. All of which makes me reflect: for me – I do not generalise – the point at which I find God’s grace to be necessary for existence, and not merely a wonderful bonus, is not in thinking about what happens beyond death, but in thinking about how it is possible to live before death. I desperately need grace and strength and assurance of the forgiveness of sins not for eternity, but for tomorrow, and for tonight, and indeed for this moment right now. I respect and admire those like Nietzsche who, with eyes wide open and with no self-deception, can live and die in their own strength; at the same time I know that I am not one of them (and I recall Nietzsche’s own last years). That said, I suppose that dying will be relatively easy; everyone seems to manage to do it adequately in the end. Living is the challenge. I do not propose a general rule, but, as far as I know my own heart, for me the reality is this: I need grace to live more than I need it to...

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On the Incarnation: Four Chalcedonian Sonnets

‘Haec et mea fides est quando haec est catholica fides’ (Aug. De Trin., I.iv.7) 1. Cyril’s Second Letter to Nestorius  ‘Mother of God’ the Fathers said, and we, If we in faith with them are still to stand, Must say the same. The One born of Mary Is God in truth, united with a man. God – of the Father before all time born; Man of his mother, late in time he comes. God unchanging, not by suff’ring torn; Man in flesh and soul united with the Son. This union wondrous comes not late in life But in the womb occurs at once. And so The Holy Mother does not just bear Christ, But God the Word himself in her does grow.   In pain she pushes God, to this world come; Honour the mother, then, to confess the Son.     2. Cyril’s Synodical letter to John of Antioch ‘Mother of God she is’ – this was my cry, And all that I stepped forward to defend. Some claim – laugh at them – that I say that He Brought flesh from heaven; let this lie now end. Mother of God she is, so then how can The nature she births be not hers? So know That in the one true faith with you I stand Confession shared, the Church at peace, and so Agree do we about the made-man Son – Two natures, come together in Him – but Not mix’d, not mingled – yet the Son is one; One Christ; one Lord, united and uncut.   Christ’s church on earth knows peace. We are at one Just as two natures are in God’s own Son.     3. The Tome of Pope Leo The creed will teach – the gospels too – the faith On which alone all our salvation rests: Two natures met together, come to birth, The one person of our Saviour most blest. Each nature acts by its own property – But each co-op’rates in the other’s works – So strength meets weakness; death, eternity; Miracles shine in one; one feels its hurts. All this for us – our need, our guilt. From her Most blest he took form, but he took not fault; So taking our nature from his mother He could suffer – salvation the result.   Our hope of life is found nowhere but He Who alone could suffer impassibly.     4. The Definition of Chalcedon In Godhead perfect; in humanity Perfect too. One Son, our Lord Christ Jesus; A rational soul and body has he; And so he is consubstantial with us, Like us in ev’ry way – except our sin Alone. Consubstantial with the Father Too, born before all ages had begun; Born now of Mary, Virgin, God’s mother. Two natures, then, united in person; No change, no mixture of the natures two; No split, and nor is there separation; One hypostasis only does ensue.   Prophets and Fathers alike have taught us this: In him meet heav’n and earth with holy kiss.   Where are these from? Well, for several years, when I have taught on the Christological debates of the early fifth century, I have challenged the students to summarise some of the key documents in a tweet – the point being to test their ability to cut through to the heart of what the text was about. Each year, there would be a student or two who affected to be above tweeting, and my standard rejoinder was, ‘You can do it in a Petrarchan sonnet instead if you like!’ Somewhere along the line, I started thinking about that, originally flippant, comment… The above are Shakespearian, not Petrarchan, sonnets; I needed the extra rhymes (‘one’ ‘Son’ ‘union’ ‘homoousion’ works, but gets repetitive…). I’ve tried to focus on the doctrine, not the history. The documents chosen are those declared canonical by the Council of Chalcedon ; I’ve not treated Cyril’s third letter, declared canonical at Ephesus. A merry Christmas to all readers of this...

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