A New Ritual, An Old Worldview: The Jesus of History vs. The Jesus of the Story

There were a few comments on yesterday’s blog that made me want to unpack some ideas a bit more. If you didn’t read the blog, I wrote about how maybe we need to get away from viewing the Bible as a trusted source in our spiritual lives due to the large number of tracked changes that have been made to Scripture over the years. One such statement that I want to response to is from friend and regular commenter, Nathan:

“I think the language of “lies” here is – with all kindness, friendship and respect – disingenuous. It implies a willful deception, for which we have no historical evidence – in fact quite the opposite. These changes have been studied and tracked very extensively over countless years. We do have an extensive body of data that gives us a very good indication of what has taken place and even why. The changes present certainly aren’t insidious as it seems is implied. There are very practical and agreeable reasons for many of the changes.”

Let’s get into, shall we?

I don’t disagree that we’ve tracked such changes for a very long time, and that trained historians and theologians can point out the how’s and why’s as they relate to these textual changes in scripture. Simply said, I understand why textual changes happened. People in powerful positions wanted a little more control (I have a memory of professor Ed Gentry telling me about the addition of an anti-women in ministry verse while attending his New Testament class a few years ago), to the less malicious “he who is without sin cast the first stone” verse that yesterday’s article talked about, or maybe a translator wrote down the wrong letter or word, thus changing the meaning of a verse or story. There are a myriad of reasons why these changes happened, some good reasons, but some bad, too.

Because of this I’m uncomfortable embracing a religious worldview that includes reliance on writing with obvious textual changes that are viewed as “real” or “honest” only. I am also uncomfortable with the lack of accountability from the pulpit when it comes to exegeting these verses for a group of believers.

I’m not afraid to say I’m a purist. I want to get to a ground level spirituality, or have none at all. I’m skeptical that Biblical scripture has any more to do with getting to “real-ness” than say, a piece of fiction. Both can show us grace and mystery, sacrifice and adventure, but fiction knows what it is, a narrative story that allows the rise of mystery and wonder inside ourselves (which, by the way, is pretty real to me). A piece of fiction that does this is valuable unto itself, for the thing which we want to exists in fiction intrinsically does.

Scripture, or better yet an orthodox view of Scripture asks us to embrace the Bible as something we can trust historically, even when we contextualize it and understand that say, Song of Songs is poetry, or Revelation is apocalyptic fantasy. I cannot trust the Bible as history. All I can trust is that people changed it to suit their needs, whether intentionally or unintentionally, whether for the worse or the better.

I am not skeptical of the religious text itself when viewing it anthropologically, I’m just skeptical of thinking it can be anything more than that: a piece of writing that shows us how humans use narrative to explain the hard to answer questions, that we use narrative to bring meaning to our lives.

This worldview, one that says Scripture is a collection of stories from people trying to make sense of the world around them is something I am unafraid of. However, I am sure that upon hearing this, people will accuse me of trying to live out a story that is based in fiction, as if something based in fiction is less valuable than something based in “reality.”

The subjective feelings that rise in each of us from interacting with narrative bring a certain real-ness, for we have a visceral reaction to the story. It represents a whole slew of things we feel or want to feel, things we can explain, but most often things we cannot explain. Some people upon understanding this are happy to continue to embrace the ritual of their religious tradition, viewing it as simply one of the many ways to encounter the divine which is found in our subjective, emotional experience when living out the Jesus story. Others cannot abide this.

The Jesus story is an amazingly important one that has shaped and touched most every part of the world, whether for the worse or better. It is obvious that there is power in the story, whether or not it is “real” by our 21st century standards of real-ness (standards that by the way, I don’t fully embrace). Do I believe that, for example, the resurrection literally happened? No. I don’t. But that people wrote it down, that people enact it throughout their religious rituals regularly, that people embrace this story, whether or not the story is portrayed as it literally happened doesn’t remove the story of meaning.

I assert that however such textual changes have occurred in scripture, embracing the story despite them is more than an okay thing to do. But we must hold the story loosely, and throw out the pieces that just don’t make sense culturally any longer. The difference here is embracing the Jesus of History, someone we know very little about, versus embracing the Jesus of the Story, someone portrayed to fit our need for meaning and resurrection-hope.

The Lies of the Bible

I’ve been spouting and ranting about Biblical inerrancy and how silly I believe it is for a long time. As a student of literature in college, with a major emphasis on literary theory, I learned about the creation of pieces of writing. I asked the hows and whys, wrote about contextualization, talked about hermeneutics. This, along with the existential angst and doubt that comes from a faith crisis allowed the proverbial scales to drop from my eyes and see the Bible in a new light—errors and all.

A group of New Orleans Bible scholars have been working for 10+ years to catalog all of the Bibles changes since it was first written down. The Times-Picayune (www.NOLA.com) posted an article about this endeavor almost a year ago, that was brought to my attention today:

The first phase of the researchers’ work is done. They have documented thousands of creeping changes, down to an extraneous Greek letter, across hundreds of early manuscripts from the 2nd through 15th centuries. . .

The article goes on:

Most changes are inconsequential, the result of mere copying errors, or the replacement of a less common word for a more common word.

But others are more important. They meant something.

For example, the famous tale in John’s Gospel in which Jesus challenges a mob about to stone a woman accused of adultery — “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” — is a variant that copyists began inserting into John at least 300 years after that Gospel first appeared.

In the conclusion to Mark, the description of Jesus appearing to various disciples after his resurrection does not appear in the earliest manuscripts.

And in Luke, the crucified Jesus’ plea that his executioners be forgiven “for they know not what they are doing” likewise does not appear in the earliest versions of his Gospel.

Now, this idea of the Bible being changed does not rock the boat for me. From the few elementary biblical studies classes I took in my undergrad, I learned of these changes. However coming to terms with the fact that the Bible has undergone shifts and edits, additions and subtractions, can be utterly devastating if your faith relies on a succinct, dogmatic hierarchy of belief based out of literal interpretation from the pages of the Biblical Canon.

So, how can one embrace a faith built on a bed of lies, albeit minor textual lies? And, if Christianity is really built on the writing, re-writing and editing of human beings attributing what they want, when they want, to the Jesus story, is it worth continuing to embrace the Christian ritual? How does one fit these findings into their theology?

Read the full NOLA article here.

Subvert That Norm

I can’t manage to make this conference, but some of my favorite thinkers are going to be there. If you can, you should make a trip out of it!

What is Subverting the Norm?

SUBVERTING THE NORM is a two-day event that brings together pastors, theologians, philosophers, church practitioners, researchers in religion and all those interested in exploring the relationship between postmodern theologies and the church. Some of the questions we’ll consider include:

Can the actually existing churches speak meaningfully and persuasively to those who aren’t so sure about the supernatural or the magical or the metaphysical, which includes the fastest growing religious demographic in North America, the “nones,” those with no formal religious affiliation?

Can the church retain a viable role in a world where God is often viewed as a relic of the past, or as a grand Santa Claus in the sky, or perhaps even as a narcotic or neurosis that we’d do well to get rid of?

And if the churches are to be faithful to the revolutionary event that gave birth to Christianity, or if they are to recover their theological voice in a compelling and transformative way, is it possible to do so by listening to voices on the margins of the church, or outside of the church, including even those who might rightly pass for atheists? And perhaps more to the point, why are voices on the fringes of the church, or outside of the church, becoming more influential on church leaders and practitioners than the traditionally “orthodox” voices inside the churches?

Read more about the conference here.

Religious Fragments

My internet friend Brandon posted this on facebook today:

“Perhaps not one religion contains all of the truth of the world. Perhaps every religion contains fragments of the truth, and it is our responsibility to identify those fragments and piece them together.”

- Christopher Paolini

What do you think about this idea?

RoD: Get Your Free Copy of the RoD eBook!

Well, the sun is shining and it is my hope that the words published these past few months brought a bit of light and hope to the darkest part of these dreary winter months. Solidarity in darkness is a beautiful thing, and I really feel we did that with the RoD project this year.

Just because RoD reflections have come to a close this year doesn’t mean you have to wait until next winter to continue reflecting. The Reflections on Darkness project will be available to you for free as a PDF eBook.

If you’d like to grab a copy, go to the RoD Facebook Page and send a message with your email address. Once the final touches are done to the book, it will be sent to you!

Peace + Rest,

Brianna Kocka

RoD: Occupying the Darkness

By Dain Girodat

“It’s cold

it’s dark

it’s prehistoric

the way the snow sticks to the tree’s branches

so I you-tube the warmth and sunshine.”

Forgive me for feeling like Helen Keller, but it’s the first day of the New Year and I’m in the thick of the North Country. It’s nine-thirty, maybe ten o’clock pm and a few good friends and I have stocked the wood stoves and supper is being served. The soup is hot, the bread is sliced, the salad is green and cheesy and cold and the peppers await us stewed on our plates. We’ve turned out all the lodge lights, and extinguished the table candles’ flames. It is as dark as we can possibly make it. We sit giggling unable to distinguish the familiar forms around us. We dig in. Our forks are first to go, we abandon them to use our hands instead; our fingers scramble the table in search of the carafe of wine. Some of us close our eyes, some stare into the black, and others look down at the table where usually the plates and bowls would be visibly spilling over with delightful entrees. We pass bread at the wanting voices.

What a new experience, a slight, dull moon and star glow pressing through the patio window and from the cracks of doors while the foods’ flavors excel and intensify, the cinnamon spice, beans and citrus hints warming the body and soul as I search my salad for an olive and handfuls of fried plantains are pressed into my palm from another palm and my tongue dances with the sweet and sensual yogurt sauce; the party laughs, stuffing, slurping, sucking, we devour dinner, joking of our primitiveness, we finish with no eyeing the second helpings. Our bellies full, there’s no picking at the scraps thinking; “I’ll just finish this off so it does not go to waste”, but that “I’m full–I’m contented.” With no one watching I lift my plate and lick it clean completely satisfied with this visionless supper prepared with love by myself and my friends. I sigh, we light a candle and the single flame seems as luminescent as sun rise while my vision awakes to the table of smiling faces.

It’s dark

It’s cold

It changes, darkness in the light, light where there’s darkness.

RoD: My Own Darkness

By Rachael Barham

Can we even see our own darkness? It shrouds us so that we walk around blinded, ignorant of the shadows we cast as we go.

A Thursday night, driving home from an evening lit by conversation and laughter over a shared meal. My husband Jeremy points out the way I have just cut off and insulted a friend, thinking only of myself. I can’t see it. I protest and defend, explain and excuse, insisting on my own unflickering light, clawing back the darkness of an accusation that threatens to snuff out for me the evening’s warm flame.

But thank God for the light of another’s eyes – faltering though it may be, though we all are. My mind’s eye cannot turn away from our friend’s turned-down gaze remembered, nor from the painful truth shining clear in Jeremy’s eyes. In the dark of the car, I finally allow myself to see the light, the light of my own darkness: that blindly insisting on my own desires over those of another has darkened my thoughts, making my actions and words ugly and small-minded. And the truth I am trying the hardest to ignore? That this darkness is not some strange anomaly or momentary lapse; it is part of me. Hesitatingly, I confess what I have fought not to see; his eyes brighten and he thanks me. The darkness does not entirely disappear but I have admitted the light of truth, and opened myself to the light of forgiveness and loving acceptance from another. I find that my shadows have not overtaken me and do not need to define me.

I have spent too much of my life trying to hide parts of myself that I consider dark, undesirable, unacceptable or unlovable. I have tried to hide from others and to hide from God. But maybe all my hiding has really been from myself. It is myself I do not want to look in the eye.

But why? Why do I even attempt to hide from these very real parts of myself?

I hide because I believe that my darkness (or what I consider darkness) must be hidden. I hide because I believe certain parts of me – too shadowy or, ironically, too brilliant – cannot be loved. And this becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, for what I never reveal, never admit, can never be loved.

A Sunday morning, still dark. I wake up from a brief, simple, but horrifying, dream: my small daughter is locked in our empty apartment upstairs and she is screaming with terror. She is abandoned, unheard, isolated and utterly terrified. I feel this fear myself, immediately and viscerally, and all I want to do is rescue and protect her. But when the light of dawn breaks and I reflect more consciously on this dream, I have the sense that my daughter represents myself, or the parts of myself that I have shut away because I am afraid to let them be seen. But this precious, beautiful and inevitably flawed part of me does not want to be locked away, living in my house and yet cut off from life; she is crying and screaming out to be heard, found and embraced. And only I can do this.

So, every day, I try to unlock the doors that separate and isolate: by trying to apologize promptly and unreservedly to my beloveds when my shadows twist themselves into shapes that wound; by being brave enough to ask a friend if I’ve offended her, ready for whatever the answer may be; by making regular space for honest self-reflection and prayer; by daring to speak of the thing that I am secretly passionate about or that I feel should not be bothering me quite this much; by trying to reveal rather than veil my beauty, my gift, my strength, while not denying my weakness and my uncertainty. And though the key can feel hard to turn – the lock rusty with shame and fear – once unlocked I am surprised by the easy swing of an insubstantial door, and by the rush of light and love that always greets me, where I thought there was only a lonely and fearful darkness.

And so, choice by choice, my house – my self – is gradually becoming a seamless whole.

In me there is light and there is darkness.

And there is nothing to fear.