James K.A. Smith’s review of Francis Beckwith’s Return to Rome (the best parts of which are the opening paragraphs), might on the surface appear to be a critique of Protestants who convert/revert to Catholicism.  It struck me, however, as an endorsement of just such a move. Obviously Smith disagrees with Beckwith epistemologically, and (moreso perhaps) politically, but Smith’s last paragraph simply highlighted the fact that there is room for both Beckwith and Smith within the Catholic faith.  It’s a spacious church, that Roman one.

Recently, Robert Jenson shed some new light on his attitude towards Catholicism.  Writing a “How My Mind has Changed” article for The Christian Century, Jenson explains why he and his wife Blanche “will not, we now think, become Roman Catholic, despite great empathy with formerly Lutheran or Anglican friends and allies who have.”

I have written that all Western churches should be under the jurisdiction of the bishop of Rome, in his role as patriarch of the West. I have written that the universal church needs a universal pastor and that Rome is the only place for this ministry. I stand by all that. But I have never believed and do not now believe that one’s soul is endangered merely by lacking full communion with Rome. Nor do I believe that a celebration of the Eucharist or of other of the mysteries lacks any reality or efficacy sheerly because the celebrant has not been ordained by a bishop recognized as such by Rome. Thus individuals – as distinct from churches – who are not in full communion with the bishop of Rome can and therefore must decide for themselves whether to seek it. That such individual choices are inescapable is among the punishments visited upon a divided church.

Despite his acknowledgment of Roman primacy, Jenson concludes that his family will (for now) stay Protestant, due to a “stubborn, indeed now somewhat desperate, dedication to that original ecumenical vision and an accumulation of experiences and reflections, none decisive by itself.” Which is to say, there is far more at work in the decision to convert than getting one’s theological and church historical facts straight (however important that may be).  This is something which Beckwith, it seems to me, understands.  Rather than being (as Smith claims) “a litany of facts, arguments, and propositions,” Return to Rome read to me as an attempt to respond to a litany of Protestant facts, arguments and propositions, offering the more mysterious, downright “Smithian,” both/and terrain of Catholic dogma instead.  In addition, familial factors were especially active in Beckwith’s case (which is why Smith’s “where is love?” line was odd).  Beckwith’s grandmother, wife and nephew – not just Louis Bouyer and Cardinal Newman – were key players in his decision.

It is hard to begrudge Protestants who convert to Catholicism, or Orthodoxy for that matter, especially when justification, the Reformation’s “article by which the church stands or falls,” is undergoing a very public, Protestant overhaul.  But the tragedy of a church divided can obfuscate what might otherwise be clear.  Even when conceding the superiority of another tradition, we can be bound to our own through personal history or pastoral commitments, or a bottomless sense of genuine indebtedness.  A faith formed chiefly by the New Testament will intuitively grasp the absurdity of having to choose not only Christ, but among the fragments of his broken ecclesial body as well.  But the church has been sundered, and this is our lot.

[crossposted at millinerd]

At the biennial Reformed gathering known as Together for the Gospel, Dr. J. Ligon Duncan asked Did the Fathers Know the Gospel? (hat tip: Justin). Rev. Duncan’s answer was an emphatic Yes.  “These are our people,” he asserted, proceeding to cite, nay, perform stirring passages of gospel witness from the ancient Church.  The following is a syllogism that seemed to spring naturally from this wonderful address.

Major Premise:  (in Rev. Duncan’s words, starting at 29:33) “The Fathers were best in polemics…   When you read the Fathers in any area which was a matter of dispute and debate in the church of their time, they almost always got it right, and gloriously so.”

Minor Premise:  The Iconoclastic controversy was the final Patristic showdown, the last great “matter of dispute and debate in the church of their time.”

Conclusion:  The Fathers were gloriously right on the matter of icons.

Listening to Richard Hays’ critique of N.T. Wright at Wheaton’s theology conference (hat tip Mere O) reminds us that it’s not just Wrightians versus Piperians out there (which McCracken nobly tries to reconcile), but there are Barthians in the American Protestant mix as well. How nice that they were mentioned, as the toiling Barthains are excluded far too often. (Consider the lately-here-discussed history of Predestination in America, which – despite the fact that election is Barth’s most exciting move – only mentions Barth once in connection to Robert Jenson.) So yes, it was good that Hays played the Barth card, even if my mentioning Barth now means my wife has – as is her custom – instantly fallen asleep.

However, to posit Barhianism as the great tertium quid by which to break the Piper/Wright gridlock might be a bit too generous to Barth, as if we were to credit him with the Trinity because he recovered Trinitarian theology. It is true that Barth – without forsaking history – did much to re-Christologize Scripture, restore canon and tradition, and has rescued many from the end game of historical criticism; but such moves (like his move on election) is thanks as much to the great pre-critical tradition of reading the Bible as it is to Barth himself. Hays’ critique of Wright sounded, therefore, more like an ecclesial critique of Wright with a Barthian label slapped upon it. Which is to say, Orthodox and Catholic believers could easily find themselves agreeing wholeheartedly with Hays. This, therefore, makes Hays’ critique of the Bishop (for now) of Durham very similar to the late Richard John Neuhaus’ critique of the same (which began with The Possibilities and Perils of Being a Really Smart Bishop, and ended here). In fact, Hays’ critique might be considered a sort of vindication of Neuhaus’ perspective. Sadly, however, the Neuhaus/Wright exchange did not share the same irenic tone.

The point is this: The theological division in American evangelical Protestantism circa 2010 may not be between Piperians and Wrightians, for both of those parties are arguing from similar premises. But nor, as a casual listener to Hays’ address might infer, is it between Piperwrightians and Barthians, for again, this over privileges Barth. Instead, the division – as Neuhaus understood – is between modernist evangelicals (lately galvanized by trickle-down postmoderism), and those of a more ecclesial sensibility (a category which, thankfully, includes an increasing number of evangelicals).

It is possible that the most important address related to the recent N.T. Wright and Together for the Gospel conferences was given at neither, but was instead written afterward by the astute and unassuming Brett McCracken?

I feel the same way about evangelical condemnations of technology (see Read Schuchardt for example) as I do about Pacifism: The arguments are endearing but unconvincing. That said, I’m not without some of my own Schuchardtian hesitations. First, as we all know, Apple shapes its central Manhattan store like the Kaaba. Then, U.S. availability of the iPad coincides with last night’s Great Easter Vigil, that rave reviews of the laptop killer might be mingled with our Easter rejoicing. I’m not sure if this is coincidence, intentional irreverence, or an empty hope that technology can fill the secular void. At any rate, I wonder what Apple has lined up for Yom Kippur (not to mention Judgment Day).

Today, everybody seems to love icons, often more for fashion than theological principle. It was therefore refreshing to read Christopher Benson’s post below, which returned some theology to the discussion. The author disagrees with an ecumenical – which is to say – worldwide Christian endorsement of icons. Hoping this won’t cause church division, he attempts to downgrade the matter of icons to a peripheral concern in order to promote harmony in the Body of Christ. Benson’s intentions are good, but his lack of engagement with the primary sources in the controversy at hand has lead to a very regrettable slip. Fortunately, however, his post contains the seed of its own correction.

Faced with a beautiful and persuasive defense of icons from Holly Ordway (comment #3), Benson bolsters his post with arguments from an online article on the subject. This argument against icons is as follows: To depict Christ is to succumb to the heresy of Monophysitism or Nestorianism. Benson does not seem to realize it (perhaps he does), but this argument is a direct regurgitation of the Iconoclastic argument used by Emperor Constantine V in the Iconoclastic Controversy. This argument, furthermore, was itself deemed heretical by the universal church, which (unless Protestantism sprung from the sixteenth century ex nihilo) includes Protestantism. The church, East and West, deemed the very argument that accused Iconophiles of Monophysitism or Nestorianism to be itself Monophysite and Nestorian. “The painted face does not ‘circumscribe’ divine nature or even human nature,” explains Alain Besançon. “It circumscribes the composite hypostasis of the incarnate Word. But it took time, tears, and blood for that error to be discerned and the truth confessed.” Those unfamiliar with these terms might benefit from a simplification: An essential property of being human is that a human can be depicted. Therefore, to suggest one cannot make an image of Christ is tantamount to suggesting that Christ was not fully human. It is like suggesting Christ did not have fingerprints, or that when one held a mirror up to his mouth, the mirror did not fog up.

Let us put aside the concerns as to whether the images we have of Christ are accurate (it’s hard to say), or whether or not all Christian must use icons in worship (they need not), or whether or not this position is consistent with John Calvin (I think it is). These are important, but secondary matters. What is primary is this: All Christians should be able to affirm that one could have, in principle, made a painting of or (anachronistically speaking) taken a photograph of Jesus. The advent of photography has only made this ancient argument more understandable, not less. Was Christ really there or wasn’t he? The Seventh Ecumenical Council of 787 was not merely about aesthetics; it was Christological. Its relation to the first Coucil of Nicea, which gave us the Nicene Creed, is more than coincidental. When seen in this perspective, Benson’s proposal would be like regurgitating the arguments of Arius against the divinity of Christ, and then suggesting, for harmony’s sake, that the Trinity is not that big of a deal.

Am I accusing Benson of heresy? Actually, no. Though he is, “skeptical regarding the Orthodox belief that the Incarnation repeals the Decalogue’s commandment against graven images,” Benson takes an incredible risk. In his post, with a few clicks of a button, Benson has shown us an icon of the Triumph of Orthodoxy. The medium, Marshall McLuhan understood, is the message. Benson may regard the issue of icons as peripheral, but the many martyrs and saints who suffered greatly on behalf of this crucial implication of the gospel are lined up on the bottom of that icon to remind us that it is not. If we look even closer at this image, we see that Benson is more Christologically informed than he lets on. By publishing this icon in a blog post, Benson has depicted a sacred icon of Mary, and not just Mary mind you, but the one she is pointing to, Christ. Benson the blogger has dared to depict the second person of the Trinity, but he was not wrong to do this. He is not idolatrously confining God to colorated pixels, but he is pointing us to the God who – wonder of wonders – depicted himself in the Incarnation, enabling us to, in turn, depict him.

A sermon “zinger” used to encourage church plants instead of resuscitating old churches goes like this: “It is easier to have a baby than to raise the dead!” Jesus, however, did only the latter. Evangelism is a bit more complicated than the sound bite conveys, simply because people are. Whether or not they are consciously aware of it, many non-Christians are seeking a deeper, ecclesial reality in their life, not a gospel that caters to their present one. If non-Christians go to church, or back to church, a significant percentage of them want it to look, architecturally, like a traditional church. If you doubt this assertion, look into Lifeway’s recent survey that shows it to be true.

This is why Christopher Benson’s Hosting the Holy One post on beauty in our churches is not merely a concern for hipster Christian aesthetes, but for anyone who cares about evangelism. Preserving old churches – especially our endangered pre-modern ones – should therefore be considered alongside the prospect of building new ones. (Though it is fair to hope that such restorations will not replicate the disorientation and iconoclastic purging to which some well-meaning congregations have unfortunately resorted.) Even when building anew, however, churches should consider constructing in traditional styles. A vanguard of traditional architecture, centered at Notre Dame, is growing, and as the New Liturgical Movement points out, it is not necessarily more expensive to build that way. For more, see the Institute for Sacred Architecture or Philip Bess’ excellent book Till We Have Built Jerusalem. Evangelicalism boasts a great variety of architectural styles in its history, and they can be recovered.

But, some might ask, Isn’t the pragmatic modern style of architecture more conducive to pragmatic evangelicalism? Not by a longshot. In An Architecture of Immanence, Mark Torgerson demonstrated the alliance of Protestant liberalism (to which evangelicalism is traditionally opposed) and architectural modernism. His diligently researched book concludes that flat, immanent modern architecture is uniquely suited to mid-century liberal Protestant denial of the supernatural, both of which (he seems to subtly imply) have been outmoded. Before evangelicals build in the modern, pragmatic style, therefore, they might want to consider whether or not the architecture they worship in will be counteracting the sermons preached therein for decades to come. It is impossible for architecture to be neutral.

Still, I’m not too hopeful about the possibilities for an evangelical recovery of traditional architecture. Having spurned the superior resources of Christendom, evangelicals have great difficulty detaching themselves from our dominant culture, and architecture is no exception. In addition, our economic downturn will do much to regenerate that ancient argument (John 12:5) against extravagance in worship, as if the poor were not ministered to by beauty as well. God, needless to say, does not require exquisite buildings, and “wherever two or three or gathered” still, of course, holds true. But as the “easier to have a baby than raise the dead!” dictum catches on, we best brace ourselves for Chick-fil-A church plants (available on Sundays!), or some really ugly babies.

[crossposted at North American Churches]

Imagine, for a moment, that there was a great struggle in the ancient church regarding whether or not music was conducive with Christian worship.  Thankfully, church history records mercifully few instances of this particular debate, but imagine that there was a great one.  Then imagine that an entire wing of the church succeeded in outlawing music.  Imagine next that those who (rightfully) argued that music was consistent with Christianity triumphed, and following that hard-won victory, an entire stream of Christianity – a very prominent one – arose around the victorious musicophiles, becoming in turn a tradition that emphasized music in a unique and unrivaled way.  This would all be quite natural, as often only when something is threatened do we realize how necessary it is.

Next, imagine that a 21st century music historian, seeking to shed new light on the importance of music in today’s church and in the secular concert hall, wrote a book about music and Christianity entitled “Christ and the Concert Hall.” The author, appropriately enough, found the aforementioned musically-focused ancient Christian tradition to be a dominant inspiration.  Finally, imagine that in a review of “Christ in the Concert Hall,” a gifted musician/author came along and pointed out that the author focused on “only one current” within the diverse river of Christianity.  The reviewer then went on to criticize the author of “Christ in the Concert Hall” for not focusing on other aspects of Christian history. The reviewer, furthermore, seemed to charitably imply that the author was not enough of a Barthian (because the author used abstract principles) or not enough of an N.T. Wrightian futurist (because the author didn’t focus enough on hope).  This review would, I hope you agree, be quite peculiar.  After all, when writing a book about music and Christianity, why wouldn’t one bother to emphasize that great tradition of musically-focused Christian faith, drawing upon the resources which, in God’s providence, that tradition alone could provide.

And yet, when the gifted musician/author Jeremy Begbie reviewed art historian Dan Siedell’s book God in the Gallery in the current issue of Image, Begbie appeared – ever so subtly – to take issue that Dan Siedell, in a book about art, limited himself to “one particular current within the Nicene river, the Eastern Orthodox tradition… and the council of Niceae (787 CE), the conference which established the orthodoxy of icons.”  Well of course he did!  Especially seeing that this tradition has a history of American neglect, Why wouldn’t he?   No wonder Siedell, at his blog, seems a bit miffed about the limitations of the Reformed perspective on art and the necessity of engaging the untapped art historical resources of the Orthodox Church.

I certainly hope the Protestant aesthetic [band]wagons aren’t going to circle on the issue of Christianity and art.  The Reformed, among others Protestants, have much to offer in this particular conversation.  They’ve been contributing, thankfully, for centuries, and especially so in the last few decades (thanks in no small part to Jeremy Begbie).  But the Orthodox have been doing likewise for far longer, and they’re far more experienced, and successful, in this volatile arena.  To limit oneself to Protestant resources when it comes to art may bring a satisfying sense of intellectual consistency, but it is also to ensure things get very boring, very fast.  Not as boring, mind you, as when one limits oneself (as does most of the art world) to strictly secular resources, but still pretty boring.

Valentine’s Day shouldn’t come and go without at least a mention. There’s enough myth going around about the origin of the holiday to commission a scholar to cut to the chase. This was done by the Teaching Company a good while back, I took some notes, and herewith the gritty details:

Why then the courtship connection? In the late 14th century Chaucer wrote four poems called The Parliament of Fowls. The poems took Valentine’s Day as their theme, and in them the narrator witnesses birds gathering on that day to choose their mates. Other poets borrowed the motif, probably from Chaucer. Thus by the late 14th/early 15th century Valentine and courtship were linked. Christine de Pizan et. al. would later try their hands at Valentine’s Day poems.

Researchers assumed that Chaucer chose Valentine’s Day because of the link with courtship, but there is no link between the actual St. Valentine feast on February 14th and courtship that scholars can find before Chaucer. Up until then the St. Valentine cult was only linked with epilepsy cures.

Historian Henry Ansgar Kelly has suggested that the link came about because Chaucer was thinking of Valentine of Genoa, a saint celebrated in a local Italian festival in early May. Chaucer had traveled to Genoa in 1373, and during his traveling he came across the feast day. This must have been what he had in mind when he wrote his very Springtime reflections on courtship. Contemporaries misread the poem, and associated it with the more popular St. Valentine’s day of February 14th.

Then what’s all this “Lupercalia” business? In Alban Butler’s popular Lives of the Saints (18th century), the letter of Pope Gelasius denouncing the Roman feast of Lupercalia (celebrated on February 15th) is wrongly thought to have led to the pagan festival being “replaced” by the Pope with St. Valentine’s Day. Though that interesting connection is commonly made, it’s a bogus one.

Behind Santa Claus is St. Nicholas, behind the Easter Bunny is an empty tomb, and behind candy hearts are a host of martyrs and a string of healed epileptics. The leviathan of truth swims beneath the innocent surface of what seems just a kiddy-pool of American kitsch. Glorious, quirky, messy Christendom. Count me in.

[cross-posted at millinerd]

Whenever Jason Byassee writes a guest editorial for Theology Today, don’t miss it. In the latest issue he describes his experience with young ministers:

Another sign of hope is the posture of these young ministers toward institutions. Many of my former seminary classmates left the ministry after they tried to fix things at warp speed. They tried to make the whole church pacifist. Or inerrantist. Or as inclusive as they are in their enlightened, tolerant state. All in a year or two. They wrote some articles, served a church or two, went to some conferences, and it just didn’t work. So they became Latin-Mass Catholics, for whom Pope Benedict XVI is a dangerous liberal with too compromising a posture vis-à-vis the modern world. Or they became bicycling, farmers-market shopping crusaders against carbon-based fuels. Now they look at people like us and are puzzled: “Why are you still messing around with church and those same old pitiful problems?” In their impatience they fail to see that God chooses to save corporately, through institutions… God saves by Israel and the church after all – it should be no surprise to anyone who’s even glanced at the Bible or church history that institutions are often corrupt. And as the young ministers often showed me, institutions are the most beautiful thing there is.

Of course, a given reader might find themselves quibbling with portions of Byassee’s editorial, such as his upholding Andrew Sullivan as an example of what it means to faithful to an institution you disagree with. Furthermore, a Catholic convert from Protestantism might reply: “I fully agree. Where were those arguments in the 16th century?” But those are quibbles. Like Kevin de Young, Byassee exposes the immaturity, a thwarted hunger for power, in those who are too good for institutions. Of course, such deserters are in significant company. John 6:66 comes to mind: Christ had an embarrassing public moment, after which, “many of his disciples turned back and no longer walked with him.” The verse that is the title of this post immediately followed. Would that we had a shred of the faithfulness of David, who, with a clear shot to eliminate the undeniably corrupt institutional leadership of Saul once and for all, was egged on to murder by his men, but instead replied, “The Lord forbid that I should do this thing to my lord, the Lord’s anointed” (1 Samuel 24:6).

Now, as an American evangelical, if someone could clarify to which of the dozen or so ecclesial institutions that have shaped me I should be faithful, I’ll get right on it.