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Saying the Creeds

I call the Church of the Brethren home.  The tradition is really part of the second generation of Anabaptists (1708).  That is to say that ours is a mode of Christianity birthed both in the dawning of the Enlightenment and following the violence of political/religious struggles for power.

So what does this mean?

Primarily, it means the Brethren have a healthy skepticism of the creeds.  In the wake of the Reformation battles, the one litmus test for many regions in Europe was the recitation of the creeds.  This became increasingly important as traditions divided over which creed was acceptable and which confession of faith had legal status within a territory.  The Enlightenment responded through projects of legal and philosophical separation of faith and practice, or the privatization of belief.  Religious communities followed suit by rejecting confessions and creeds out right based on their violent and limiting use at the hands of princes and bishops.

For the early Brethren, this translated into an act of civil disobedience- they would not cite the creeds in their gatherings or in the presence of authority.  Over time we have come to understand this practice in very Anabaptist terms:  “We have no creed but the New Testament, as read in community under the guidance of the Holy Spirit.”  Some have taken this as a way to expand the historic creeds in order to include the full life of Jesus.  Others have taken this as an opening of the definition of what it means to be Christian.

In my own spiritual life, I have journeyed this open pasture and find myself resting in the frames of the creeds.  As Richard Rohr noted in his book Everything Belongs, some times the question must be explored from every angle, only to arrive back at the original answer….albeit with a whole new understanding.

So how is that this Radical Pietist, Anabaptist, and staunch critic of the Constantinian form of the Church can stand in worship and find the creeds spiritually sustaining?

First, the Nicene formula makes tw0 things clear.  God is God. And Christ is God.  In the ancient language, begotten not made, light from light, true God from true God.  So why is that important?  Early in the debates the ancient theologians wanted to maintain the distinction between creator and created.  To place the Word (Logos) on the created side of that line would be place the saving Christ on the side of those needing saved.  In essence giving sand to parched.  This made even more clear that the very salvation offered by God was a result of God’s coming to us, making even more poignant the beauty of the Christ hymn in Philippians:

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross. (2:5-8)

Or as Athansius of Alexandria said: God became human so that we could become divine.

Second, I deeply value the Chalcedonian definition (451).  For most, this means nothing.  Yet, most of our ideas about Jesus as the Christ emerge from this statement of faith and not the Nicene creed.  Each time a pastor or Sunday school teacher says Jesus Christ is both human and divine they intone the Chalcedonian definition.  More specifically they unknowingly reference its central claim that Jesus is;

one and the same Christ, Son, Lord, Only-begotten, recognized in two natures, without confusion, without change, without division, without separation; the distinction of natures being in no way annulled by the union, but rather the characteristics of each nature being preserved and coming together to form one person and subsistence, not as parted or separated into two persons, but one and the same Son and Only-begotten God the Word, Lord Jesus Christ.

Behind all the fancy language and technical terms of substance and nature is a fundamental conviction, stated clearly by Gregory of Nanzianzus but here paraphrased: That which God did not take on of the human person is not redeemed.  Here we have the Incarnation of Christ spelled out in full.  Not only does God come down, but God puts on everything of our bodied existence…and in so doing restores material living.

So what is all this to say?  Simple.  Despite the horrific uses of the ancient creeds and definitions, the theology of these texts is amazingly liberating.  God is God, yet God also so values created and embodied existence to take on flash and bone, life and death … and life.  No getting around it, the Incarnation redeems and restores bodied life, empowering us to be human beings fully alive.

In essence, this Brethren boy longs for the times of reciting the creed, times of true profession of faith.

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A Manual Transmission: A look at practices

In a recent discussion over at Carl Bowman’s blog, Brethren Cultural Landscape, I constructed a dissertation on practices and theology in just a meager few sentences.  It was a glorious effort at name dropping the greats in Practices thought; MacIntyre, Bourdieu, deCerteau, and even Hegel and Marx.  Unfortunately, it was just a comment on another blog and there were no means to creating the thousand footnotes such a thesis required.

After clicking post I explored metaphors which could capture the distinction I was making about the centrality of practices for Christian theology.  Fortunately, I was driving my truck, a 5 speed manual transmission.

Learning to drive is a process in and of itself.  Each driver must learn the mechanics of steering, acceleration, and breaking, not to mention the coordination required to manage all three at the same time.  So its no wonder that the automatic transmission was the innovation to bring automobiles to their ubiquitous presence today.  Once a driver is required to think about things like engine and road speed or even the balancing act of a clutch, the whole practice of driving changes.  No longer is the driver managing the car, in a way she is part of the machine, involved mentally and physically in the movements of the vehicle.

I can remember the first time I was encouraged to drive a manual car.  My mentor asked if I had been practicing for my driver’s examination.  Soon the conversation expanded to include the practices of a stick shift.  I declined the opportunity to try it out, but was granted the mechanical explanation of how such a transmission worked.  As he explained the process of acceleration, the movement of the gears, and the role of the clutch in keeping the engine connected to the wheels, my mentor used every hand gesture he could imagine.  It made perfect sense.  In my mind I could see the gears connecting and separating, the stick selecting the appropriate gear, and the seamless movement of the car.

The next time I had the occasion to drive such a machine came a few years later in the church parking lot.  I sat down in the driver’s seat recalling the clear mental image from my earlier conversation.  Unfortunately, the experience was not the smooth ride I had imagined.  In fact, there were several moments of restarting the car and equally as many spins of the tires before I was ready for the road. In the end, it was not the conceptual understanding which made me into the gear shifting man I am today, it was the experiences of feeling the clutch engage and listening to the sounds of the engine.

Somehow, theologians through the centuries have relegated their work to the conceptual mode.  Like explaining the gears and clutch with hand motions, our predecessors have used every school of thought and every diagram to explain the workings of God, salvation, the Church, and person of Christ.  A good theologian, then, is one who can further describe or conceptually navigate the required elements of Christian thought.

Instead, the nature of Christianity is not completely ideological.  In more philosophical terms the Christian faith is not so Hegelian in that it does not privilege the mental over the material.  It also is not the reciprocal, that is Marxist.  The Way, while emphasizing discipleship in the material world, also asks the follower to confess.  Simply stated, the Christian way of life expects the synthesis of the mental and the material, a joining of belief and practice.

So like learning to drive a manual transmission, the Christian disciple knows and believes the ideological frame yet also must intuit how such a frame works in the real world.  Our Christian life is not an either/or game, nor does it privilege one over the other.  Rather, through the practices of our faith (reading of scripture, breaking of bread, washing of feet) we learn to feel the balance of ideology and life, between the mental and the material.

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