P.OST

I have, for some time, had a bee in my bonnet about the penal substitutionary atonement debate. There are those, on the one hand, who think it sits right at the indigestible core of a sound understanding of the atoning significance of Jesus’ death; and there are those, on the other, who think it sucks. To my mind there is a solid alternative that emerges when we put on our dogmatic-noise-cancelling ear-phones and sit and read the Scriptures as historical narrative, which in the broadest and simplest sense is what they are.

I came across a discussion on Derek Flood’s Rebel God blog, which got the bee buzzing furiously again. In his post Derek is primarily concerned to refute a penal substitutionary reading of Isaiah 53. I think he is quite right to say that ‘this is not a picture of the satisfaction of the demands of justice’, but I’m not sure that this makes the word ‘penal’ redundant. There is at least a difference to note between God directly punishing Jesus in order to satisfy the demands of justice and Jesus being implicated in the direct punishment of Israel (in order to satisfy the demands of the Law). It seems to me that the best argument for a narratively limited and historically informed (that is a crucial qualification) doctrine of penal substitutionary atonement is the fact that Jesus died on a Roman cross in anticipation of the punishment of Israel by the instrumentality of the besieging Roman armies, who crucified Jews willy nilly.

Following some discussion on James McGrath’s blog about the thesis of The Coming of the Son of Man, Antonio Jerez has promised to shoot the book full of holes some time in the not too distant future. To facilitate this act of wanton destruction I have copied below an initial criticism made by Antonio and the response I gave on McGrath’s blog.

Stephen Fowl has written a very enjoyable, lively, lucid, little book about hermeneutics called Theological Interpretation of Scripture (2009). But I’m having a hard time accepting some of the implications of his central argument, which is that priority should be given to theology (specifically the premise of the self-revelation of the triune God) over historical-criticism in the interpretation of scripture.

Fowl maintains that although biblical scholarship for the most part should be understood as an attempt to ‘display the communicative intentions of biblical writers’, this should not be the primary consideration for theological interpretation of scripture. The significance of this prioritization is brought out in what strikes me as a particularly troublesome paragraph (49).

The J. Craig Venter Institute has announced that it has successfully created the first living cell by means of man-made genetic instructions. Venter told The Times:

It is our final triumph. This is the first synthetic cell. It’s the first time we have started with information in a computer, used four bottles of chemicals to write up a million letters of DNA software, and actually got it to boot up in a living organism.

Inevitably the breakthrough will provoke much bewildered and alarmist debate among Christians, highly sensitized by the long-running cultural wars over evolution, abortion, and stem-cell research, about the ethics of creating and manipulating life at such a fundamental level. All that’s probably unavoidable and maybe necessary; but it could also cause us to miss a more subtle and more significant transformation that is taking place.

In his disappointing and underachieving book The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ, Philip Pullman has a disillusioned Jesus pray to the emptiness in Gethsemane. There are no miracles, no healings, no answers to prayer – he cannot keep making promises that God never fulfils. There will be no great coming of the Kingdom of God, no dramatic divine infraction in the lifetime of the people who had heard him teach. Maybe his brother Christ was right when he talked about ‘this great organisation, this church of his that was going to serve as the vehicle for the Kingdom on earth’ (197). Jesus’ whole being revolts against the prospect because he can see what will happen, how the devil will rub his hands with glee – the extravagant temples and palaces, the aggression, the exploitation of the poor and of the innocent and not least of the children…

I have been reading a book by Cory Labanow called Evangelicalism and the Emerging Church (Ashgate, 2009) for the purpose of writing a review for the Evangelical Quarterly. The book is an ethnographical study of a rather poorly camouflaged Vineyard congregation in the UK that has expressly associated itself with the ‘emerging church’ movement. The research was done in 2003-04, and in the fast-moving world of contemporary ecclesiology it is likely that a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then for all concerned. But it is an interesting example of how such formal academic work might cast light on the dilemma of the emerging church and its difficult relationship with modern evangelicalism.

When we think of the words ‘gospel’ or ‘evangelism’, what invariably comes to mind is the church telling people (often reluctantly) that God loves them, that Jesus died for them, and that if they believe in this good news, they will have the assurance of eternal life, by which is usually meant life after death in heaven. This is a very inadequate synopsis of how the word euangelion (‘good news’ or ‘gospel’) and the verb euangelizō (‘to proclaim good news’) are used in the New Testament. The problem essentially is that these important biblical categories have been extracted from their original context and modified to fit an understanding of Christianity as a universal, a-historical system of belief, whose ultimate objective is to secure eternal life. If we restore these categories to their natural environment (see also ‘How to rescue Romans from the fish tank of Reformed theology and return it to the sea of history’), what emerges is a powerful story about how a devastating crisis in the history of the people of God came to be interpreted as good news for the world.

I regard myself as an evangelical, but the social and intellectual structures that have sustained and made sense of modern evangelicalism are disintegrating, and it is not at all clear that modern evangelicalism can or should survive their collapse. My broad aim as a theologian is to endeavour to renew the biblical framework within which a new, transposed ‘evangelical’ commitment might emerge, one that might provide self-understanding and motivation for the church as it confronts an uncertain future. The key to this undertaking, in my view, is first to recover the contingent historical perspective of the New Testament as it imagined its own future – a programme which will, in fact, get us to the heart of New Testament theology; and then to set about the creative and adventurous task of re-imagining new futures for ourselves consistent with that critically, realistically, and faithfully reconstructed narrative. If you like, this constitutes a rough manifesto for this website.

Here’s an extraordinary insight into the historical Jesus from an ancient source that is unquestionably independent of the Gospels. The historian Josephus, writing a few years after the disastrous Jewish uprising against Roman occupation, describes Jesus as a rustic from the provinces who came to Jerusalem at the time of the Feast of Tabernacles and began publicly to prophesy impending disaster for the city.

In a display of extra-legal frustration, leaders of the Jews had him arrested and severely beaten. Jesus submitted to the chastisement without complaint, merely reiterating his belief that the city and the people were doomed. Supposing that ‘this was a sort of divine fury in the man’, the authorities brought him before the Roman procurator, who had him whipped until his bones were exposed. But, Josephus tells us, Jesus did not ‘make any supplication for himself, nor shed any tears, but turning his voice to the most lamentable tone possible, at every stroke of the whip his answer was, “Woe, woe to Jerusalem!”’ When the procurator questioned Jesus about his identity and the meaning of his dismal message, Jesus refused to answer. Seeing no great threat in the man the procurator washed his hands of him, but in the end Jesus was killed by the Romans.