As promised, a post about everybody's favorite topic: semi-Pelagianism! I know you're excited.
Before I talk about semi-Pelagianism, it's worthwhile to talk about regular Pelagianism. Pelagianism was a heresy in the church that basically claimed that human beings could (and indeed, had to) earn their salvation by doing good works. The argument went like this: God is just and fair. Therefore, God would not command us to do things that we were incapable of doing. Therefore, it must be possible to fulfill all of God's commandments. Therefore, we must fulfill all of God's commandments. (Therefore, etc, QED.) This heresy was put down, but its descendant, semi-Pelagianism, challenged the church as well. This form of Pelagianism is still present in the modern day. Semi-Pelagianism is willing to deny almost everything in Pelagianism, but holds on to one little point, and by that point falls into the same problem. In short, semi-Pelagians argue that God does everything necessary for our salvation except (and this is the problem) for taking the step to make it effective. In other words, God does everything for us, but we have to accept it through faith. It's described nowadays with images like, "God has done everything for you, he's opened the door, now you just have to walk through" or "God has done everything, it's all there, the water is hooked up to the faucet, you just have to turn the faucet on." The problem is, any formulation of salvation based on this model (God has done everything except...) boils down to the old heresy of Pelagianism, or what Lutherans call "works righteousness".
Why is this a problem? There are a lot of arguments that can be brought against Pelagianism, but I like this one: if there is any human action necessary for salvation, then God could come to a person and say, "I want to save you," and the person could respond, "No. I don't or can't believe or do what you want me to." In short, it makes God's power and will subject to human power and will; and while we don't have to accept that God is omnipotent (see my earlier post on the Greek view of God), we do affirm that God's power is incomparably greater than our own, so it cannot be subject to anything created.
In short, the opposition of faith and works is flawed in semi-Pelagianism because faith becomes a work. As Luther says (and Paul before him, of course), human beings are justified by faith, not by works—but that necessitates that faith must not be a work. Faith is not the result of human will; it is given by God. Now, if we ask why God gives faith, we get into another debate—whether faith is given to those whom God chooses to save, and not to others (predestination), or whether salvation is universal, and faith is given to some for the assurance of salvation (universal salvation). I'll leave that one up to you.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
East Versus West
I grew up in New Mexico, and my closest connections in the Lutheran church are in New Mexico and California. So it was a bit of a shock to move to the East Coast, as you might expect. The weather hasn't actually been that big a transition, nor the landscape. Sure, there are differences, but they are overwhelming.
The biggest difference I've noticed—and granted, this is as a seminary student, so it's kind of a unique change that I'm adjusting to—is the difference between East Coast and West Coast Lutheranism. The vast majority of my fellow students are from this area, or from such far-flung locales as North Carolina and Ohio. There's actually only one student I can think of who's from further west than the Midwest—he's from Colorado (there's also one person from North Dakota and one from South Dakota, but that still seems like the Midwest to me). At some point early in the semester, I talked to a few students from the East Coast who had visited Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary (the "western" seminary, located in Berkeley, California) before deciding to come to Gettysburg. They mentioned that the people at PLTS had talked about the difference between East Coast and West Coast Lutheranism, but these students had been confused about what this difference actually was.
I've thought about this a bit, and I decided to share my insights. If I sound overly biased towards my western roots, I apologize—but, well, it's what I'm used to. At the end of the day, I don't really believe that one is better than the other; each has its unique challenges and its unique advantages. There are certainly differences, for good or for bad.
A little history is helpful to understand the difference. Lutheranism obviously had a long history in Europe before it came to America, but when it came, it primarily came to the East Coast (and Midwest, of course). In the west, the predominant religion historically was Roman Catholicism, and that is clearly evident in New Mexico, and from what I've seen, in California, too. As a result, Lutheranism in the west is relatively new. In the west, you don't see any 150- or 200-year-old Lutheran churches; there simply isn't that long history in the west. As a result, there seems to be less of a sense of dynasty or "this is how we've always done it, my family has been in this church for four generations". As a result, churches out west seem to be slightly more flexible (churches are always stubborn and resistant to change, but there are degrees within the trend). There's less resistance to change because there's simply less history providing inertia to the church.
The other big difference is simply the density of Lutherans. Again, in Pennsylvania and Minnesota, there are enough Lutherans to kill an army of cod (sorry, lutefisk joke). The east coast generally has more Lutherans than there are out west. It seems that on the East Coast, this breeds a certain complacency—there are tons of Lutherans, there will always be Lutherans, we can be as Lutheran as we want to, and we don't really need to branch out and reach other people. This is an exaggeration, of course, but this is the direction that churches seem to tend out here. In the west, Lutherans are faced with a world of challenges; I remember going to a synod assembly in Colorado, and all the Lutherans from Utah were primarily interested in dealing with the Mormon church. That was their challenge; they seemed almost desperate to figure out how to be Lutheran in a Mormon state. In New Mexico, again, the predominant force is Roman Catholocism; not that it is a threat, but simply that it pervades the culture. You can't get away from it. At least my home church responded to these challenges with consistent and determined ecumenism. They worked with all the other churches—they had to. There were no other Lutherans around. Personally, I appreciate that ecumenism, because I think our similarities are far more important than our differences.
So that's my two cents on the East-West divide. Like I said, I'm biased toward what I know, but I don't mean to be dismissive of East Coast Lutheranism, and certainly not of East Coast Lutherans. And I'm grateful for this learning experience, because I think it's important to get out of your comfort zone and see what different people do in different circumstances.
The biggest difference I've noticed—and granted, this is as a seminary student, so it's kind of a unique change that I'm adjusting to—is the difference between East Coast and West Coast Lutheranism. The vast majority of my fellow students are from this area, or from such far-flung locales as North Carolina and Ohio. There's actually only one student I can think of who's from further west than the Midwest—he's from Colorado (there's also one person from North Dakota and one from South Dakota, but that still seems like the Midwest to me). At some point early in the semester, I talked to a few students from the East Coast who had visited Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary (the "western" seminary, located in Berkeley, California) before deciding to come to Gettysburg. They mentioned that the people at PLTS had talked about the difference between East Coast and West Coast Lutheranism, but these students had been confused about what this difference actually was.
I've thought about this a bit, and I decided to share my insights. If I sound overly biased towards my western roots, I apologize—but, well, it's what I'm used to. At the end of the day, I don't really believe that one is better than the other; each has its unique challenges and its unique advantages. There are certainly differences, for good or for bad.
A little history is helpful to understand the difference. Lutheranism obviously had a long history in Europe before it came to America, but when it came, it primarily came to the East Coast (and Midwest, of course). In the west, the predominant religion historically was Roman Catholicism, and that is clearly evident in New Mexico, and from what I've seen, in California, too. As a result, Lutheranism in the west is relatively new. In the west, you don't see any 150- or 200-year-old Lutheran churches; there simply isn't that long history in the west. As a result, there seems to be less of a sense of dynasty or "this is how we've always done it, my family has been in this church for four generations". As a result, churches out west seem to be slightly more flexible (churches are always stubborn and resistant to change, but there are degrees within the trend). There's less resistance to change because there's simply less history providing inertia to the church.
The other big difference is simply the density of Lutherans. Again, in Pennsylvania and Minnesota, there are enough Lutherans to kill an army of cod (sorry, lutefisk joke). The east coast generally has more Lutherans than there are out west. It seems that on the East Coast, this breeds a certain complacency—there are tons of Lutherans, there will always be Lutherans, we can be as Lutheran as we want to, and we don't really need to branch out and reach other people. This is an exaggeration, of course, but this is the direction that churches seem to tend out here. In the west, Lutherans are faced with a world of challenges; I remember going to a synod assembly in Colorado, and all the Lutherans from Utah were primarily interested in dealing with the Mormon church. That was their challenge; they seemed almost desperate to figure out how to be Lutheran in a Mormon state. In New Mexico, again, the predominant force is Roman Catholocism; not that it is a threat, but simply that it pervades the culture. You can't get away from it. At least my home church responded to these challenges with consistent and determined ecumenism. They worked with all the other churches—they had to. There were no other Lutherans around. Personally, I appreciate that ecumenism, because I think our similarities are far more important than our differences.
So that's my two cents on the East-West divide. Like I said, I'm biased toward what I know, but I don't mean to be dismissive of East Coast Lutheranism, and certainly not of East Coast Lutherans. And I'm grateful for this learning experience, because I think it's important to get out of your comfort zone and see what different people do in different circumstances.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Trinity and Christology
As you might expect from the name, my class on the Early Church and Its Creeds is concerned with the development of the creeds in the first several centuries of Christianity. The two major issues defined by these ecumenical councils (Nicea, Constantinople, Chalcedon) were the nature of the Trinity and the nature of Christ. The outcomes of these councils are familiar to many Christians—that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are distinct from one another but all equally God, and that Christ was fully human and fully divine.
But the history behind those conclusions was anything but simple. People were killed over these controversies. The debates were long and drawn-out, and turned on the most minute of semantic distinctions. Political intrigue played a role, as did regional loyalties.
I'm not going to discuss the details in this post. You can look them up easily... probably on Wikipedia. I wanted to address a broader question, namely—why should anyone care? If we figured it out, why do all those details and all that history matter? I bring up this question because it's a pretty accurate summary of my thoughts going into this class back at the beginning of the semester. I know the doctrine of the trinity and that pertaining to Christ's nature; why do I need to know the arguments and dissention that it took to reach those conclusions?
I think I'm beginning to understand the answers to those questions. The truth is, the basic sense of the trinity and Christ's nature were present among the earliest Christians, and are reflected in the New Testament. For the trinity, the liturgical formula used for baptism "in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit" contained the essential understanding of the equal importance of all three. As for Christology, the Gospels point over and over to the dual nature of Christ. The reason the debates over these issues were so heated was that there was already a deep-seated understanding which was threatened by various heresies. What was being debated in the councils was how these things could be true; and although the theological arguments are hard to wade through, their basic concern is still important.
While I don't think that everyone needs to know the twists and turns that led up to the ecumenical councils, I do think that it's important to know that they happened and why. These debates were matters not just of life and death, but of salvation; if it was asserted that Christ was not fully human and fully divine, then his saving work would not be effective. For those who are interested, learning about ousia and hypostases can be informative; but what I think is more important is the recognition that this seemingly esoteric theological debate was actually based on concerns for people's well-being. In the same way, we talk a lot in seminary about the specific details of theology or liturgy or Biblical interpretation, but we also always consider the "pastoral concerns," namely—what should be said to someone who needs to hear the assurance of salvation, or needs to know the essential message of the gospel? It is these concerns that ultimately drive our work in the church.
But the history behind those conclusions was anything but simple. People were killed over these controversies. The debates were long and drawn-out, and turned on the most minute of semantic distinctions. Political intrigue played a role, as did regional loyalties.
I'm not going to discuss the details in this post. You can look them up easily... probably on Wikipedia. I wanted to address a broader question, namely—why should anyone care? If we figured it out, why do all those details and all that history matter? I bring up this question because it's a pretty accurate summary of my thoughts going into this class back at the beginning of the semester. I know the doctrine of the trinity and that pertaining to Christ's nature; why do I need to know the arguments and dissention that it took to reach those conclusions?
I think I'm beginning to understand the answers to those questions. The truth is, the basic sense of the trinity and Christ's nature were present among the earliest Christians, and are reflected in the New Testament. For the trinity, the liturgical formula used for baptism "in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit" contained the essential understanding of the equal importance of all three. As for Christology, the Gospels point over and over to the dual nature of Christ. The reason the debates over these issues were so heated was that there was already a deep-seated understanding which was threatened by various heresies. What was being debated in the councils was how these things could be true; and although the theological arguments are hard to wade through, their basic concern is still important.
While I don't think that everyone needs to know the twists and turns that led up to the ecumenical councils, I do think that it's important to know that they happened and why. These debates were matters not just of life and death, but of salvation; if it was asserted that Christ was not fully human and fully divine, then his saving work would not be effective. For those who are interested, learning about ousia and hypostases can be informative; but what I think is more important is the recognition that this seemingly esoteric theological debate was actually based on concerns for people's well-being. In the same way, we talk a lot in seminary about the specific details of theology or liturgy or Biblical interpretation, but we also always consider the "pastoral concerns," namely—what should be said to someone who needs to hear the assurance of salvation, or needs to know the essential message of the gospel? It is these concerns that ultimately drive our work in the church.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Rainy Days and Mondays...
I think I'll go for a short post tonight, since I don't feel like putting in a lot of effort.
My Introduction to the Old Testament class has been more interesting than I expected, and perhaps interesting in different ways than I expected. A lot of what we've covered I had picked up along the way—from source criticism, which I learned about when I took EfM in high school, to the formative nature of the exodus narrative to the people of Israel, which was a subject in my sophomore seminar at St. John's. What's been most helpful to me has actually been the immersion into the Old Testament. I've always found it difficult to get a broad sense of what the Old Testament was about... how all those genaeologies and stories about kings and those weird lesser prophets fit together. Our course has focused a lot on the historical shape of the narrative; we have discussed both the narrative as it appears in the Scriptures, and also the historical context as it's been put together from other sources. This broad view has helped me to integrate my understanding of the Old Testament into a more cohesive picture of the whole. I'm starting to see how the law relates to the histories, and the prophets to them both. Taking Hebrew at the same time has certainly contributed to my understanding; knowing a little something about the language allows me to see the perspective of the authors a little better.
My Introduction to the Old Testament class has been more interesting than I expected, and perhaps interesting in different ways than I expected. A lot of what we've covered I had picked up along the way—from source criticism, which I learned about when I took EfM in high school, to the formative nature of the exodus narrative to the people of Israel, which was a subject in my sophomore seminar at St. John's. What's been most helpful to me has actually been the immersion into the Old Testament. I've always found it difficult to get a broad sense of what the Old Testament was about... how all those genaeologies and stories about kings and those weird lesser prophets fit together. Our course has focused a lot on the historical shape of the narrative; we have discussed both the narrative as it appears in the Scriptures, and also the historical context as it's been put together from other sources. This broad view has helped me to integrate my understanding of the Old Testament into a more cohesive picture of the whole. I'm starting to see how the law relates to the histories, and the prophets to them both. Taking Hebrew at the same time has certainly contributed to my understanding; knowing a little something about the language allows me to see the perspective of the authors a little better.
Friday, November 14, 2008
The Greeks and the Bible
There's a pervasive issue that seems to come up again and again in my classes this year. It's most pertinent to Early Church and Its Creeds, but it also influences my Biblical studies classes and all our discussions of theology. It even comes up in the context of worship and liturgy. The issue is that of the Greeks. Simply put, the problem is this: a long-standing Biblical (and Hebrew) tradition, with all its understanding of God, crashed headlong into a powerful philosophical tradition coming out of Ancient Greece. You can see it in Paul's preaching in Athens, recorded in Acts 17. When the early Christian church accepted that Gentiles could be accepted along with Jews, there was a clash of ideas and ideologies which has affected the church ever since.
So what's the big deal? The God of the Israelites is, so to speak, a God who gets down into the mud and muck of his creation. He is actively involved; he participates with humanity in time and space; he changes his mind. An argument can even be made that he is not all-knowing. In contrast, the Greek idea of god (note here that I'm not referring to the pantheon of Homer and Greek mythology, but to the philosophers, especially Plato and Aristotle and their schools) is exemplified by the "unmoved mover". According to the Greeks, the divinity is unchanging, unmovable, and eternal; it is separated from the corrupt world of our experience. In fact, god cannot even be associated with lower, corrupt nature.
Likewise, the view taken of human nature is very different. The Biblical view is that the human race, while it is certainly sinful and disobedient, is part of God's creation, which is described in Genesis as "very good". Humanity, though it can reach the absolute depths of cruelty and sin, is still presented with the hope of meeting God (through God's gracious faith to his covenant). For the Greeks, on the other hand, anything changeable is bad and anathema to the divine. It is only the soul, which is eternal like god, that is viewed positively. Humankind's only hope of participating with the divine is through the elevation of the soul to the level of the eternal god; this is best seen in the later Platonist, Plotinus.
It seems hard to fathom how these two ideologies could come together in Christianity. Indeed, it seems to me that this tension is the source of some of the most difficult theological and Biblical questions. It was in trying to lay the Greek ideal onto the Biblical account that real problems and schisms happened in the church—just as one example, the claim that Jesus was truly God seemed impossible to many because God cannot be born, grow up, suffer and die. Even today, we are faced with this tension. If God knew from the outset that Adam and Eve would fall, why didn't he stop them—or, even more troubling, in what sense did they have free will? If Jesus was God, and knew he would suffer, die, and yet be raised to glory, how were his actions humble obedience? If we're supposed to become like God, heirs of the kingdom, then don't we have to deny everything on this plane of existence?
These questions, and others, are incredibly complex, and I have no intention of answering them. All I want to suggest is that they may be easier to understand if we recognize the tension inherent in all our thinking about God and creation, a tension which comes from our dual heritage. In the end, I believe we should lean on the Biblical account and deny the Greek philosophical claims when we see them contradicting the Bible; and in fact, many of the heresies the church has faced (heresies might be a worthwhile subject for a later post) can be understood as affirming philosophy over scripture.
It seems to me that the early church tried to use Greek philosophy as a way of protecting their image—when the Roman world believed that they were cannibals (they ate body and blood at communion) and engaged in incestuous orgies (they talked about loving brother and sister)—Christian apologists tried to show that Christianity was in fact perfectly reasonable and not as crazy as it sounded. Justin Martyr was the best example of this: he claimed that the logos of the Greek philosophers (logos, or reason, being so vitally important in that philosophy) was identical with the logos of Christianity (logos, or Word, John's description of Christ), and that anyone who followed reason actually followed Christ (including Socrates). This was an important and necessary work for the early church, and I think they were right to do it. However, in the church today, we are not faced with such challenges, and it remains for us to try to separate out again philosophy and gospel, insofar as they contradict one another.
So what's the big deal? The God of the Israelites is, so to speak, a God who gets down into the mud and muck of his creation. He is actively involved; he participates with humanity in time and space; he changes his mind. An argument can even be made that he is not all-knowing. In contrast, the Greek idea of god (note here that I'm not referring to the pantheon of Homer and Greek mythology, but to the philosophers, especially Plato and Aristotle and their schools) is exemplified by the "unmoved mover". According to the Greeks, the divinity is unchanging, unmovable, and eternal; it is separated from the corrupt world of our experience. In fact, god cannot even be associated with lower, corrupt nature.
Likewise, the view taken of human nature is very different. The Biblical view is that the human race, while it is certainly sinful and disobedient, is part of God's creation, which is described in Genesis as "very good". Humanity, though it can reach the absolute depths of cruelty and sin, is still presented with the hope of meeting God (through God's gracious faith to his covenant). For the Greeks, on the other hand, anything changeable is bad and anathema to the divine. It is only the soul, which is eternal like god, that is viewed positively. Humankind's only hope of participating with the divine is through the elevation of the soul to the level of the eternal god; this is best seen in the later Platonist, Plotinus.
It seems hard to fathom how these two ideologies could come together in Christianity. Indeed, it seems to me that this tension is the source of some of the most difficult theological and Biblical questions. It was in trying to lay the Greek ideal onto the Biblical account that real problems and schisms happened in the church—just as one example, the claim that Jesus was truly God seemed impossible to many because God cannot be born, grow up, suffer and die. Even today, we are faced with this tension. If God knew from the outset that Adam and Eve would fall, why didn't he stop them—or, even more troubling, in what sense did they have free will? If Jesus was God, and knew he would suffer, die, and yet be raised to glory, how were his actions humble obedience? If we're supposed to become like God, heirs of the kingdom, then don't we have to deny everything on this plane of existence?
These questions, and others, are incredibly complex, and I have no intention of answering them. All I want to suggest is that they may be easier to understand if we recognize the tension inherent in all our thinking about God and creation, a tension which comes from our dual heritage. In the end, I believe we should lean on the Biblical account and deny the Greek philosophical claims when we see them contradicting the Bible; and in fact, many of the heresies the church has faced (heresies might be a worthwhile subject for a later post) can be understood as affirming philosophy over scripture.
It seems to me that the early church tried to use Greek philosophy as a way of protecting their image—when the Roman world believed that they were cannibals (they ate body and blood at communion) and engaged in incestuous orgies (they talked about loving brother and sister)—Christian apologists tried to show that Christianity was in fact perfectly reasonable and not as crazy as it sounded. Justin Martyr was the best example of this: he claimed that the logos of the Greek philosophers (logos, or reason, being so vitally important in that philosophy) was identical with the logos of Christianity (logos, or Word, John's description of Christ), and that anyone who followed reason actually followed Christ (including Socrates). This was an important and necessary work for the early church, and I think they were right to do it. However, in the church today, we are not faced with such challenges, and it remains for us to try to separate out again philosophy and gospel, insofar as they contradict one another.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Blind Leading the Blind
Whew. This weekend has been one of the longer ones of my young life. Down at Grace Lutheran, Pastor Kevin and Pastor Martha took some well-deserved time off, leaving Steve and I at the helm, with the excellent help of a guest preacher/presider, Linda Fernandez. Unfortunately, Steve came down with some sort of miserable head cold Saturday morning, which meant that instead of he and I splitting up the work, I ended up taking the lion's share of it. Doing four worship services in less than 16 hours is really, really exhausting. Also, between the third and fourth services, I lost the Prayers of the Church we had written, so I had to ad lib them at the final service. Oh, and did I mention I was also teaching the Confirmation class this week?
Talk about the blind leading the blind. In any case, after coming home, collapsing into bed for two hours, slowly oozing back out of bed again, and getting myself woken up again by sheer force of will, I'm back, and it seemed like as good a time as any for a blog post (especially since it's been over a week since the last one).
This past Wednesday, at chapel here at the seminary's Chuch of the Abiding Presence, we had an installation ceremony for Pastor Vickie Brown, who works here at the seminary. Her husband, also a pastor, preached the sermon for the service, and he preached on the passage from Matthew 23 where Jesus tells his disciples: "You are not to be called Rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all students. And call no one your father on earth, for you have one Father—the one in heaven. Nor are you to be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Messiah. The greatest among you will be your servant." He looked out over the seminary chapel and asked, "How many of you are instructors? How many of you are professors?" He argued that Christians are all supposed to be followers, and the so-called "leaders" of the church are really supposed to be super-followers, examples to those around them. He said that the church should always have one leader, Christ, and we should all be followers.
That got me thinking about leadership, especially in the academic environment I've known my whole life. It's been a rough transition for me, coming from St. John's, where the faculty are not called professors, and where faculty and students alike are addressed as Mr. and Ms., to come into a "real" academic environment, where I—in spite of my bachelor's degree and the many years of learning behind it—am "Jennie", while my professors are Dr. Stevens, Dr. Oldenburg, and so on. It truly is an environment of leaders and followers, and those roles are enforced in every aspect of our lives here. That's why it was so intimidating for me to assist at worship in the chapel; because even as a supposed "leader", I knew who the real leaders were.
Now, that's not to say (however homesick I may be) that St. John's gets it all right. The respect and equality at St. John's were incredibly valuable to me, both as a learner and as a teacher. It taught me that my interpretations of the Great Books were just as valid as that of the tutors, and at the same time, that I owed just as much to the "bad" students in my classes as I did to the faculty. The point was, we were all learning together. The problem with this model is, we had no leader. Of course, in every class, leaders made themselves known, and we all knew the tutors were actually not equal to us, even though we said they were; but at the end of the day, there was no authority over all of us.
What Pastor Chris said in chapel on Wednesday made me realize that both St. John's and LTSG are getting it wrong. In the one case, we have the blind leading the blind; all are both followers and leaders, with no true "teacher". In the other, we have the traditional roles of academia enforced, where the opinions of the students bear less weight or validity, and the faculty sometimes seem to speak as if they had the voice of God. In the perfect world, we would be doing what Jesus tells us to do; we would all be followers, and acknowledge our him to be our one leader, our one teacher, our one authority. After all, in Christ all distinctions are erased; there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, neither professor nor student.
Talk about the blind leading the blind. In any case, after coming home, collapsing into bed for two hours, slowly oozing back out of bed again, and getting myself woken up again by sheer force of will, I'm back, and it seemed like as good a time as any for a blog post (especially since it's been over a week since the last one).
This past Wednesday, at chapel here at the seminary's Chuch of the Abiding Presence, we had an installation ceremony for Pastor Vickie Brown, who works here at the seminary. Her husband, also a pastor, preached the sermon for the service, and he preached on the passage from Matthew 23 where Jesus tells his disciples: "You are not to be called Rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all students. And call no one your father on earth, for you have one Father—the one in heaven. Nor are you to be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Messiah. The greatest among you will be your servant." He looked out over the seminary chapel and asked, "How many of you are instructors? How many of you are professors?" He argued that Christians are all supposed to be followers, and the so-called "leaders" of the church are really supposed to be super-followers, examples to those around them. He said that the church should always have one leader, Christ, and we should all be followers.
That got me thinking about leadership, especially in the academic environment I've known my whole life. It's been a rough transition for me, coming from St. John's, where the faculty are not called professors, and where faculty and students alike are addressed as Mr. and Ms., to come into a "real" academic environment, where I—in spite of my bachelor's degree and the many years of learning behind it—am "Jennie", while my professors are Dr. Stevens, Dr. Oldenburg, and so on. It truly is an environment of leaders and followers, and those roles are enforced in every aspect of our lives here. That's why it was so intimidating for me to assist at worship in the chapel; because even as a supposed "leader", I knew who the real leaders were.
Now, that's not to say (however homesick I may be) that St. John's gets it all right. The respect and equality at St. John's were incredibly valuable to me, both as a learner and as a teacher. It taught me that my interpretations of the Great Books were just as valid as that of the tutors, and at the same time, that I owed just as much to the "bad" students in my classes as I did to the faculty. The point was, we were all learning together. The problem with this model is, we had no leader. Of course, in every class, leaders made themselves known, and we all knew the tutors were actually not equal to us, even though we said they were; but at the end of the day, there was no authority over all of us.
What Pastor Chris said in chapel on Wednesday made me realize that both St. John's and LTSG are getting it wrong. In the one case, we have the blind leading the blind; all are both followers and leaders, with no true "teacher". In the other, we have the traditional roles of academia enforced, where the opinions of the students bear less weight or validity, and the faculty sometimes seem to speak as if they had the voice of God. In the perfect world, we would be doing what Jesus tells us to do; we would all be followers, and acknowledge our him to be our one leader, our one teacher, our one authority. After all, in Christ all distinctions are erased; there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, neither professor nor student.
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