Showing posts with label Peter Rollins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peter Rollins. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

how the 'emerging church' needs to emerge

I’m assuming, if you’re reading this, that you’re kind of a church nerd (like me) and have some familiarity with what I mean by “the emerging church.” If not, this description is as good as any:


I would say I’m an outsider to the emerging “movement” but an insider in the “conversation.” These comments come not from a place of opposition but from my desire to see the movement continue so that it might help enrich and reform all expressions of the church in North America. I make hard critiques assuming that if Achilles could have been humbled, he might’ve thought to protect his heels.

11)      The emerging movement needs to stop defining itself as anti-institutional.

Institutions aren’t bad. Bad institutions are bad. So long as humans want to continue gathering with any level of organization (that is, by anything other than sheer randomness and happenstance), they’re going to form institutions. There is something anti-incarnational about this attitude. It says, “I’ll go along with this so long as it defies any known way that humans have ever learned to be human together.”

22)       The emerging movement needs to become less utopian.

This is a tough one to tackle since many emergents are extremely hesitant to call their movement anything more than a “conversation”—certainly they’ll say nothing of it being missional, attractional, evangelical, let alone that it begins with any clear endgame in sight. To save space, I’ll grant the last one. However, most emerging churches I’ve come across do build their purpose and theology around the needs of their immediate context (missional), they obviously appeal to a certain limited demographic or subculture (attractional), and in some way they’re trying to share the good news of Jesus Christ (evangelical).

Beyond semantics, though, the larger issue here is that when any group (and there are certain umbrellas underneath which emergents can be considered one group) defines itself in opposition to what came before, they start to emit an unstated but palpable arrogance that tacitly says, “we finally got it right.” Emergents aren’t the first to push back with a less defined, more open-ended, Spirit driven movement when the historical church has become too propositional, too self-assured and too institutionally rigid. Jan Huss did it. Philip Jakob Spener did it. Nikolaus von Zinzendorf did it. As the more informed emergents are aware, this is also the basic spirit that birthed the writings of the great mystics like Theresa of Avila or Meister Eckhart, and ironically, it may have even been at the heart of early American revivalism (widely regarded as the predecessor to modern American Evangelicalism).

My point is that we’ve seen this movie before. The ending is always the same. Mel Gibson’s The Patriot was different in detail than Braveheart but we recognized the basic outline even before seeing it play out. It’s no different with church history. Over and over again (1) the church becomes too propositional, too self-assured, and too rigidly structured until it starts to look very much like any other hierarchical institution and very little like Jesus; (2) some honest disciples yearn for more and break off, in the process holding a mirror up to the parent institution (which, itself, begins to reform even after the discontented have left); but (3) over time, the trailblazers themselves who broke off, become too propositional, too self-assured, and too rigidly structured. They do this for the simple reason that they’re human, and that’s what humans do. Eugene Peterson nails it when he says, “In two thousand years of practice we haven’t gotten any better. You would think we would have, but we haven’t.”[1]

I’m thankful that this cycle continues. I’m thankful that there are groups who continue to yearn for a better church, and we’re all enriched when they act on this yearning. But if you’re an emergent, just acknowledge this larger history here, be humbled by it, chastened by it, and your movement will be better for it.

33)      The emerging movement needs always to recognize the beam in its own eye.

You’re seeing by now that these are all very nearly the same critique. To be sure, many emergent thinkers are sharp enough and careful enough to acknowledge the hidden irony in their own critiques of Mainline and conservative expressions of the church. If ever they aren’t, the results are tragic, because like any of us, they’re always one self-righteous remark away from becoming what they hate. Don’t become hypocritical when you point out the establishment’s hypocrisy. Don’t be triumphalistic about the fact that you’re not triumphalistic. Don’t become dogmatic about your avoidance of all dogma. That’s all.

44)       The emerging movement’s thinkers should spend at least as much (and probably more) time responding theologically to mainstream and more centrist Christians as they do to fundamentalists.

Here’s an example of what I mean. I love Peter Rollins. Seriously. So far unreciprocated, but I love Peter Rollins. Nonetheless, I’m guessing his words on the otherness or absolute subjectivity of God are little different in content (if, marketed better) than so many dissertations of  Karl Barth scholars sitting in dusty library storage rooms across the western world. Did I mention that I love Peter Rollins? But his words on doubt being a vital part of faith and discipleship say little that Douglas John Hall hasn’t been saying for forty years. My point is not that what they’ve said isn’t worth repeating. I just don’t see evidence, most of the time, that emergents are aware that some hoary old scholar buried away in some third story office of a mainstream seminary has been, for decades, saying the same “inflammatory” things that they are now saying. It just never caused quite the same stir before because those scholars didn’t think to market themselves to recovering fundamentalists. My suggestion for emergent thinkers: pay attention to what’s going on in mainstream academia. By all means, continue making these ideas accessible to people who otherwise would never encounter them. But don’t stop at the low-hanging fruit of mocking fundamentalism. Poke some holes in my own mainstream worldview so that I too can be enriched by your observations.

That’s all.


[1] Peterson, Eugene. Under the Unpredictable Plant: An Exploration in Vocational Holiness (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992)

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Christian tribalism, part 2: the god who only loves his friends

I won’t do much summarizing of Part 1. Read it. It’s good. Basically, Christians often claim to have some special access to God’s salvation. But they really shouldn’t not just because it’s kind of mean or “close-minded” but, more importantly, because it defeats their whole purpose for existing.

To clarify what I mean by that, let me start by showing this brilliant clip from a lecture given by Peter Rollins at Rob Bell’s "Poets, Prophets, and Preachers" conference:


What captivates me here is how it seems so much the opposite of the always louder, always arrogant “I got saved” theology that characterizes so much of North American Christianity. Not being a loud "I got saved" Christian, it hurts a little, and my internal critic goes kind of nutty, anytime someone says to me, “I like you because you're one of those calmer sorts of Christians, not like the Bible thumping religious freaks.” I get the sentiment and I have no plans of beating anyone over the head with an annotated NRSV anytime soon. But what hurts is the perception that the difference between me and those “religious freaks” is a difference of degree rather than kind, that they’re simply more intense about Jesus than I am but essentially believe the same things about him. 

They don’t.

And if there is a difference of degree—if one of us, said “religious freak” or myself, is more amped about God’s love revealed in Jesus Christ—I’d probably reverse that popular perception. The problem with “I got saved” theology isn’t that it makes too much of God’s salvation but that it makes far too little. It’s not that “religious freaks” are too excited that God is good. It’s that they’re excited about a god who isn’t nearly good enough.

If you haven’t already, watch the short clip above, and I’ll try to show you what I mean.
Anytime someone stands up and says proudly, “I know I’m saved, because I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior,” they’re unwittingly saying, “My god’s ability to save people is so weak and inert that it needs me to activate it through my mental assent.”

This is a far cry from the God of Jesus Christ who, out of radical grace, “makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous” (Mt. 5.45). Their petty, quibbling deity only loves those who love him, something that Jesus says even the craven tax collectors do (v. 46). It seems like this would raise an obvious question (though it never seems to): when Jesus asks us to love and forgive our enemies, is he asking us to actually be better than some small-minded, putz of a god that we worship? Or rather, is he telling us to love the unloveable because this is precisely how the real God is (v. 48)? I guess I'm whatever sort of Christian opts for the latter.

Notice the funny little ironies that occur when we compare the “I got saved” Christian above, who proudly claims, “I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior,” to Pete Rollins, who claims, “I deny the resurrection.” The “I got saved” Christian, we might imagine, searches desperately day and night for the perfect apology (a logical explanation for a certain belief) with which he might beat down the arguments of his “secular” friends in order to persuade them (and himself) of the rightness of his thinking. But by making the truth of the resurrection depend so heavily on his own mental agreement—by making his own verbal confirmation the active ingredient in God’s love—he has a funny way of turning “the resurrection” into an outgrowth of his own ego, not an act of God that happened with or without anyone else’s consent. So it can't really save anyone, including himself.

No wonder so many in our culture become so belligerent and defensive when you question their version of “resurrection faith,” it veritably doesn’t exist outside the chemicals and movements of their mind. I don’t just mean that non-believers would see it this way. These "I got saved" Christians themselves seem wary that their doctrines, their worldview and even their god might just be hanging perilously by a neurological thread.

By way of contrast, Rollins, with his nonchalance about making a “case” for the resurrection but his adamancy about living into its implications (standing up for those who are on their knees, crying out for those whose tongues have been torn out, etc.), has a funny way of letting the resurrection have a reality outside himself.

I once read that the otherwise very pious theologian Karl Barth’s belief in the radical “otherness” of God, the gaping distance that separates God’s ways from humanity’s ways, was precisely what allowed him to have a carefree drink and a cigar in the parlor. Similarly, Rollin’s version of the resurrection story doesn’t seem to depend on him at all for its reality. So, yes, he's free to be a bit calmer about it at times. Yet, for that same reason, it can still be something real, revealed through him wherever and whenever he manages to live up to his discipleship calling.

Making no effort to prove his “orthodox” adherence to some bloodless doctrine about the resurrection, Rollins skips right to what resurrection living looks like. He paints a picture of resurrection’s beauty which we already recognize in our hearts when we see it, yet which happens outside of us and regardless of us.

When we learn of a God who made the decision to resurrect and reconcile the world unilaterally, that is, without consulting any of us, that will be the first and biggest step toward the end of Christian tribalism.



Christian tribalism, part 2: the god who only loves his friends


I won’t do much summarizing of Part 1. Read it. It’s good. Basically, Christians often claim to have some special access to God’s salvation. But they really shouldn’t not just because it’s kind of mean or “close-minded” but, more importantly, because it defeats their whole purpose for existing.

For several months, I’ve been revisiting and reflecting on this brilliant clip from a lecture given by Pete Rollins at Rob Bell’s Poets, Priests, and Prophets conference:

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I’m still trying to figure out all that has captivated me here, but I know it has to do, at least in part, with how it seems so much the opposite of the always arrogant “I got saved” theology that characterizes so much of North American Christianity.

I need to confess that it hurts a little, and my internal critic goes kind of nutty, anytime someone says to me, “I like you because your one of those calmer sorts of Christians, not like the Bible thumping religious freaks.” I get the sentiment and I have no plans of beating anyone over the head with an annotated NRSV anytime soon. But what hurts is the perception that the difference between me and those “religious freaks” is a difference of degree rather than kind, that they’re simply more intense about Jesus than I am but essentially believe the same things about him.

They don’t.

And if there is a difference of degree—if one of us, said “religious freak” or myself, is more amped about God’s love revealed in Jesus Christ—I’d probably reverse that popular perception. The problem with “I got saved” theology isn’t that it makes too much of God’s salvation but that it makes far too little. It’s not that “religious freaks” are too excited that God is good. It’s that they’re excited about a god who isn’t nearly good enough.

If you haven’t already, watch the short clip above, and I’ll try to show you what I mean.
Anytime someone stands up and says proudly, “I know I’m saved, because I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior,” they’re unwittingly saying, “My god’s ability to save people is so weak and inert that it needs me to activate it through my mental assent.”

This is a far cry from the God of Jesus Christ who, out of radical grace, “makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous” (Mt. 5.45). Their petty, quibbling deity only loves those who love him, something that Jesus says even the craven tax collectors do (v. 46). It seems like this would raise an obvious question: when Jesus asks us to love and forgive our enemies, is he asking us to be better than some small-minded, putz of a god? Or rather, is he telling us to love the unloveable because this is precisely how the real God is (v. 48)?  

Notice the little ironies that occur when we compare the “I got saved” Christian above, who proudly claims, “I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior,” to Pete Rollins, who claims, “I deny the resurrection.” The “I got saved” Christian, we might imagine, searches desperately day and night for the perfect apology (a rationalization or explanation for a certain belief or what Rollins calls a “power discourse”[1]) with which he might beat down the arguments of his “secular” friends in order to persuade them (and himself) of the rightness of his thinking. But by making the truth of the resurrection depend so heavily on his own mental agreement—by making his own verbal confirmation the active ingredient in God’s love—he has a funny way of turning “the resurrection” into an outgrowth of his own ego, not an act of God that happened with or without anyone else’s consent.

No wonder so many in our culture become so belligerent and defensive when you question their version of “resurrection faith,” it veritably doesn’t exist outside the chemicals and movements of their mind. I don’t just mean that non-believers would see it this way. These Christians themselves seem wary that their doctrines, their worldview and even their God might just be hanging perilously by a neurological thread.

By way of contrast, Rollins, with his nonchalance about making a “case” for the resurrection but his adamancy about living into its implications (standing up for those who are on their knees, crying out for those whose tongues have been torn out, etc.), has a funny way of letting the resurrection have a reality outside himself.

I once read that the otherwise very pious theologian Karl Barth’s belief in the radical “otherness” of God, the gaping distance that separates God’s ways from humanity’s ways, was precisely what allowed him to have a carefree drink and a cigar in the parlor. Similarly, Rollin’s version of the resurrection story doesn’t seem to depend on him at all for its reality. Yet it can be revealed wherever and whenever he manages to live up to his discipleship calling.

Making no effort to prove his “orthodox” adherence to some bloodless doctrine about the resurrection, Rollins skips right to what resurrection living looks like. He paints a picture of resurrection’s beauty which we already recognize in our hearts when we see it, yet which happens outside of us and regardless of us.

When we learn of a God who made the decision to resurrect and reconcile the world unilaterally, that is, without consulting any of us, that will be the first and biggest step toward the end of Christian tribalism.