As I’m always welcoming new people to the blog I sometimes like to revisit an old post or two that sparked a good conversation, but may have been missed by those who weren’t around when it was originally posted. Today I’m finishing up my last paper for the semester. So here’s a post from the vault about learning to live in the tension of the unanswered.

The more I read the Bible the less convinced I am that it was created to be an answer book.

That’s not to say we can’t find answers to life’s questions in the Bible, but I’m increasingly less convinced that the purpose of the Bible is to be an answer book, or perhaps more precisely, a reference book we can turn to to prove our point or prove others wrong.

Obviously, there are any number of passages that we can use as proof texts to make whatever case we’re trying to make. To be fair, sometimes that is a completely valid thing to do. But I think the Bible is more interested in asking questions than it is providing definitive answers.

From Genesis to Revelation, the Bible is a collection of questions, questions, and more questions.

Am I my brother’s keeper? – Cain

Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt? – Moses

My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? – David

What strength do I have that I should still hope? – Job

How long oh Lord, must I call for your help? – Habakkuk

Who is this that even the wind and the sea obey him? – The Disciples

Who do you say that I am? – Jesus

What does this mean? – Disciples at Pentecost

These are questions that the people of God continue to ask today, which I think is wonderful, not because it means we haven’t found “sufficient answers”, but because it makes the Bible more “real” and in turn it becomes that much more relatable and applicable.

If the Bible were nothing more than a collection of perfect people who always had quick, easy answers to all of their problems it would be completely unapproachable because we would have no way to connect to those sorts of stories. Instead, what we encounter are people not that unlike ourselves who live lives just as difficult and flawed as our own. Like our own lives, these Biblical characters struggle to find the answers they are looking for.

While some of us find beauty in this openendedness, fundamentalism cowers before it in fear. In their never-ending pursuit of control, fundamentalists, like Job’s friends, demand and then provide final, absolute, and exhaustive answers to any and every question they encounter even when God doesn’t seem to do so.

They do this because they fear unanswered questions. They fear unanswered questions because they refuse to relinquish even the slightest bit of control over their faith, their life, or even God. It is this refusal to live with the unanswered that leads to so much unnecessary conflict, division, and condemnation in the church.

The irony, of course, is that the control which fundamentalism demands is both impossible to possess and antithetical to a faith who’s oldest hymn describes a Savior who’s Lordship is defined by relinquishing control.

But I am convinced that the Bible’s openended questions are something to embrace, rather than fear.

They remind us that the Bible was not written directly by the hand of God. After all, why would God ask so many question God already knows the answer to? Instead, what we witness is a God who has invited God’s people to participate in God’s redemptive work in the world.

In turn, this combination of human participation and unanswered questions allows us to continue participating today in the answering of these important questions while also continuing to ask more questions of our own.

Over time we discover some of the answers to these questions, but this isn’t an invitation to answer every question or solve every case. It’s an invitation to live in the tension of the unanswered, the only place where true growth and discovery can occur.

Having prepackaged answers to everything stunts our growth, while also arrogantly and naively assuming to comprehend the incredible complexity and diversity of the human experience.

Allowing life’s most difficult questions to be unresolved allows us to honor the complexity and diversity of our lives and in so doing begin to address those questions in a more honest and effective way. It allows us to grow into the people God created to be, rather than artificially forcing us into a form God very well may never have intended us to fit into.

To borrow an old movie cliche, rather than using the Bible as a quick reference answer book, I think we should use it “ask the right questions”. Even in doing so, we may not always find the answers or if we do they may not be answers we like, but by learning learning to ask questions, rather than forcing out answers from every page of the Bible we join in the tradition of God’s people who’s relationship with God is, in so many ways, defined by their/our questions. In other words, we become who we have always been.

Once again, I do not say all of this to imply that the Bible doesn’t contain “answers” to the questions we have in life. However, we must be extremely careful in how we glean those answers, for more often than not I am afraid those “answers” tend to be our own creation, rather than the voice of God.

Answer are good, but often times questions are even better. Answers leave us as stagnant, preformed people. Questions allow our relationship with God to be dynamic, open, and honest.

God doesn’t fear our questions. No one in the Bible is ever condemned for asking God questions. Even Jesus asked questions! If anything, the Bible’s immense collection of questions should tell us that God welcomes questions with open arms.

So, don’t be afraid to ask questions. And when you find the courage to ask questions, never stop asking them. It’s ok to ask difficult questions about the Bible. God doesn’t fear your tough questions. And it’s even ok to critique the Bible.

Why?

Because as soon as we question or critique God and the Bible, they will turn around and do the same to us. And that is a very good thing. For like Moses or the 12 apostles, it is out of that exchange that we grow into the people God created us to be.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

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Not being homeless there are a lot of basic things I take for granted in life; like a hot shower, a bed to sleep in, a clean change of clothes, or a mailing address to use when I’m applying for a new job.

Another thing I can add to that list which, to be honest, never really crossed my mind before yesterday is a haircut.

A haircut is a pretty simple thing that I think a lot of us take for granted or perhaps even see as something of a luxury. But think about why you get a haircut in the first place. Is there some element of vanity is all of it? Sure, but try going several months or even years without getting your hair cut, let it get good and shaggy like it hasn’t seen a comb that entire time, then try applying for a new job and you’ll quickly see just how important that haircut really is.

But “proper” appearance for job interviews aside, a new haircut makes us feel good about ourselves, it gives us a sense of a fresh start, and for someone who may not have experienced either of those emotions in a long time, a hair can nothing short of a godsend.

Which is I was so happy when I stumbled across the story of Anthony Cymerys, or as he’s better known as “Joe the Barber.”

Cymerys is an 82 year old retired barber who got inspired by a sermon preached at his church many years ago.. For the past quarter of a century he has gathered together his barber supplies, grabbed a car battery to power his clippers, and setup his barber chair (a lawn chair) in the open air of Bushnell Park in Hartford, Connecticut.

Every Wednesday for the past quarter of a century he has cut hair. For free. For anyone who might need it.

All Cymerys asks in return is a hug so he show his “customers” that he loves them.

Now, I know it’s easy to be cynical about an old man handing out hugs in a public park, but frankly if that’s your response to this story you can take it somewhere else because I’m not interested.

What I am interested in is the sort of genuine love for neighbor it takes for someone to return week after week, year after year, decade after decade to serve their community, to offer a simple helping hand to those the rest of drive by and go out of our way to ignore.

Sure, this isn’t the traditional feeding of the hungry, giving the clothes off your back, or visiting someone in prison. What this is is a man looking at the gifts he has been given and finding a way to use them to serve others in need.

It’s a simple, but genuine act of selfless love.

It’s a holy haircut.

Over the next several months, probably longer, I’ll be going out of my way to highlight moments like these because they perfectly capture the sort of holy living I’m trying to describe in my upcoming book, The Scandal of Holiness (due this September). It is this sort of simple, but creative, boundary crossing love that I think perfectly captures the sort of holiness embodied by Jesus. It’s a more authentic version of holiness than the sort of legalism many of us have experienced. More importantly, it’s a form of holiness that not only can each of us actually live out, it’s one which we must live out if are really going to be followers of Jesus.

So, for the near future I want to highlight holy moments like these and I ask that if any of these moments cross your path, please share them with me.

Because as a church, we need examples like Joe the Barber to remind us what it looks like to be the holy people of God in an unholy world.

We need these reminders because the simple, but tragic reality is that there is something holier going on in Bushnell Park on Wednesday afternoons, than there is in many of our churches on Sunday mornings.

This must change.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

Yesterday, Tim Challies posted this article rehashing the old, and frankly tiring, warning about the “dangers” of Christian mysticism.

I am by no means a mystic and, to be honest, Christian mysticism does not hold a lot of personal appeal. I don’t think it is by any stretch of the imagination the dark evil Challies or others portray it as. It’s just not for me.

So, this post isn’t a defense of Christian mysticism, nor is it simply a response to Challies’ article. This post is about the broader problem between evangelicalism and orthodoxy.

Conveniently, Challies frames this entire issue for us wonderfully in one simple sentence.

“Mysticism was once regarded as an alternative to Evangelical Christianity.”

Frankly, my jaw hit the floor when I read that sentence. This historical ignorance, or perhaps revisionism, behind this statement is astounding and emblematic of the broader historical ignorance and revisionism that plagues so much of American evangelicalism.

In other words, we like to remake Christian history in our own evangelical image, facts be damned.

The truth is Christian mysticism “was once regarded as an alternative to Evangelical Christianity” the way Roman Catholicism, Eastern Orthodoxy, or Anglicanism is/was regarded as an alternative to evangelical Christianity.

The idea implied here, of course, is that evangelical Christianity is the true orthodoxy and all other “alternatives” are, essentially, heresy. But what makes the latent judgmental bigotry behind such a statement so astounding is the profound historical ignorance that undergirds it.

Evangelicalism itself was once considered an alternative to Christianity.

You remember the Reformation, right? When Luther and his buddies (Actually, they weren’t all his buddies. Many fellow Reformers hated Luther), decided the church needed a bit of change and that they were the ones to do it?

I say “the church” intentionally because before the Reformation there was just one church if you lived in Western Europe (Two if you had a heart and were more ecumenically inclined to love your Orthodox brothers and sisters in the East.). There was only Rome. Anything outside of Rome (or Constantinople for that matter) was considered heretical or, to borrow from Challies, “an alternative to Christianity.”

There seems to be this implied notion among evangelicals when we speak of evangelical Christianity that is has always existed. Sure, we sort of recognized that it really got going during the Reformation, but it’s as if we see the Reformation as simply releasing the true faith, evangelicalism, from its Roman Catholic prison so that we could get back to an earlier, purer form of Christianity. So we could be like those great “evangelicals” of the early church.

Now, I’m keenly aware of the anachronism in that last sentence. I’m just not convinced that most of us in the evangelical world really comprehend the newness of our tradition. Which is why it’s critical to understand what really happened during the Reformation if we are going to have the sorts of conversations Challies and others want to have without looking completely foolish.

When most of us think of the Reformation, we tend to do so in terms of a problem, or set of problems, that needed to be fixed; problems which the Reformers supposedly took care of.

But this is to miss what really happened in the Reformation and is still happening today.

The Reformation was much more than a theological quarrel over doctrine and ritual that could simply be “solved” or “fixed.” It may have started that way, but it quickly became a fundamental revolution in thought. It was a seismic shift of authority, power, and control away from the magisterium and into the hands of everyday people. It blew the door wide open to allowing everyone to draw their own conclusions and to be their own authority in the face of actual authority/tradition/credentials/etc.

In other words, the Reformation went from “we need to fix this” to “we have the authority for ourselves” and when it did it shifted from a problem solving endeavor to the creation of a new mentality and that mentality was and is a Pandora’s box which, for good or ill, can never be closed or which will never “end” because it has no end point, no objective other than freedom and control. (Which I’m not convinced are always particularly good things or even attainable things or even Christian things, but that’s another discussion altogether.)

In short, the Reformation isn’t over. It can’t be over because the Reformation was and is about a way of thinking, looking at, and interacting with the world that allows anyone and everyone to claim authority, to claim to be the possessor of the “true faith.”

This is why the church went from either Catholic or Orthodox in 1517, to tens of thousands of Christian denominations just a few short centuries later – all claiming to be orthodox.

Which is where the problem of orthodoxy and evangelicalism comes in.

There is no such thing as a unified body of believers called “evangelicalism.”

Go to an evangelical Christian event and look around. You’ll see people from dozens, if not hundreds of different denominations, some with radically different claims about the faith, all claiming the title “evangelical.”

Orthodoxy can only be orthodoxy within a closed group of like minded people with a central power base that agrees upon and defines what that orthodoxy will be. This does not mean there won’t be some disagreement within that group. Of course there will be. But as soon as those people leave to form their own church, they create a new orthodoxy – their own.

This is what we see in both the Great Schism of 1054 as well as the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century and everything that followed in its wake. Certainly there are still statements of faith that bind us all together, things like the Apostles’ and Nicene Creed which were affirmed when there still was one, holy, catholic and apostolic church (though plenty of people who claim Christianity today try to reject these creeds), but there is no longer a universal “orthodoxy” that can be appealled to which can apply to all Christians and which can subsequently be used to beat up others when they don’t agree with you.

What we have instead are “orthodoxies”. We have Roman Catholic orthodoxy and Southern Baptist orthodoxy and Methodist orthodoxy and Presbyterian orthodoxy and Nazarene orthodoxy (had to give my people some love), and while there are many things those groups can agree on, each has their own particular brand of Christianity.

If you don’t think this constitutes distinct orthodoxies, then I would direct you back to the issue that started this post – Christian mysticism. If you’re a Roman Catholic, then there’s no question that mysticism fits within the bounds of orthodoxy. However, talk to a Southern Baptist and you’ll most likely get the opposite answer. While, if you talk to Methodists, Presbyterians, or Nazarenes you’ll get responses that are all over the map.

My point is this – with as fragmented as the Church has become in the past 500 years we must be extremely careful when we start invoking the idea of orthodoxy, because more often than not the battles we fight this weapon with are only “orthodox” or “unorthodox” within our particular denomination or tradition, traditions which themselves were considered unorthodox or even heretical by the churches and traditions which were already established long before our particular denomination or church was born.

What has happened as a result of this constant infighting, is that evangelicalism in particular has increasingly become defined by its ignorance and arrogance, but it’s lack of knowledge about its own history and the audacity with which it portrays itself as the keepers of the one, true faith.

This must change.

When we use the word “evangelicalism” as interchangeable with “Christianity” in the ways we so often do, what we are essentially claiming is evangelicalism is Christianity. While evangelicalism may be Christian, Christianity is not exhausted by the evangelical tradition. To act otherwise is, as I’ve already said many times, the height of ignorance and arrogance.

Worse yet, it’s profoundly un-Christian.

For we are one Body with many parts, and even if one part is as big and powerful as evangelicalism, that part cannot say to the rest of the Body, “I don’t need you.” For if that part cuts itself off, it will be the one outside the Body. It will be the one outside the bounds of orthodoxy. It will be the heretic.

So while orthodoxy is a very important thing, we newcomers to the faith, we evangelicals need to be extremely careful about how we talk about it.

Otherwise, we will end up sounding like a bunch of ignorant fools.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

I was sitting on the couch eating a late lunch with my wife when we turned on the TV and saw the breaking news about the Boston Marathon bombings.

Like everyone else in the country I was shocked.

And heartbroken.

And angry.

Like everyone else I couldn’t understand why anyone would ever do something like that and I wanted justice and I wanted it to be quick and severe.

Justice did finally catch up with the two men accused of carrying out these horrendous acts and, as we all know, one of them is now dead.

The question of where to bury Tamerlan Tsarnaev has, understandably, created quite the controversy in Massachusetts, and I suspect across the country. Understandably, few people in Massachusetts want Tsarnaev buried anywhere near the people he murdered.

Which is what makes the offer of Paul Keane so remarkable.

So Christ-like

And so incredibly convicting.

In the fifth chapter of Matthew’s gospel Jesus is delivering his famous Sermon on the Mount. He’s just finished talking about the problems with retributive justice or as he called it – eye for an eye. Speaking to a crowd whose homeland was ruled by foreign invaders, whose livelihood was constantly being stripped from them in order to support the opulent lifestyle of a emperor who cared nothing about them, and who never knew when they or their family might be arrested, raped, or murdered for the slightest offense by a Roman soldiers who often acted more like terrorists than peace keepers, Jesus said the last thing I’m sure they or we would want to hear.

You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

This, Jesus would go on to say, is what real perfection is all about.

In many ways it seems this path to perfection is a much more difficult path to tread than simply not doing certain things. After all, I don’t know about you, but my first, second, and third reactions to the Oklahoma City bombing, 9/11, the Boston Marathon bombing and every other event like that was not – “I know you destroyed lives out of hate, but I choose to love you anyway.”

I kind of doubt that was Paul Keane’s first reaction either. But unlike me, Paul decided to actually take Jesus at his word and live out this most difficult of callings in one of the most difficult of situations.

Paul Keane has offered to allow his own burial plot to be used for a terrorist.

For an enemy.

In his own words,

I am willing to donate a burial plot next to my mother in Mt. Carmel Burying Ground to the Tsarnaev family if they cannot obtain a plot. The only condition is that I do it in memory of my mother who taught Sunday School at the Mt. Carmel Congregational Church for twenty years and taught me to”love thine enemy.”

I have no doubt that Paul’s decision will anger a lot of people – including many Christians.

But whether we like it or not, whether it makes us uncomfortable or flat out angry, his actions are the very incarnation of Jesus’ words.

Of Jesus’s love.

Which is why today I am proud to be a Yale Divinity School student, proud to share a connection with someone who has reminded me that loving your enemies means much more than tolerating a coworker who gets on your nerves or not flipping someone the bird who cut you off in traffic.

I just hope Paul Keane’s story does not fade too quickly into obscurity.

I hope it lingers as a tangible reminder of what Christ-like love really looks like.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

A little while back I wrote a post entitled “When Jesus Is Present Where Jesus Isn’t Present.”

It stemmed from a National Geographic program I watched about the Dhavari slum in Mumbai, the same slum from the movie Slumdog Millionaire.

In that post I talked about a group serving the people of that community which, though not Christian, sure seemed a lot like what we would expect Jesus to be like if he lived in the Dhavari slum. As I said in the post, it seems to me that this is one of the great questions facing the Church in an ever increasingly connected 21st century global society. What are we do to when we encounter the kingdom of God being lived out among people who have either never heard of or choose to ignore the Church’s gospel?

Well, as it so happens I’ve been watching more television since then and that question continues to ramble about in my mind.

This time I was watching a BBC series called Himalaya, hosted by the one and only Michael Palin. If you have Netflix, you need to do yourself a favor and watch every single one of the Michael Palin BBC specials because, well, they’re awesome. Anyway, in this particular episode he was visiting Harmandir Sahib, The Golden Temple in India.

That’s it in the picture above.

The Golden Temple is an especially holy site for those of the Sikh faith for it contains their holy scripture. Covered in gold, as the name implies, The Golden Temple welcomes some 100,000 visitors a day. But, as beautiful and impressive as the building was, what struck me was what goes on inside.

Every day of the year a free meal is served to the poor, the hungry, the pilgrim, or whoever else may happen to stop by. Tens of thousands of people are fed each and every day. The meal itself is prepared and served by volunteers. Donations cover the cost of the food and more volunteers, many of whom who just fed, help clean up.

But this isn’t just a meal for the poor.

According to the guide who was showing Michael Palin around, the meal is for the rich as much as it is for the poor because it is, in part, intended as an act of equality wherein all can join together around one table and share one meal together.

Sound familiar?

The familiarities don’t stop there.

Here’s where this meal, called “langar” got started….

When the first Sikh guru, Nanak Dev, attained manhood, his father gave him 20 rupees and sent him on a trading expedition, impressing upon him that a good bargain makes for a good profit. On his way to buy merchandise, he met a group of sadhus living in a jungle. Nanak noticed the emaciated condition of the naked holy men and decided that the most profitable transaction he could make with his father’s money would be to feed and clothe them. When he returned home empty handed, his father punished him. Insisting that true profit is to be had in selfless service, Guru Nanak established the principal of langar.

I don’t know about you, but as I read that brief history and watched the BBC special I couldn’t help but think of the words of Jesus in Matthew 25, words that seem to be Jesus’ own summary of what being a disciple of Jesus is really all about….

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Isn’t that what the Sikhs are doing?

Oh, and did I mention that Sikhs worship only one God?

And that they practice baptism?

And that they reject blind spirituality, materialism, and worldly living?

Now, don’t hear me wrong. I’m not a universalist. Sikhs are Sikhs and Christians are Christians. I get that. I don’t want to take away from the distinctive beauty of either or any other faith for that matter.

But I have to confess, when I see moments like this, when I see people acting and thinking in the ways I am told Christians are supposed to act and think, I’m finding it harder and harder to see them as “pagans” and easier to see them as “Samaritans.”

You remember Samaritans, right?

Jesus told a famous parable about a good Samaritan. He also visited with a Samaritan women by a well – something he wasn’t “supposed” to do. In both, cases Jesus made it pretty clear that A) Samaritans were not the evil people Israel made them out to be and B) God was at work in their lives just as God was in the lives of the people of Israel.

If we switch out Samaritans for Sikhs (or whatever other faith for that matter) and Israel for Christians, then perhaps you can see the conundrum I’m in.

I get that repentance is important. I know being part of a church is important. I know that believing Jesus is Lord is important.

But even the devil and his demons believe that last bit and Sikhs do both of the former things even if they look a bit different and have different names.

So, as compassionate, loving, grace filled people what do we do with non-Christians who act like Christians?

To be honest, I’m not completely sure.

I do know that the writer of James says that faith without works is dead.

Which got me wondering, if faith without works is dead, does that mean works without faith is dead? I’m not so sure. Because the reply of the “sheep” in Matthew 25 seems to be one of surprise in which they were doing the “works” without any particular confession of faith.

Now, once again, don’t hear me wrong. I’m not saying you can earn your way to heaven. What I’m saying is that God extends all of us grace and apparently expects us to further extend that grace to the world. If Jesus was being honest in Matthew 25, and Jesus had the tendency to be honest about things, then our extending of God’s grace to others seems to be pretty darn important.

Maybe even more important than the formal confession of faith we as evangelicals seem to think is required for salvation – even though we also say salvation is a gift that cannot be earned.

Quite the conundrum if you ask me.

The space of a blog post doesn’t allow for the sort of thorough treatment this subject deserves. I can’t fully explore the depths of “no one comes to the Father except through me” here and wonder if that statement simply means Jesus is the means of our salvation or if our salvation requires our explicit confession of Jesus as the means of our salvation. Such a treatment would require the space of a book.

And who knows, maybe I’ll write that book one day.

But for now, I only want to suggest that perhaps as Christians, particularly evangelical Christians, we need to not be so legalistic with the grace we have been given. We need to do a better job of extending it to others regardless of their confession of faith.

And perhaps we also need to do a better job of recognizing when God has already extended that grace to others.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

(original image found here)

This semester I’ve been taking a class called “Worship, Culture, Technology.”

As you might expect from the name, the class is about the ways technology is affecting the church and the Christian faith in general.

As you also might expect, as a Christian blogger I’ve really enjoyed the class.

The past couple of weeks we’ve had a visiting professor from Germany sit in on our classes. He stopped by our class originally to talk about an article of his that we read about how the internet is impacting worship. He’s since stayed around as we gave our presentations over the last couple of weeks.

Last night he made a speculative comment that I found to be absolutely fascinating and if it turns out to be true, would radically reshape church as we know it.

But before I tell you what he said, let me give you some context for his comment.

One of the core issues we’ve discussed in class this semester is how the internet has leveled the playing field in the church. Websites, blogs, and social media have allowed anyone and everyone, not just clergy, to preach, teach, and lead the people of God. The term we’ve used for this is “horizontal leadership,” meaning there’s not a hierarchy in the church which the pastor, priest, or bishop stands over and above everyone else in a position of authority. Obviously church hierarchies still exist all over the place, but the internet has made tremendous strides in reshaping who, what, and where lay people look to guide their faith, including taking positions of leadership in that conversation themselves.

Another way to think about this is to look at where the pulpit stands in a sanctuary. Visit an old church (or a handful of new ones) and you’ll see the pulpit or lectern set off to the left and elevated relatively high above the congregation. Since the days of Charles Finney and the Second Great Awakening, the pulpit was moved down to ground level so that the preacher was essentially at eye level and, at least symbolically, on equal ground with the congregation. However, the preacher was still in a place of authority in front of the congregation.

The internet has made everyone an authority, or at least given everyone the sense, if not possibility, that with enough dedication, a dash of good writing, and a halfway decent looking website they can be an authority on whatever they think they’re an authority on.

The downside of this, of course, is the reality that all sorts of misinformation and terrible ideas are spread under the guise that they are coming from an authoritative source when in fact they’re coming from someone who doesn’t know anymore than what they could copy and paste from Wikipedia.

On the upside of this leveling of the church is that the idea of a priesthood of all believers has the chance to be realized more fully than perhaps at any point in the history of church.

Which is what led to our visiting German professor’s speculation.

As he wondered aloud (but in a much more eloquent manner), if the average churchgoer is already getting much of their theology, Biblical knowledge, challenges to live out their faith, etc. from places like the internet and, moreover, if they feel empowered to contribute to that conversation themselves, are we approaching a point where the average churchgoer will no longer be interested in or willing to listen to someone stand up in front of them to preach?

That is to say, are we reaching the end of the age of professional preachers in the local church?

As crazy as that might sound at first, if the historical movement of the pulpit is any guide, this would actually seem to be the next logical step.

The pulpit is, essentially, about authority. It has moved from being over and above the congregation down to eye level. Is it’s next move to disappear altogether to give way to some new form of church in which a priesthood of all believers actually share authority equally?

I’m not sure that day is coming next week, next year, or even in the next decade, if it ever comes at all. But it certainly is something interesting to think about.

If the internet really is leveling the authority of the church and giving much of that authority back to the people, what will that mean for the church?

More specifically, what would a church service look like without a traditional pastor or priest doing the things normally only they do?

Is that even a possibility?

Sound off in the comments section and let me know what you think.

I’m eager to hear what you see in your ecclesial crystal ball.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

According to a recent study, belief in an angry God is “significantly associated with an increase in social anxiety, paranoia, obsession, and compulsion.”

That doesn’t come as much of a surprise to me.

Believing that an all powerful being is constantly ticked off should create some anxiety, particularly if, like Mark Driscoll, you think this ticked off all powerful being personally hates you.

But such is the nature of God for many Christians, particularly those of the Calvinist persuasion who inherited from their theological forefather, Jean Calvin, a picture of God who is constantly angry about one thing or another.

There are, of course, passages in Scripture that speak of God being angry.

Take, for example, the passage from Nahum 1 referenced by the aforementioned study story.

The Lord is a jealous and avenging God;
the Lord takes vengeance and is filled with wrath.
The Lord takes vengeance on his foes
and vents his wrath against his enemies.

Not exactly the warm fuzzy, let the little children come to me picture of Jesus most of us have from Sunday School.

On the other end of the theological spectrum are those who proclaim a God who is always loving, never angry. Borrowing from 1 John, “God is love,” this is a God who never seems to be angry about anything as he is apparently to be too busy doling out hugs and positive energy.

However, if we take the time to read the entire narrative of Scripture, rather than just cherry pick the passages that fit our preferred portrait of God, we see that God doesn’t exactly fit either of these perspectives.

I think where both side of the nature of God debate get it wrong, is that we fail to appreciate the difference between an angry God and a God who gets angry. It may sound like splitting hairs, but it’s a tremendously important hair to split.

My predecessor at Yale, Jonathan Edwards, is the poster child for the former, for the belief that God is an angry God. Edwards famously preached the sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” Particularly when compared to the homiletical stylings of, say, Joel Osteen, it’s a rather frightening portrait of God and our relationship to him.

The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked. His wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else but to be cast into the fire. He is of purer eyes than to bear you in his sight; you are ten thousand times as abominable in his eyes as the most hateful, venomous serpent is in ours.

Not very warm and fuzzy.

It’s hard to imagine such a God bothering to forgive or extend grace, let alone put on flesh and die for all mankind.

Now, when Edwards, or anybody else speaks of an angry God it is likely, hopefully, that at the beginning they only mean that God gets angry from time to time. However, what has happened, whether intentionally or not, is that over time this repetitive and never ending emphasis on God’s anger has become so ingrained in our minds that we can’t separate God from anger. An angry God becomes the dominant narrative of faith, and anger, rather than love, becomes the core characteristic of God’s nature.

Worse yet, this God seems bound by his anger, as if he has no choice but to constantly be angry at mankind. But the diversity of God’s interactions with humanity in the Bible, not least of all the story of Jesus, shows us definitively that anger is not God’s fundamental nature.

In other words, God is not an angry God.

God is a God who sometimes gets angry.

And for that I am truly thankful.

Now, I know that might sound strange coming from someone like me who talks so much about God’s love and grace, and who over and over again rejects the sort of rhetoric that paints God as hateful and petty.

But I believe in a God who gets angry.

Not an angry God, but a God who gets angry when anger is needed, like we see in Isaiah.

Hear the word of the Lord, you rulers of Sodom; listen to the instruction of our God, you people of Gomorrah! “The multitude of your sacrifices — what are they to me?” says the Lord. “I have more than enough of burnt offerings, of rams and the fat of fattened animals; I have no pleasure in the blood of bulls and lambs and goats. When you come to appear before me, who has asked this of you, this trampling of my courts? Stop bringing meaningless offerings! Your incense is detestable to me. New Moons, Sabbaths and convocations— I cannot bear your worthless assemblies. Your New Moon feasts and your appointed festivals I hate with all my being. They have become a burden to me; I am weary of bearing them. When you spread out your hands in prayer, I hide my eyes from you; even when offer many prayers,

I am not listening.

Your hands are full of blood!

Odd though it may sound, we need a God who gets angry.

We need a God who sees oppression and poverty and injustice and hunger and disease and homeless and heartache and loneliness and all the other unloving things we do to each other and gets angry because this is not the way he created the world to be.

We need this sort of God because there is hope in a God who cannot abide the way things are and chooses to change the world for the better.

There is hope that this God’s holy anger will not allow injustice and pain and oppression to continue forever, but will one day come and dwell among us forever. We will be his people, and God himself will be with us and be our God. He will wipe every tear from our eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. For God will have made all things new.

This is what God’s anger leads to.

Not wrath, abuse, oppression, and injustice.

But liberation, hope, and life eternal.

Because God is not an angry God who wants his people to suffer.

God is a God who gets angry when he sees his people suffer.

Subtle though it may seem, this distinction makes all the difference in the world.

Literally.

And it makes God truly worthy of our love and adoration.
 
 

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

This semester I’m taking a class held in a building called Linsly-Chittenden Hall.

It stands at the south end of Yale and makes up what is known as “the old campus.”

It’s called “the old campus” because the oldest building dates back to 1750. If those long dormant history class nureons are firing in your brain, then you know this means that building, Connecticut Hall, is older than the country it stands in. Of course, so is Yale. It was founded in 1701, three-quarters of a century before there was a United States of America.

Linsly-Chittenden Hall, where I have class this semester, isn’t quite that old, but it’s no spring chicken either.

Originally beginning as two separate buildings, thus the funky name, Linsly-Chittenden dates all the way back to 1889 with final construction completed in 1907.

Now, I have to confess.

I had to look up all of those dates on the ‘ole Google.

I share them to give you some context for what I really want to talk about.

Steps.

Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon I head down the hill from the Divinity School to the old campus. The classroom where we meet in Linsly-Chittenden is on the second floor. Most days I enter through the quad and walk up the beautiful old marble staircase.

I get there early, so the staircase is usually empty. But I always make sure to walk on the right side. It’s not because I’ve got post traumatic stress disorder from being told over and over again to walk on the right side of the hall in elementary school.

I walk on the right side of the stairs because it affords me the opportunity to quite literally walk in the steps of those who have come before me.

Marble is a hard rock, but like all rocks it wears away with time.

More than a century’s worth of Yale students have worn down the steps of Linsly-Chittenden Hall and if you know where to step you can feel the path they blazed. Soft groves in the stairs, worn smooth with time that serve for me as a physical reminder of those that have come before me, who endured the challenges before them, and who went on to live great lives.

In a way, the steps at Yale are like an old Bible.

They tell a story.

Not only of the school, but of all those who passed through it.

My old Bible from high school is even more worn out than the steps in Linsley-Chittendon Hall. I carried it with me seemingly everywhere back then and now it’s quite literally falling apart at the seems.

But when I go back and flip through its pages, I’m not just reading the story of faith.

I’m reading my story.

That old BIble is filled with old scribbles, notes, stickers, bulletins, and handouts that remind me of countless great memories from church camp, youth group, and countless youth retreats and mission trips.

Those memories, like the steps at Yale, remind me that I’m not alone.

They remind me that my faith is not my own.

That it was handed down to be through countless generations of believers I’ve never met who struggled with the same things I struggle with, who had the same doubts that I have, and who saw God work in their lives in ways that I’m only beginning to get a glimpse of now.

In the midst of a world consumed by individualism, it’s important to remember that as Christians we’re part of a Body, not a private faith.

The beauty of that Body is not found in its perfection, but in its willingness to admit its faults, struggles, doubts, and fear and then confront them head-on with faith, hope, love, and community.

When we hold our Bibles in our hands, sit in the pews at our local church, or volunteer to serve our community we walk in the well worn steps of the countless Christians who have come before us, who endured the challenges that came their way, and survived to go on and change the world.

We’re in this thing together. We grow together. We learn together. We fail together. We succeed together.

We carry each others’ burdens, meet each others’ need, celebrate each others’ victories, and change the world….together.

Which means the Christian faith is not our own.

Like an old family Bible, it has been entrusted to us for a time and then we must pass it on others.

So, the question is what will our legacy of faith be?

Will future generations go out of their way to walk in our well worn steps?

Or will our story be so insignificant and uninspiring that it becomes lost in the pages of history?

No matter what we say in response to that question now, like the stairs in Linsly-Chittenden Hall, only time will tell the true story of our faith.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

As I’m always welcoming new people to the blog I sometimes like to revisit an old post or two that sparked a good conversation, but may have been missed by those who weren’t around when it was originally posted. In light of the tragic events at the Boston Marathon yesterday and the inevitable search for why such madness occurs, I thought this post would be appropriate to share again as it pretty much sums up my thoughts on the widely held notion that “everything happens for a reason,” or, worse, that horrific evil like this is somehow part of God’s plan. 

I’ve long been annoyed by the saying “everything happens for a reason.”

For one, I find it to be rather sappy and, well, I’m not a particularly sappy person.

Secondly, I’ve never thought the sentiment was true. Some things just happen. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. They just happen. But the more I think about it, the more I’ve come to realize that I was wrong.

Everything does happen for a reason.

When you got that new job you were hoping for, that happened for a reason – you applied for it, you interviewed well, and the company thought you were the best candidate for the job.

When you failed that test you needed to pass in order to maintain your GPA and keep your scholarship, that too happened for a reason – you spent too much time on Facebook, going out with friends, and catching up on your favorite shows when you should have been studying.

The time that house on the news got hit by lightinging and burned to the ground, that happened for a reason – the roof of the house was the closest contact point for the bolt of lightning and the massive charge of electricity caused the wood the house was built with to catch on fire.

And when that young mother and her child were hit head on by a drunk driver and died tragically in a car accident, that also happened for a reason – someone had too much to drink and without concern for anyone else’s well being they got behind the wheel of their car wherein their impaired judgment and slowed response time resulted in them running a red light and taking the life of a mother and her child.

But there was no grander narrative behind these moments, no deeper meaning to be discovered if we simply read the signs correctly. They happened and there was a reason behind their happening, but that reason was mundane, not divine.

In other words, these things were not part of God’s plan.

When these sorts of events occur and we find ourselves in a moment of speechless horror, many of us utter the words “everything happens for a reason,” either to ourselves or to those who are suffering, with the thought being that God is behind these events and has a reason, or purpose, for them occurring.

Let’s assume for a moment that that is true, that the sort of events I’ve described, as well as other horrific tragedies, were the handiwork of the divine. What, then, does that say about the nature of God?

In short, it says that God is a God who apparently delights in suffering. It says that God is the sort of god who sends drunk drivers to kill babies, who burns down people’s homes, and afflicts random people with horrendous diseases like cancer.

Regardless of any potential “reason” such a god would choose to does this things, if indeed God had a hand in intentionally causing them to occur, then that God is not the God of the Bible.

That God is not worthy of worship.

That God is evil.

Does the Bible speak of a God who works to draw out good in the midst of great evil? Absolutely. But there is tremendous difference between a God who orders the chaos and a God who causes it.

This does not mean that God does not enact judgment. Scripture testifies to this truth. But what scripture does not do is ascribe to God the responsibility or blame for every terrible thing that happens in life.

The truth is we live in a broken world and in such a world terrible, meaningless things happen. Not because God wants them to happen, but because our decisions have unavoidable consequences and because nature is an untamable beast that is always on the prowl.

But when we try to ascribe divine meaning, purpose, or reason to tragedy, we merely compound the pain and turn God into a villain.

Mothers who suffer miscarriages should never have to hear that God killed their baby. Family members who just lost a loved one to cancer should never be told that God made their loved one sick. Friends whose homes have been lost to natural disaster should not have to hear that God wanted them to be homeless.

While we would never say these things exactly this way, when we try to comfort our friends and loved ones with the words “everything happens for a reason” or “God has a purpose,” then this is exactly what we are telling them.

It is a good and holy thing to want to console our friends who are suffering, but more often than not the greatest comfort you can give is the silence that accompanies a listening ear, a loving shoulder to cry on, and the promise of prayer.

Pain is hell.

Which means we must do everything we can to avoid becoming our loved ones tormenters in their time of trial.

Yes, there will come a day when every tear will be wiped away and there will be no more death or crying or mourning or pain.

But until that day comes, our testimony to that future reality is not found in trying to attach meaning to the meaningless. Our testimony, and our gift of grace to those to suffer, will be found in our willingness to suffer with them, to walk with them through the valley of the shadow of death so that they know they are not alone.

In that act of grace, we incarnate the truth that though meaningless pain and suffering may seem to rule the present, that is not part of God’s plan.

God’s plan is that one day He will make His dwelling place among His people to dwell with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be among them and be their God.

On that day and not before it, the old order of things will pass away and all things will be made new.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt

Pat Robertson has said some completely bizarre and outright awful things in recent years.

Those comments using get their brief moment in the sun before quickly withering on the vine as Robertson’s influence, fortunately, seems to have seriously waned.

So, what bothers me about his most recent ridiculous comments is not that I fear he will change hearts and mind, but that his words are echoing what many evangelical Christians already believe even if they never pay any attention to Pat Robertson.

Blessed are the peacemakers?

More like cursed.

Like so many other American evangelicals, Robertson has bought hook, line, and sinker into the 19th century nonsense that is end times prophecy. I say 19th century nonsense, because it was this particular period of time that gave rise to ideas like the rapture, Revelation as a road map to the apocalypse, and everything else that goes along with that sort of stuff.

With this misguided apocalyptic mindset having cemented its place as pseudo-orthdoxy by the 20th century, the establishment of the modern state of Israel caused this end times fervor to explode like never before as countless evangelicals hailed it as the fulfillment of prophecy. Subsequently, with their powerful influence in American politics, evangelicals have essentially shaped the United States’ policy towards Israel and the Middle East ever since.

While supporting a fledgling country isn’t necessarily a bad thing, the evangelical obsession with end times prophecy created a myopic and delusional perspective towards the Middle East that viewed Israel as capable of doing no wrong, while simultaneously offering unquestioned support to any and all Israeli policies, not out of compassion or concern for the Israeli people, but because nearly everything Israel did and is doing was and is considered to be some sort of fulfillment of Biblical prophecy.

As a result, everything else about the Christian life has become secondary to doing everything possible to cross everything off an apocalyptic check list that once completed will, we believe, force Jesus to return.

In this idolatrous pursuit to manipulate God’s actions for our own ends, evangelicals have become more than just overzealous misguided fanatics.

We’ve become the the very anti-Christs we claim to be warning the world about.

Christ came to give life, liberate the oppressed, set the captive free, and bring peace to a war torn world.

In our apocalyptic idolatry, we eagerly set aside our calling to go and do likewise, and instead try to convince ourselves that the life Jesus lived and called us to emulate, a life where peacemakers and the poor are blessed, where the oppressed are defended, and where our enemies are loved, that sort of life is somehow secondary to fulfilling prophecies that only really exist in the imagination of Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins.

Yes the book of Revelation is true.

Yes Jesus is coming back one day.

Yes we should prepare for his return.

But we do that by loving our neighbors, praying for our enemies, caring for the sick, and being the sort of people whose lives actually look like the life of the one whose name we claim as our own – Christ.

Jesus did these sorts of things and called us to do likewise, not because they were simply nice things to do or to just keep us occupied until the real show started. Jesus’ sacrificial life – his loving of enemies, defense of the persecuted, healing of the sick, and embrace of the outcast – was the breaking in of the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven.

It was a prophetic life that professed the truth of the coming kingdom of God by enacting that kingdom life in the here and now even as we wait for it to fully dawn.

Our being Christ-ians is found in living this same sort of prophetic life. A life that’s not consumed with deciphering cryptic prophecies that don’t exist, but one which lives out the kingdom reality Jesus embodied.

Which means as long as we call for war instead of peace and turn a blind eye to oppression, poverty, and injustice we don’t need to read the prophetic tea leaves in the morning news to find the anti-Christ.

We just need to look in the mirror.

Grace and peace,

Zack Hunt