Lingo and I were chatting on Friday night, and he brought up this possibility for interpreting a particular story in Matthew in an innovative and novel way.
Matthew’s concern with ‘Son of Man’ (SoM) language, particularly in terms of the ‘coming’ of the SoM, is a central feature of Matthew’s Christology and eschatology. This takes particular note in the parable of the sheep and the goats (Mt 26?), which is talked about a great deal at camp, and for good reason. This coming is envisaged as an apocalyptic future event, in which the triumphant return of Christ marks the defining point in history, in contrast to the weakness and isolation of the cross.
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The episode that Lingo drew attention to is Peter and Andrew (??) asking to be on Christ’s right and left hand at the coming of the SoM. But what if this coming of the SoM has already happened, on the cross? Here, and not in the triumph of an apocalyptic victory over the forces of evil, does Christ become the SoM, instigating judgement and showing a new way to live as a result. Authentic power is found in the weakness of self-giving and the isolated pain of death.
Back to the sheep and the goats, at the coming of the SoM on the cross, Christ becomes the least of his brothers, such that the embodiment of Christ within the needy takes on a deeply literal significance, as Christ himself embodies the pain of the needy.
What, then, of Peter and Andrew (??) asking to be on Christ’s left and right at the coming of the SoM? Are they asking to be the two robbers who are literally crucified with Christ, in order that they might share Christ’s triumph through the pain of insignificance and powerlessness, out of which the being of authentic humanity can emerge? In this sense, Galatians 2:20a takes on a profound relevance:
I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.
Being crucified with Christ is to participate in the coming of the SoM, and through participating in this way of being Christ lives in the participant as a re-formed human being. The concept of Christ living in people is central to the sheep and the goats story, also.
In summary, what if the coming of the SoM happened on the cross, in which Christ became weak and powerless – like the needy in the sheep and the goats – in order that humans could participate in his Being, in order that Christ may live within us, as Paul says. To sit on Christ’s right and left hand at the coming of the SoM is not the share in the triumph of victory, but to share in the desolation of rejection and death.
Sunday 27 April 2008
Religious Language
After last weekend’s preparation weekend for this year’s camp, I think that writing up some thoughts that I have had over the past few months, some of which came up in debate on the Friday night.
My main concern is with the nature of religious language and conceptuality, posing the age-old question of what it means to speak about God. Back to Aquinas, God is not a ‘thing’ in the universe like other ‘things’ – God is of a different order altogether. Further to this, the centrality that God is not just a big version of myself – most usually called anthropomorphism, the projection of human being onto the divine – is deeply significant. Given that this is the case, what does it mean to use language and conceptuality ‘about’ God, who is beyond linguistic description or conceptual analysis?
− What does it mean to talk about God as a person, given that he is not a person?
− What does it mean to talk about God saying something, or doing something, given that God has no mouth to speak, or hands to do something with?
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Firstly, an example of how not to do it is, I think, illuminating: concepts of God as a person, or as an active agent who does things in the way that you or I do things remain of profound help and significance – but to become attached to any of these elements in their own right, as ‘defining’ or ‘fundamental’ elements of describing God’s Being, is to miss the subtlety of their scope. So, lots of Christians became irate when John Robinson (in a 1963 book, ‘Honest to God’) popularised the work of Paul Tillich, which stated that God was not a person who is ‘out there’ in the ‘real’ world, but the very ground of Being itself, for whom these concepts miss the point.
If, then, God is not a person as we are persons, and does not converse with people in the same way as humans do, because God is not a human – even a super-powerful human; what about all the stories in the Bible that seem to present God as speaking to people, walking around and all the rest?
Here, I think, my recent comments on the importance of genre in reading Scripture come into their own: given that many of the biblical writers are unconcerned with ‘historical’ accounts, but instead tell stories – rather like Christ did – this language becomes easier to understand: the writers are placing concepts about God into familiar language, in order that elements of the God who is beyond language and conceptuality be, in some sense, made known through this meaningful speech about God. So, telling stories and acknowledging both that they are stories, and also that the frames of reference in which they operate are not descriptions of the nature of divine Being, but attempts to make sense of and comprehend the incomprehensible. As long as people are conscious that this is what religious language is doing, then I have no problem; but when this religious language becomes made equivalent with the Being of God Godself – ie, realizing (that is, making real) the language, without realising its real significance – do the overly defensive elements of rhetorical defence come into play.
My main concern is with the nature of religious language and conceptuality, posing the age-old question of what it means to speak about God. Back to Aquinas, God is not a ‘thing’ in the universe like other ‘things’ – God is of a different order altogether. Further to this, the centrality that God is not just a big version of myself – most usually called anthropomorphism, the projection of human being onto the divine – is deeply significant. Given that this is the case, what does it mean to use language and conceptuality ‘about’ God, who is beyond linguistic description or conceptual analysis?
− What does it mean to talk about God as a person, given that he is not a person?
− What does it mean to talk about God saying something, or doing something, given that God has no mouth to speak, or hands to do something with?
--
Firstly, an example of how not to do it is, I think, illuminating: concepts of God as a person, or as an active agent who does things in the way that you or I do things remain of profound help and significance – but to become attached to any of these elements in their own right, as ‘defining’ or ‘fundamental’ elements of describing God’s Being, is to miss the subtlety of their scope. So, lots of Christians became irate when John Robinson (in a 1963 book, ‘Honest to God’) popularised the work of Paul Tillich, which stated that God was not a person who is ‘out there’ in the ‘real’ world, but the very ground of Being itself, for whom these concepts miss the point.
If, then, God is not a person as we are persons, and does not converse with people in the same way as humans do, because God is not a human – even a super-powerful human; what about all the stories in the Bible that seem to present God as speaking to people, walking around and all the rest?
Here, I think, my recent comments on the importance of genre in reading Scripture come into their own: given that many of the biblical writers are unconcerned with ‘historical’ accounts, but instead tell stories – rather like Christ did – this language becomes easier to understand: the writers are placing concepts about God into familiar language, in order that elements of the God who is beyond language and conceptuality be, in some sense, made known through this meaningful speech about God. So, telling stories and acknowledging both that they are stories, and also that the frames of reference in which they operate are not descriptions of the nature of divine Being, but attempts to make sense of and comprehend the incomprehensible. As long as people are conscious that this is what religious language is doing, then I have no problem; but when this religious language becomes made equivalent with the Being of God Godself – ie, realizing (that is, making real) the language, without realising its real significance – do the overly defensive elements of rhetorical defence come into play.
Sunday 20 April 2008
Genesis and Genre
While at the Tomlinsons’ recently, Emma Bush asked how I read Genesis 1. This is an extremely good question, and engages many of the interpretative conundrums that scholars produce learned work on. Without wanting to appear like an oracle with all the answers, or even all the answers from four years of theological study, I hope to offer a few brief comments on the nature of Scripture, and how best to read it.
By far the most important thing when reading a biblical passage is not the context in which it was written. Though this is an important insight, and can lead to suggestive readings of biblical material, its place is secondary to my suggested focus of analysis, which stresses the centrality of genre.*
Genre is the type of writing that the writer of a piece of work is engaged in, and can take many forms – songs, poems, historical accounts, myths (by which I mean meaningful stories, rather than untruths) etc. So, Proverbs (sayings and philosophical proverbs) is a very different genre to Psalms (songs, laments); and both are very different to the gospels, say. To read a Psalm like a Proverb is to miss the point, and as the answers that one receives from a text depend on the questions that one asks of it, and the questions that one asks depend on the genre that it is seen to reflect, the classification of a work into a genre is essential for the formulation of searching readings of scriptural passages. So far, so good.
But what about the genre of ‘history’, which is seen to take up large amounts of the OT and the gospels? By history, most people mean the record of events that happened in the real world, usually recorded by eyewitnesses in an unbiased and objective manner. This is certainly how modern history is done – but is alien to the ancient world. Only in the 18th century onwards did truth become equivalent to historicity (ie, whether something happened or not) – such that apparently historical material like the gospels, if seen to be imperfect records of history because of theological bias, inaccurate sources, textual tampering etc, is rendered untrue as a result of these difficulties.
If, then, the modern concept of history is alien to the biblical writers, who see truth as a deeply more searching question than whether something happened or not, how to approach the biblical texts which appear to be historical accounts?
I offer two models, with an example of each.
1. Fictionalised history. The components of the story, broadly speaking, happened – the people in it existed, and the bare bones of the story are historically accurate. The detail, however, is filled out and explained through the insertion of ‘fictional’ elements, which give broader significance to the narrative as a whole and play out some of its themes. As an example, Matthew 27:52-53, in which at the point of Christ’s death the tombs of the dead are opened and their bodies raised, such that they walk around Jerusalem and are seen by lots of people. Had this happened historically, records would surely abound; and might the resurrection of a single man be rather overshadowed? To read this element of the Matthew as history misses the point, and to defend its historicity misses the nature of Matthew’s writing here – rather than making a point about an actual event that happened, he is drawing out the significance of Jesus’ death with reference to concepts of eternal life. // Jesus certainly existed and was crucified (history); here Matthew uses fiction to play out the significance of these historical events.
2. Historicized fiction. The locations, names, context and modes of relationship found in the story are from the real world – but the narrative is entirely fictional. As an example, Genesis 4, in which Cain kills Abel. These are the third and fourth people on earth, hence several questions for a historical reading: where does Cain’s wife come from? Who would have killed him, hence the need for a protective mark? Why does he build a city and who would live there; did he do it on his own? // The story is not concerned with these questions, and addressing these issues misses reading the story on unfamiliar terms to its authors’ – it uses the historical context of Israel’s life and experience (of murder, wives, cities and the need for protection) as the setting for a fictional story that plays out the significance of relationship to God and fellow humans. This doesn’t make it untrue, it simply takes the story on its own terms as unconcerned with historicity.
So, Genesis 1 is a myth – it is unconcerned with historical events (whether a literal 6 days or geological ages, which relies on bad science and tenuous links, in my view), and deeply concerned with the nature of human relationship to the cosmic order of things, and the classification of reality into three spheres – air, land and sea – which is central to the Priestly order of things, especially in Leviticus, but that’s another post…
I don’t think anything I have said here is too controversial, but some may disagree. It would get rather more controversial if I said I thought Genesis, Exodus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Samuel and Kings are not historical accounts but interpretations of history that play out the significance of present life; and that some components of the gospels are fulfilling a similar purpose.
In summary, the accusation that I am adopting a ‘liberal’ model of Scripture is more of a libellous rhetorical insult than an accurate description – unless, of course, ‘liberal’ means taking biblical writers on their own terms and seeking to hear the work that they produced within the correct frames of reference, in order that theological truth be sought in it through the asking of good questions…
* It might be noted that my emphasis on the importance of genre is itself part of the ancient world’s context – ie, modern concerns about the nature of history as objective, factual records of actual events are alien to the context of the biblical – and, indeed, any – ancient writers.
By far the most important thing when reading a biblical passage is not the context in which it was written. Though this is an important insight, and can lead to suggestive readings of biblical material, its place is secondary to my suggested focus of analysis, which stresses the centrality of genre.*
Genre is the type of writing that the writer of a piece of work is engaged in, and can take many forms – songs, poems, historical accounts, myths (by which I mean meaningful stories, rather than untruths) etc. So, Proverbs (sayings and philosophical proverbs) is a very different genre to Psalms (songs, laments); and both are very different to the gospels, say. To read a Psalm like a Proverb is to miss the point, and as the answers that one receives from a text depend on the questions that one asks of it, and the questions that one asks depend on the genre that it is seen to reflect, the classification of a work into a genre is essential for the formulation of searching readings of scriptural passages. So far, so good.
But what about the genre of ‘history’, which is seen to take up large amounts of the OT and the gospels? By history, most people mean the record of events that happened in the real world, usually recorded by eyewitnesses in an unbiased and objective manner. This is certainly how modern history is done – but is alien to the ancient world. Only in the 18th century onwards did truth become equivalent to historicity (ie, whether something happened or not) – such that apparently historical material like the gospels, if seen to be imperfect records of history because of theological bias, inaccurate sources, textual tampering etc, is rendered untrue as a result of these difficulties.
If, then, the modern concept of history is alien to the biblical writers, who see truth as a deeply more searching question than whether something happened or not, how to approach the biblical texts which appear to be historical accounts?
I offer two models, with an example of each.
1. Fictionalised history. The components of the story, broadly speaking, happened – the people in it existed, and the bare bones of the story are historically accurate. The detail, however, is filled out and explained through the insertion of ‘fictional’ elements, which give broader significance to the narrative as a whole and play out some of its themes. As an example, Matthew 27:52-53, in which at the point of Christ’s death the tombs of the dead are opened and their bodies raised, such that they walk around Jerusalem and are seen by lots of people. Had this happened historically, records would surely abound; and might the resurrection of a single man be rather overshadowed? To read this element of the Matthew as history misses the point, and to defend its historicity misses the nature of Matthew’s writing here – rather than making a point about an actual event that happened, he is drawing out the significance of Jesus’ death with reference to concepts of eternal life. // Jesus certainly existed and was crucified (history); here Matthew uses fiction to play out the significance of these historical events.
2. Historicized fiction. The locations, names, context and modes of relationship found in the story are from the real world – but the narrative is entirely fictional. As an example, Genesis 4, in which Cain kills Abel. These are the third and fourth people on earth, hence several questions for a historical reading: where does Cain’s wife come from? Who would have killed him, hence the need for a protective mark? Why does he build a city and who would live there; did he do it on his own? // The story is not concerned with these questions, and addressing these issues misses reading the story on unfamiliar terms to its authors’ – it uses the historical context of Israel’s life and experience (of murder, wives, cities and the need for protection) as the setting for a fictional story that plays out the significance of relationship to God and fellow humans. This doesn’t make it untrue, it simply takes the story on its own terms as unconcerned with historicity.
So, Genesis 1 is a myth – it is unconcerned with historical events (whether a literal 6 days or geological ages, which relies on bad science and tenuous links, in my view), and deeply concerned with the nature of human relationship to the cosmic order of things, and the classification of reality into three spheres – air, land and sea – which is central to the Priestly order of things, especially in Leviticus, but that’s another post…
I don’t think anything I have said here is too controversial, but some may disagree. It would get rather more controversial if I said I thought Genesis, Exodus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Samuel and Kings are not historical accounts but interpretations of history that play out the significance of present life; and that some components of the gospels are fulfilling a similar purpose.
In summary, the accusation that I am adopting a ‘liberal’ model of Scripture is more of a libellous rhetorical insult than an accurate description – unless, of course, ‘liberal’ means taking biblical writers on their own terms and seeking to hear the work that they produced within the correct frames of reference, in order that theological truth be sought in it through the asking of good questions…
* It might be noted that my emphasis on the importance of genre is itself part of the ancient world’s context – ie, modern concerns about the nature of history as objective, factual records of actual events are alien to the context of the biblical – and, indeed, any – ancient writers.
Saturday 19 April 2008
Lash, again...
The patron saint of much of my theological thinking, Nicholas Lash, again springs to mind in response to Lingo’s reply to my previous post on interpretative method.
Lingo raises the important issue of tradition, and how we can know what tradition is, particularly the early traditions, which are obviously of deep concern and interest. I have a few points to make in response.
1. The questions of what tradition actually is is central: what do we mean when we talk about tradition as an entity, or something that can yield theological insight? Here, Lash comes into his own, particularly as a Roman Catholic, for whom tradition is highly praised, rather than some Protestant traditions (ironic?) who see tradition as a dirty word. Lash writes a wonderful piece called ‘Performing the Scriptures’, in which he proposes a model of interpretation based on the Church’s continued performance and dramatisations of the concerns of Scripture. In this sense, tradition is simply the experience of and reflection upon the scriptural texts in the light of experience of living them out. Two examples of this are clear: firstly, the rabbis, who sought to draw out the meaning of the OT through telling stories about it, and interpreting it in the light of those who seek to live out its concerns; secondly, Shane Claiborne, who I know Lingo knows about. He deserves his own number.
2. Shane Claiborne is an American, who lives in a hippy commune in Philadelphia (though he would, I think, be unhappy with that description…). They embrace a model of becoming poor, rather than remaining rich and giving to the poor, for Jesus didn’t ask the rich man to tithe 10% or give some money to charity, but to sell all his possessions and give the money to the poor – ie, become poor himself (Mark 10; Luke 18; Matt 19). Shane is dramatising the Scripture, and working out what it means through a dialogue of his own life with reflection about what some things in the Bible might mean. This is tradition.
3. Tradition, then, is the faithful response to Scripture that emerges in changing circumstances. It might also be called ‘Theology’. There are some classics of tradition, which are the great theological works: the rabbis, Augustine, Aquinas, Luther and a hundred more.
4. The early church traditions are notoriously difficult to pin down. Little is know about the communities that Paul wrote to, for example; the only information about them coming from the letters themselves, which are a fraction of what Paul probably wrote. The Bible, to some extent, is itself the product of a tradition of interpretation – Matthew’s well-documented concern with the Jewishness of Jesus is a traditional interpretation of the historical events, attempting to play out their significance in terms of the Law and the great heroes of OT faith. Matthew is a theologian, not a historian – and even the earliest gospel (Mark) was written more than ten years after the latest authentic Pauline letter (Romans); the tradition of living out the Jesus story was established before the production of the gospels, and this experience plays into the writing of the gospels themselves.
This has all been rather sketchy, but for this I make no apology; theology is a messy and difficult thing to do well, and easy answers are easy to come by, while good answers are achieved only be humble and faithful reflection, guided by the Spirit. Sam’s original post made a wonderful point about how easy some Christians find it to speak clearly about what God thinks about particular moral issues. I remain committed to theology being a difficult task, without a simple, all-inclusive method of ‘just looking at what the Bible says’ – which is a nonsense, anyway.
In a final point, Shane Claiborne is a wonderful man, doing theology and creating tradition. As someone who is paid to study theology, I find his method, as well as what he does with it, profoundly liberating and suggestive – we learn what Scripture means by living it out, and by placing our living it out within the broader traditions of church and synagogue. Only then can we begin to encounter the living God through the Scriptures that speak of God.
Lingo raises the important issue of tradition, and how we can know what tradition is, particularly the early traditions, which are obviously of deep concern and interest. I have a few points to make in response.
1. The questions of what tradition actually is is central: what do we mean when we talk about tradition as an entity, or something that can yield theological insight? Here, Lash comes into his own, particularly as a Roman Catholic, for whom tradition is highly praised, rather than some Protestant traditions (ironic?) who see tradition as a dirty word. Lash writes a wonderful piece called ‘Performing the Scriptures’, in which he proposes a model of interpretation based on the Church’s continued performance and dramatisations of the concerns of Scripture. In this sense, tradition is simply the experience of and reflection upon the scriptural texts in the light of experience of living them out. Two examples of this are clear: firstly, the rabbis, who sought to draw out the meaning of the OT through telling stories about it, and interpreting it in the light of those who seek to live out its concerns; secondly, Shane Claiborne, who I know Lingo knows about. He deserves his own number.
2. Shane Claiborne is an American, who lives in a hippy commune in Philadelphia (though he would, I think, be unhappy with that description…). They embrace a model of becoming poor, rather than remaining rich and giving to the poor, for Jesus didn’t ask the rich man to tithe 10% or give some money to charity, but to sell all his possessions and give the money to the poor – ie, become poor himself (Mark 10; Luke 18; Matt 19). Shane is dramatising the Scripture, and working out what it means through a dialogue of his own life with reflection about what some things in the Bible might mean. This is tradition.
3. Tradition, then, is the faithful response to Scripture that emerges in changing circumstances. It might also be called ‘Theology’. There are some classics of tradition, which are the great theological works: the rabbis, Augustine, Aquinas, Luther and a hundred more.
4. The early church traditions are notoriously difficult to pin down. Little is know about the communities that Paul wrote to, for example; the only information about them coming from the letters themselves, which are a fraction of what Paul probably wrote. The Bible, to some extent, is itself the product of a tradition of interpretation – Matthew’s well-documented concern with the Jewishness of Jesus is a traditional interpretation of the historical events, attempting to play out their significance in terms of the Law and the great heroes of OT faith. Matthew is a theologian, not a historian – and even the earliest gospel (Mark) was written more than ten years after the latest authentic Pauline letter (Romans); the tradition of living out the Jesus story was established before the production of the gospels, and this experience plays into the writing of the gospels themselves.
This has all been rather sketchy, but for this I make no apology; theology is a messy and difficult thing to do well, and easy answers are easy to come by, while good answers are achieved only be humble and faithful reflection, guided by the Spirit. Sam’s original post made a wonderful point about how easy some Christians find it to speak clearly about what God thinks about particular moral issues. I remain committed to theology being a difficult task, without a simple, all-inclusive method of ‘just looking at what the Bible says’ – which is a nonsense, anyway.
In a final point, Shane Claiborne is a wonderful man, doing theology and creating tradition. As someone who is paid to study theology, I find his method, as well as what he does with it, profoundly liberating and suggestive – we learn what Scripture means by living it out, and by placing our living it out within the broader traditions of church and synagogue. Only then can we begin to encounter the living God through the Scriptures that speak of God.
Friday 18 April 2008
What does the Bible say about Facebook?
In response to Sam’s thought-provoking and insightful post on the nature of Christian ethics, I though I’d post some thoughts…
I formulated this into a rather nice (if I may say so myself) question while at the Tomlinsons’ house this week: what does the Bible say about Facebook?
Nothing, of course. Facebook appeared a couple of years ago, and social networking sites were nowhere to be seen in the first century, of course (let alone then second millennium BCE). Discerning appropriate responses could take several forms (though this is not, of course, definitive):
1. Try to make verses that clearly do not apply to Facebook apply to Facebook. So if, for example, the Sermon on the Mount made some reference to not writing on people’s walls, or poking people, these things can be seen to condemn social networking sites.
2. Sack off the Bible altogether, for it is out of date and of no use in formulating a contemporary ethic – its validity ended as soon as society changed away from its immediate context.
3. To adopt an Anglican-esque model of theology, with its characteristic tripod/milking stool of Scripture, tradition and reason/experience. This sees God as greater than the words of Scripture, the interpretative moves of tradition, and human reason/experience – but the faithful combination of these elements permits a dynamic and open understanding of what it means to discern theological truth.
It won’t surprise you to know that I veer towards the third suggestion. God is not the Bible, and new things like Facebook require careful consideration, rather than a naïve shooting from the hip with Bible verses that ‘apply’ to them. I feel wildly out of my depth past about the third paragraph here, and people write PhDs about this sort of thing and don’t come to answers.
My conclusion would be that the third option offers a difficult and challenging interpretative method, in which careful and faithful reflection – in the context of Spiritual guidance, as Sam mentioned – is done. My big problem is with the first option, which many Christians implicitly seem to adopt – the sooner we get over the fact that the Bible is not a moral answerbook with easy solutions to every moral dilemma, the better. It may, of course, be that Scripture’s moral pronouncements are still valid – but the fact that they are in the Bible does not guarantee this, and this conclusion should be made as a product of careful reflection, in which the possibility that they may no longer be valid is taken seriously.
To conclude with reference to Sam’s post about some contemporary moral issues, I think Facebook becomes a less loaded model for many contemporary ethical questions: the modern phenomenon of committed and mutual homosexual relationships, stem-cell research and IVF, terrorism, immigration and ethnic tension etc. Easy conclusions about these issues are often suggested, but real answers come from a discerning and searching dialogue between Scripture, tradition and reason/experience.
I formulated this into a rather nice (if I may say so myself) question while at the Tomlinsons’ house this week: what does the Bible say about Facebook?
Nothing, of course. Facebook appeared a couple of years ago, and social networking sites were nowhere to be seen in the first century, of course (let alone then second millennium BCE). Discerning appropriate responses could take several forms (though this is not, of course, definitive):
1. Try to make verses that clearly do not apply to Facebook apply to Facebook. So if, for example, the Sermon on the Mount made some reference to not writing on people’s walls, or poking people, these things can be seen to condemn social networking sites.
2. Sack off the Bible altogether, for it is out of date and of no use in formulating a contemporary ethic – its validity ended as soon as society changed away from its immediate context.
3. To adopt an Anglican-esque model of theology, with its characteristic tripod/milking stool of Scripture, tradition and reason/experience. This sees God as greater than the words of Scripture, the interpretative moves of tradition, and human reason/experience – but the faithful combination of these elements permits a dynamic and open understanding of what it means to discern theological truth.
It won’t surprise you to know that I veer towards the third suggestion. God is not the Bible, and new things like Facebook require careful consideration, rather than a naïve shooting from the hip with Bible verses that ‘apply’ to them. I feel wildly out of my depth past about the third paragraph here, and people write PhDs about this sort of thing and don’t come to answers.
My conclusion would be that the third option offers a difficult and challenging interpretative method, in which careful and faithful reflection – in the context of Spiritual guidance, as Sam mentioned – is done. My big problem is with the first option, which many Christians implicitly seem to adopt – the sooner we get over the fact that the Bible is not a moral answerbook with easy solutions to every moral dilemma, the better. It may, of course, be that Scripture’s moral pronouncements are still valid – but the fact that they are in the Bible does not guarantee this, and this conclusion should be made as a product of careful reflection, in which the possibility that they may no longer be valid is taken seriously.
To conclude with reference to Sam’s post about some contemporary moral issues, I think Facebook becomes a less loaded model for many contemporary ethical questions: the modern phenomenon of committed and mutual homosexual relationships, stem-cell research and IVF, terrorism, immigration and ethnic tension etc. Easy conclusions about these issues are often suggested, but real answers come from a discerning and searching dialogue between Scripture, tradition and reason/experience.
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