Saturday, August 3, 2024

How My Theology Has Changed, Thank God

 

Part IX: Feminist Theology

 

 



Rethinking one’s theology is a difficult and dangerous venture. It is also extremely challenging, disrupting and often fear-inducing as we are being forced to rethink and reconsider our values, presuppositions, commitments, priorities and world view. That is why so many people refuse to take on this task: they give up on faith as no longer working in their lives, and they bolt from church and theology, never to return.

 

So why and when would anyone take on such a daunting task? The main reason is that they have had a powerful experience that can no longer be understood and made sense of within the framework of one’s present theological understanding.

 

For me, this first happened as I lived through the experience of loss and grief following the deaths of both of my parents while in high school, and of my first wife, Pauline, after ten years of marriage. My first eight posts in this series essentially articulate the theological ways  I searched to find meaning again, and a positive relationship with God, in response to my grief. 

 

But there is another way in which our theology can change. It is not in response to our own painful experience, but to the painful experiences of others that is shared with us when we have an open mind and heart. Most of the remainder of my posts in this series will be of this type, and most of them fall into the category of what we call “liberation” theologies,” which search to free us from old ways that no longer work, if they ever did. 

 

In general, traditional theology, which we often call Orthodoxy, begins “above” with traditional interpretations of theology and with the teachings of the church and then applies those understandings to our life in the world.  Liberation theologies always begin “below,” in our lived experiences or as we learn of the lived experiences of others and then turn to the tradition for insight and guidance.

 

Liberation theologies  give greater importance to our experiences. They are not automatically trumped by tradition. In fact, there may be times when experience challenges tradition, growing out of the “suspicion” that there are times when tradition not only does not reflect the will of God, but may be opposed to the will of God. Liberation theologies also tend to be more open to revelation, in the sense that God continues to speak to us. Our experience of God can be direct, and not automatically filtered through the lens of the tradition. This is, in fact, the deeper meaning of revelation: seeing something that no one has seen before.

 

This insight grows out of the theology of German theologian, Paul Tillich, and his teaching of what he called the “Protestant Principle.” Tillich begins with the dialectical nature of reality, comparing the unconditional to the conditional, the divine to the human, the infinite to the finite, the immortal to the mortal, faith to reason. Now, in traditional theology there is a strong emphasis on working to make sure that one does not profane the divine. Take the Ten Commandments for example. God’s name is holy, and we should not take it in vain. The sabbath day is holy, and we should not neglect nor misuse it. God’s truth is universal and absolute, and it should not be treated as if it were earthly and temporal and changeable.

 

However, what Tillich states in the Protestant Principle is that just as one should not profane the holy, one should also not elevate that which is finite and cultural to the realm of the sacred. This goes all the way back to the Protestant Reformation and theologians like Martin Luther, who rebelled against certain teachings of the popes of the time that they felt were not God’s eternal will. The one that bothered Luther the most was the pressure put on church members to pay money for indulgences, which were pieces of paper from the church that said your sins are forgiven. Luther also challenged the idea that priests, like himself, could not marry, and, after the Reformation, he did in fact get married and have children.

 


Feminist theology is one of those “liberationist” theologies,” beginning  “below” in our actual experience in the world. It begins with us as humans, and includes our dreams and hopes, but also our pain and suffering. And, sometimes, when those traditional teachings don’t seem to work anymore, we may develop a “suspicion” that we are missing something, or that something is being (purposely?) left out. 

 

When it comes to the role of women, the Bible clearly views women as subordinate to men, and so the question becomes: is this God’s absolute truth, to be accepted regardless of the consequences, or is it a reflection of the human-created culture of the time, and not only not to be accepted, but to be challenged.

 

Throughout history the great majority of cultures have structured society in a patriarchal hierarchy in which women are of less value than men. The biblical world was no different. When it came to inheritance, marriage and divorce, leadership in the temple and synagogue and many other areas of life, women were treated as “second-class” citizens.

 

If you accept this structure of society at face value and as “truth,” and begin “from above” with that tradition, you will likely be less sympathetic to the struggle of women for equal rights and try to keep women “in their place” because that is the “tradition” of the church.

 

On the other hand, if your method begins “from below” with the oppression of women and the ways in which they are not treated equally, one will be quicker to criticize and perhaps even abandon certain traditional teachings of the church that maintain such oppression. During my years in seminary and ministry, a tremendous amount of research was being done trying to understand how Jesus, for example, understood the role of women. The conclusion of many scholars was that Jesus did live within the cultural structure of the day in general, but he pushed hard and challenged many of the negative ways in which women were being treated, inviting them to be a significant part of the movement he founded.

 


Here is an example of how beginning theology from below in experience changed the life of so many women in my generation. A woman grows up in the North American church. She finds much in the teachings of her church that is helpful to her. But perhaps she also experiences a certain amount of oppression of herself as a person. Why is she so often excluded grammatically from the scriptures, as in the passage that states that Jesus, when he is “lifted up from the earth, will draw all men” to himself?  [John 12:32 RSV] She hears a lot about Abraham as the father of a great nation. But what about Sarah? Wasn’t she the mother of a great nation? Or did patriarchal church historians interpret her role as lesser? Why has the church taught that as a woman, she is inferior to men, her role in the church is less important and her ideas are less valuable.

 


This is where “suspicion” may enter. She may realize she does not know this for sure, but she wonders if the subordination and inferiority of women might not be an absolute divine principle, but rather the entrance into theology of patriarchal cultural norms. Now her subordination may no longer be viewed as God’s will, but, in fact, the opposite of God’s will. It is idolatry (treating a human view as God’s will), and, therefore, as something that needs to be combatted. She commits herself to working against female subordination in the church and in theology, and for the liberation of women from patriarchal theological inequality.

 

Slowly, but surely, I learned of the experiences of women in our culture and church, and the ways in which we both viewed and treated women as unequal. Also, slowly but surely, I tried to become a feminist, while continually aware of how ingrained biases can be and how they thereby unconsciously affect our perceptions and actions.

 


When I began seminary, in my Master of Divinity (MDiv) class of nearly 100 students only 7 were women. Today more than half of seminarians are women, and of the 68 bishops in the ELCA, almost half are women. What changed theologically that led to this massive ecclesiastical change?

 

Let me back up for a moment. I was not raised as a feminist. I grew up with very traditional midwestern, white, rural male and female roles. I was pretty much in the dark about women’s issues and roles, and that continued through college. However, I was quickly “liberated” in seminary. The ELCA first ordained women in the predecessor bodies of the ELCA in 1970. When I began seminary two years later, the women in my class were quick to point out sexist language, outdated perceptions of women’s roles in church and society, the patriarchal bias of the Bible and the church and the manifold ways in which women were not treated as equals in church or society. At first, I was defensive. Slowly I began to listen. I began to read. I began to discuss. Over time, I grew in my understanding of the issues women face and their vision of how change could finally occur. Their questions became my questions, including wondering why the church waited thousands of years to ordain women? And why do many present churches continue to refuse to accept women in leadership roles?

 

Eventually I realized how much church and society had lost by treating women of lesser value and importance. And this became even clearer as the amazing scholarship of women theologians began to appear. However, before encountering those works of theology, it was the storytelling of women that gave me my first insights into the evolution of feminist theology.

 

As a young pastor in Grand Forks, ND from 1989-1991, I started a pastor book discussion, and our first volume was by Harvard Divinity School’s  Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza: In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins, “in which she seeks to reclaim early Christian history as women’s history and to reveal biblical traditions as the history of both women and men. These goals help her to answer questions regarding women’s activity in the early Christian movement and to restore the memory of early Christian women’s sufferings, struggles and power to contemporary readers.” [E notes]

 


Another powerful book at this time was Sexism and God-Talk by Rosemary Radford Ruether. Phyllis Trible, Professor of Old Testament at Union Theological Seminary in New York, summarizes Ruether’s approach:


Affirming human experience as the basis of all theology, Ruether claims that historically such experience has been identified with and defined by men. The uniqueness of feminist theology is its use of women's experience to expose the male-centered bias of classical theology and articulate a faith that incorporates full humanity. Whereas the traditional paradigm begets domination and subordination, feminism seeks a mutuality that allows for variety and particularity in women and men. The goal is not to diminish males but to affirm both sexes whole, along with all races and social groups.

 

Feminist theology not only changed my theology in significant ways, it also greatly enriched my life in the church. In my nine callings to parish ministry, only one had had a female pastor before I arrived. However, in my last four calls, I worked on staff with six female pastors. From each of them I learned so much about both theology and ministry, and I experienced countless joys as we all worked together to create a wholistic ministry dedicated to inclusivity, equality and welcome to all people!





Sunday, May 26, 2024

How My Theology Has Changed, Thank God


Part VIII: Classical Spirituality


 


Several years ago, I was having dinner with a good friend, and we began to talk about a mutual friend whom I had not heard from in several years. I had become convinced that this former friend was angry at me. My dinner friend thought I might be jumping to conclusions, and since this mutual friend was on Facebook, she suggested I simply send our mutual friend a friend request.

 

And so, I did, and she responded immediately, telling me how good it was to hear from me. She ended up reading both of my books and we had long telephone conversations about our lives and spiritual journeys. 

 

In like manner, it was time to overcome the distance I felt from God after the deaths of my parents. In my early seminary and parish years, you might say I had a cordial relationship with God, but it did not in any way approach the depths of intimacy and love that the great spiritual writers of all ages have described.

 


It was now time to move in that direction. I had taken the course described in the previous post on Process Theology that helped me see that God did not cause the deaths of my parents or Pauline. I had changed my view of how God is related to the world and our suffering, with the result, as I wrote in the last post, “I can now report that my new understanding of God’s relationship to the world really did change my experience of God and grief. This time, unlike after my parents had died, I felt God’s presence and unrelenting love every step of the way. Rather than finding myself driven away from God, my spirituality grew deeper and deeper as I allowed God to be with me step by step, day by day, guiding me into the future, trusting that my life was not over but would find new beginnings.” I now, for the first time, felt God’s presence through what I call Classical Spirituality. 

 

Growing up as a Lutheran Prairie Pietist (see Part II), I never encountered the term “spirituality.” We were proud Second Article Christians. We believed we were sinners, and that Jesus Christ (Second Article) had forgiven and saved us, and that is about all we needed to know. We weren’t much interested in the Third Article: life in the Holy Spirit. We left that to the Catholics, with their theology of Mary, their icons, their crucifixes, their stations of the cross. We were quite sure Catholics used spirituality to try to earn their salvation, and thus we viewed it as a form of “works righteousness” and “life under the law.”

 

A couple of months after Pauline died, I was at a Lutheran retreat at a monastery on the Pacific Ocean, focused on stewardship. When you are in severe grief, it is hard to think of a topic of less interest to one than stewardship. Bored to the core, I wandered into the monastery library. Scattered on a reading table were three books: one by Thomas Merton, one by Henri Nouwen, and one on the theology of celibacy. I started reading the last of these three and was intrigued: maybe that is the way I should think of the rest of my life: maybe I should remain single, like a celibate priest. Then I looked at the Thomas Merton book, Thoughts in Solitude, and came upon this reflection:

 

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore, I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.


 

It would be difficult to overstate the way these few words pierced my heart. Merton captured perfectly the struggle in my life, caught up way too much in the past, but uncertain as to how to move meaningfully into the future.

 

One morning soon after, after a restless night’s sleep, I awoke with a sense of new insight, a dawning revelation. I finally began to realize that the weakness I was operating out of was the trying to control what I could not control. I was allowing everyone and everything around me to determine how I felt and thus needed to control outcomes of events in order to ensure my own happiness. I wanted life to give me a break, but there was no way to guarantee that. I knew that pain, could follow pain, could follow pain.

        

This was my weakness. I had no inner strength. Like a sponge, I was at the mercy of having to absorb whatever flowed my way, whether wine or vinegar. I was lacking a deep spirituality and awareness of my call. I was weak in body, weak in spirit, and, therefore, weak psychologically.

 

I bolted out of bed, put on running clothes, and ran in the cool air until I was tired. When I came home, I listened to music and read scripture and excerpts from spiritual books by Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen, reflecting and praying on what I was reading and hearing. Then, with cracking voice that had not awakened yet to the day, I picked out a song and began to play guitar and sing. Again, I turned on the music, and listened as I finished preparing to go to work.    I heard from John Michael Talbot the words I needed to hear. He was singing a song based on Psalm 62:

 

Only in God is my soul at rest,

  In Him comes my salvation.

He only is my rock,

  my strength and my salvation.

My stronghold, my Savior,

  I shall not be afraid at all.

My stronghold, my Savior,

  I shall not be moved.

 

Only in God is found safety,

  When enemy pursues me.

Only in God is found glory,

  When I am found weak and found lowly.

 

My stronghold, my Savior,

  I shall not be afraid at all.

My stronghold, my Savior,

  I shall not be moved.

 

Only in God is my soul at rest,

               In Him comes my salvation.

                 --John Michael Talbot, “Psalm 62”

 

That day I entered the office with a new sense of life. I felt closer to God. I felt relaxed, and open to those around me, ready to carry on whatever ministry needed to be done.

 

Each day I continued the same routine and each day I became more aware of the beauty of life, more present to others, more able to trust myself to God.  A week earlier I had cried out, “My God, when will the pain ever end?” Now I had received an answer: “Pain will always be there. It will never end. But I will give you the strength to bear it, to use it, to grow through it.”

 

I had wondered if my new theology--that God did not cause Pauline’s suffering and death--would lead me to feel closer to God than I had after the deaths of Mom and Dad. It had indeed. But now I was going a step further. I was not only able to pray to God, to feel close to God, but to rely on God to uplift and carry me regardless of what happened next in my day, or in my life. Having lost the people most important to me, I now turned myself over to God more fully than ever before. Rather than continually lament what I had lost, I was slowly beginning to open myself to the beauty of the world still before me, my place in that world, my new calling in that world. How good it was to want to live and love again, to have hope, and to be able to feel trust. No matter what the future held, I trusted that God had a purpose for my life.

      

God had been so patient with me and now I had to be patient with myself. Like a fawn newly born, I felt ready to run straight away into the meadows of my new life, even if my legs were still wobbly. I knew that I would stagger and fall, but Mother God would pick me up and nurse my wounds.

 

As long as we live and love, we will experience grief over the loss of those we want to be close to and cannot. Once one understands that grief never ends, then it doesn’t matter so much where one is in the grieving process. What does matter is that one begins to find a reason to live again, to love again.

 

I promised myself that, although I would continue to shed many tears for Pauline and for others I had lost and would lose, those tears would not simply carry me back into the past but would become a river that carried me into the future. They would remind me of how much I have been loved, how much I have loved, and that I was called to continue to love and be loved as long as there is breath within me. 


       

John Michael Talbot’s lyrics once again captured my feelings:     

 

My God, and my all,

I should like to love you,

And give you my heart,

And give you my soul.

And so I will yearn for you,

In the depths of your passion,

Show me the way to love,

Show me the way to give my life for you.

 

Show me the way to love,

Then we will surely rise,

To fly like an eagle, through the wind,

To find in your dying, Lord,

We both shall live again. So fly  . . . . .

 

So I will weep with you,

In the depth of your passion,

I will not be ashamed,

To travel the world,

Weeping out loud for love,

Show me the way to love,

Show me the way to love,

Then we will surely rise.

               --“My God and My All”



Note: If you are interested in exploring the twelve classical spiritual disciplines, see Richard Foster, Celebration of Discipline:


The inward Disciplines of meditation, prayer, fasting, and study offer avenues of personal examination and change. The outward Disciplines of simplicity, solitude, submission, and service help prepare us to make the world a better place. The corporate Disciplines of confession, worship, guidance, and celebration bring us nearer to one another and to God

Friday, March 1, 2024

  How My Theology Has Changed, Thank God


         Part VII: Process Theology

 

 

It was in Chicago at the Lutheran School of Theology that I was exposed to the work of Jurgen Moltmann, which led me into both the Theology of Hope and The Crucified God (my last two blog posts). However, when I transferred to Luther Seminary in St. Paul, I discovered that in the Systematic Theology Department there the new theology that was creating a good deal of excitement--and controversial discussion--was Process Theology, a unique creation of American philosophers and theologians, based on the process philosophy of England’s Alfred North Whitehead.


At that point in my theological journey, I was still working hard on the Theology of Hope, including writing a 200-page paper on it at Luther Seminary, and I did not have time to dig into Process Theology. However, I was captivated by what students were saying about it, and put it on the back burner.

 

After I graduated from Luther and took my first call at Faith Lutheran in West Fargo, ND--especially as Pauline’s health continued to deteriorate--my mind and heart were again thrust into reflection on the relationship of God to human suffering. 

 

As I explained earlier, I was raised to believe that everything that happens, good or bad, is God’s will. This theology grows out of the philosophic desire to prove God by assuming that, if there is a God, this God must be the greatest and biggest and best of all things. So, God is omniscient, knowing all things ahead of time. God is omnipresent, able to be at all places at all times. God is omnipotent, having power over all things. Throw all this together, and you come up with a portrait of a God who knows everything that is going to happen, is in charge of everything that happens, and can be everywhere at the same time to make sure those things happen. To label this view, it is the God of Supernatural Theism that we have been discussing.

 

This is far more a Greek view of God than a Hebrew one, and really does not coincide well with what we discover in scripture. And, as I had already experienced, this view of God can lead to anger at God for deciding when and where and how we suffer.


As I became more comfortable in parish ministry and felt closer to God again, I decided to tackle this theological issue head on. One of the reasons for this was that, if Pauline were to die, I did not want to experience the same kind of separation from God I felt after my parents died.

 

I decided to head back to Luther Seminary for a continuing education seminar on this very subject, with the speaker being one of the brightest and most profound professors at Luther, Dr. Paul Sponheim. Just as my traveling companion, Marcus  Borg, had turned to Sponheim for more profound ideas of how God is connected to the world when he was in college at Concordia, so did I now. [See Parts 1, 2 and 3 of this blog series]

 

Dr. Sponheim classified evil in three main categories. The first is natural evil, such as earthquakes and floods. The second is moral evil, caused by human sin, such as holocausts and genocides. The third, which is the most obtuse, is metaphysical evil, which is part of the structure of reality as created by God. We may not think of it as evil, but mortality, for instance, means we will die, and being finite means we are limited in our power to do good, both of which may come to us as forms of suffering.

 

Now, of course, if God is indeed the creator of our present reality, then, in a sense, you can blame God for everything: Why a creation with natural evil? Why the limits on human freedom through mortality and being finite? Why create humans with a free will that allows them to do unspeakable forms of cruelty?

 

However, what if God is not omnipotent and omniscient. Process Theology asserts that God’s love is greater than God’s power, and love, as St. Paul puts it, does not insist on its own way. God, rather than controlling human behavior, gives us free will and then tries to guide us, to “woo us,” to do the good and the right. However, we have the freedom to refuse to listen and to be disobedient.

 


C. Robert Mesle explains this view:

 

In process theology, God is constantly, in every moment and in every place, doing everything within God's power to bring about the good. Divine power, however, is persuasive rather than coercive. God cannot (really cannot) force people or the world to obey God's will. Instead, God works by sharing with us a vision of the better way, of the good and the beautiful. God's power lies in patience and love, not in force. 

      [Process Theology: A Basic Introduction]

 

Most of the great evil in the world is moral evil, caused by human beings. God does not cause mass shootings in schools. Humans choose to do that. God does not bomb people. Humans do that.

 

God also does not decide when someone will die. Sometimes that can be found in moral sin, as, in the case of my father, who chose to smoke most of his life. Sometimes it is just the mystery of the universe, as when a child is born with a terminal illness or gets cancer at an early age.

 

In Process Theology the future is not pre-determined. Humans have a part in what happens, and the good happens when we follow God, and the bad happens when we rebel against God, which has been the case since Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel.

 


Bruce G. Epperly puts it this way: “God does not determine everything but presents a vision of beauty and the energy to achieve it for every moment of experience.” [Process Theology: Embracing Adventure with God]

 

He then goes on to describe what this process of God and humans working together looks like:

 

God is source of energy and possibility in each moment of experience and over the course of a lifetime. God supplies the initial aim, or vision, that orients and energizes each moment of experience as it arises. While God is one of many factors that shapes our lives, moment by moment and day by day, God's vision constantly presents us with the most life-supporting and ethically-grounded possibilities, given our particular communal and cultural context. Accordingly, spirituality involves orienting our lives creatively towards God's vision for ourselves and our communities. [Process Theology: A Guide for the Perplexed]

 

From a pastoral and spiritual point of view, this theology makes it possible to view God, not as the cause of our suffering, but as someone, demonstrated most clearly in Christ, who is with us in our suffering, crying with us.

 

Some people just seem to know this intuitively, as was the case with Pauline. She never blamed God for her illness, and she seemed always to feel that God was with her in her suffering.

 

I, on the other hand, had to take the academic route. I had to find a theology that gave me hope, and brought me closer to God rather than driving me from God. 

 

It is one thing to come to this conclusion in the classroom or by reading a book. It is another thing to see if a theology “works” in the midst of reality. It if does work, that doesn’t mean it is necessarily true, but (and this will surprise a lot of people), the church has always asserted that if something “works,” that must be considered—along other factors—as evidence of a possible truth. 

 

Theologically and spirituality, I was now in a very different place than I had been when my parents died. Process Theology gave me a new way of seeing how God is at work in the world: God doesn’t control everything that happens and is not the source of all our suffering. The Crucified God gave me a new vision of the presence of the suffering God who chooses to be with us in our pain and suffering. The Theology of Hope helped me to trust that God would always help me find a way through the loss and grief I might experience.

 


Part III of my book, When the Northern Lights Went Dark: My Journey through Loss and Grief to Healing and Hope [Amazon] describes in detail the painful journey that followed Pauline’s death. And I can now report that my new understanding of God’s relationship to the world really did change my experience of God and grief. This time, thank God, I felt God’s presence and unrelenting love every step of the way. Rather than finding myself driven away from God, my spirituality grew deeper and deeper as I allowed God to be with me step by step, day by day, guiding me into the future, trusting that my life was not over but would find new beginnings.


I experienced what Dr. Sponheim describes in his book, Faith and Process: “The wholly-other is wholly for us! God grants freedom and seeks service. What we do matters to God directly and personally. Without denying our sin, we can affirm that we are God’s creatures. We are called to serve God and to enjoy God forever!”  [266]

Friday, January 12, 2024

How My Theology Has Changed, Thank God


Part VI: The Crucified God




In April 8, 1966, just in time for Easter, Time Magazine published its first non-pictorial cover, with only words in the form of a question: “Is God Dead?” What a stir that created in the church! As is typical with new theological ideas, people reacted before they even tried to understand. I was only 16 years old, but I remember at that time hearing in a sermon this: “God is not dead. He just seems to be silent to those who refuse to listen.” Well, there is truth in that statement, but that was not what this was all about.

 

There were many different theologians with many different ideas in this movement, but I believe it is fair to say that at heart this was theologians saying that the God of Supernatural Theism [see Post III] is dead in the sense that in the modern and postmodern world it is difficult, if not impossible, to believe that there is a God who is all-knowing, all-powerful, all-controlling of whatever happens in the world. I remember hearing someone say about that time that either that view is not true, or, if it is true, then God must be incompetent. In a world that now knew Auschwitz and Dachau, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, how do you square those events with the view that an all-powerful, loving, caring God is in charge in any meaningful sense?.

 

This now takes us deeper into the theology of the cross discussed in the last post. If the cross is the most important event in the Christian journey, what happened in and through the crucifixion of Jesus? Where was God? Was God there? If God was there, what did God do or not do? Most importantly, is there any sense in which what happened is that God died on that cross? Was God crucified? To consider these ideas, we turn to Jurgen Moltmann’s seminal work on this topic, The Crucified God.

 


Moltmann clarifies the task before us in light of the atrocities of the modern world:

 

Behind the political and social crisis of the church, behind the growing crisis over the credibility of its public declarations and its institutional form, there lurks the christological question: Who really is Christ for us today? And rooted in the christological question about Jesus is ultimately the question of God. Which God motivates Christian faith: the crucified God or the gods of religion, race and class. [Crucified, 201]

 

He then takes on Supernatural Theism, much in the same way that Process Theology does (which will be discussed in the next post).

 

For a God who is incapable of suffering is a being who cannot be involved. Suffering and injustice do not affect him. And because he is so completely insensitive, he cannot be affected or shaken by anything. He cannot weep, for he has no tears. But the one who cannot suffer cannot love either.

 

Finally, a God who is only omnipotent is in himself an incomplete being. What sort of being, then, would be a God who was only ‘almighty?’ He would be a being without experience, a being without destiny and a being who is loved by no one. A man who experiences helplessness, a man who suffers because he loves, a man who can die, is therefore a richer being than an omnipotent God who cannot suffer, cannot love and cannot die. [Crucified, 222, 223]


 

Moltmann then describes the relationship of God the Father to Jesus as the Christ on the Cross:

 

In spite of all the ‘roses’ which the needs of religion and theological interpretation have draped around the cross, the cross is the really irreligious thing in Christian faith. It is the suffering of God in Christ, rejected and killed in the absence of God, which qualifies Christian faith as faith, and as something different from the projection of human desire. . . Even the disciples of Jesus all fled from their master’s cross. Christians who do not have the feeling that they must flee the crucified Christ have probably not yet understood him in a sufficiently radical way. [Crucified God, 37-38]

 

God was not silent and uninvolved in the cross of Jesus. Nor was he absent in the godforsakenness of Jesus. . . . In the passion of the Son, the Father himself suffers the pains of abandonment. In the death of the Son, death comes upon God, and the Father suffers the death of his Son, in his love for forsaken humans. [Crucified God, 192]

 

What is so powerful about this understanding of the death of Jesus, and its effect on God, whom he called Father, is that it goes against the traditional views of redemption (the saving work of Christ), which view his death as a substitute for our death, or as a ransom for our sin, or any approach that pictures God as a distant power that somehow needs to be appeased in order that we humans can be forgiven and “saved.” Rather, God, whose love is greater than God’s power, is fully involved in the crucifixion, experiencing the pain and loss of God’s son, and the death of God’s hopes and dreams for us and our world. The tomb is not only the death of God’s Son, but also the death of God’s plans for our world. In that, we as humans are truly lost and abandoned, having decided to kill the very one who came to show us the way, the truth and the life.

 

And yet, in nearly every culture and religion, there is something redemptive about one person giving his/her life for another. In a later post we will discuss the resurrection of the Christ, which is the rebirth of God’s vision for the world, and the hope that sustains us as we move into every future.

 

For the moment, we stay with the crucifixion, and what it means for us today. First, we realize what I had been longing to experience, that suffering is not God’s judgment upon us, but the place where we realize at the deepest level God’s tears and presence with us in our suffering. Moltmann puts it this way:

 

Anyone who suffers without cause first thinks that he has been forsaken by God. God seems to him to be the mysterious, incomprehensible God who destroys the good fortune that he gave.  But anyone who cries out to God in this suffering echoes the death-cry of the dying Christ, the Son of God. In that case God is not just a hidden someone set over against him, to whom he cries, but in a profound sense the human God, who cries with him and intercedes for him with his cross. [Crucified God, 252]

 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer also affirms this understanding:

 

Mark 8:35 reads not that the disciple should take up “his,” that is Christ’s cross, but “your” cross. Jesus suffered and died alone. But those who follow him suffer and die in fellowship with him. . . Within the fellowship of Christ’s suffering, suffering is overcome by suffering, and becomes the way to communion with God. And, therefore, to follow Jesus is joyful. [Crucified God, 55-56; quote from Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 81]

 

Indeed, in her dying journal entries Pauline wrote about feeling the presence of God through God’s tears and, as she put it, that “was enough.” This did not take away my, at times, debilitating fear of Pauline dying, but a seed was being planted that, if she did, I would not feel alone, distant from God, as had been the case after my parents’ deaths.

 

Secondly, building theology and church around the focal point of “the crucified God” gives us a path forward in our broken world built upon mercy, love, reconciliation and hope. Moltmann puts it this way:

 

God in Auschwitz and Auschwitz in the crucified God—that is the basis for a real hope which both embraces and overcomes the world, and the ground for a love which is stronger than death and can sustain death. It is the ground for living with the terror of history and the end of history, and nevertheless, remaining in love and meeting what comes in the openness for God’s future. [Crucified God, 278]

 

“Is God dead?” Yes, the omnipotent and omniscient God of Supernatural Theism is dead. But the always loving, crucified God is alive, showing us the path forward to abundant and eternal life.

 

The death of the Son is not the ‘death of God,’ but the beginning of that God event in which the life-giving spirit of love emerges from the death of the Son and the grief of the Father. [Crucified God, 252]