Following upon the last two posts, a final point I want to make in this series concerns how the problem of evil plays out in soft versus hard magical worlds.

A great deal of intellectual effort is spent on the theological project we call "theodicy," attempts to explain why a good and all-powerful God allows evil, pain, and suffering in the world. And I think it's safe to say that, in the end, all these efforts fail in some way. None of these answers are wholly satisfactory. And I think one of the reasons for this is that theodicy attempts to address the problem of evil by creating a hard magical world.

By this I mean that theodicy attempts to "explain" the source of evil, to lay the "mechanism" bare. Maybe it's the devil. Maybe free will. Maybe God can't do anything to stop evil. Maybe God is punishing us. In each case, the ways of God are analyzed and explained. The enchantment becomes plain and accessible. A hard magical world.

The alternative move here is to say that theodicy is illicit. And not simply to say that theodicy is impossible, but that theodicy itself is problematic, even hurtful. To "explain" evil is to minimize its dark assault upon the world. To explain to a person "why" she is suffering is pastoral malpractice. Evil, to be evil, has to befuddle our minds. We don't have any answers. In short, evil, to be evil, needs mystery. To approach evil as a theological algebra problem, to situate it in a hard magical world, is to miss the key element about what makes evil so evil.

In short, like prayer and providence, evil exists in a soft magical world. We know evil exists, that the world is haunted by a dark enchantment. But the origins of evil are unclear to us. We don't know why it exists or how it works. We might try to penetrate evil's mysteries, but all these efforts ultimately fail and prove unsatisfactory. 

All we know, in the end, in our soft magical world, is that something prowls in the darkness, calling us to vigilance, righteous action, and, ultimately, trust in God.

What I've been suggesting in this series is that the contrast between "hard" and "soft" magic, inspired by the novelist Brandon Sanderson, helps us recover some apophatic distance when we speak of God's actions in the world. Christian enchantment is a "soft" magical world rather than a "hard" magical world. By this we mean that our world is filled with supernatural wonder and awe. Life is miraculous. 

And yet, this enchantment is soft because we don't know how God "works" in the world. The "mechanism" of the enchantment is not available to us. Christian enchantment embraces the mystery of it all. 

In the last post I discussed how this mystery pushes prayer away from the magical and toward the relational. We know God answers our prayers, but God's answers are often shrouded in mystery. This mystery, which is often accompanied by lament, pushes prayer toward patience and trust. Prayer cannot be used as a tool or technique, as a form of magic, to accomplish our goals in the world. 

Beyond prayer, let me suggest in this post that the soft magical world of Christianity can also help us think about God's providential actions in the world. 

As I've shared before in this space, people often get triggered when the phrase "Lord willing" gets offered up as a petition. For example, we make travel plans and then append "Lord willing." We say, "We'll see you tomorrow. Lord willing." As I've shared, a lot of ex-evangelical types get triggered by such expressions. The complaint is that if God "wills" for us to make the trip safely does that imply that God "wills" for others to die in car accidents? Is God providentially picking and choosing who dies in a car crash today?

In response to these complaints I've shared how "Lord willing" isn't a theological argument about predestination but is, rather, a simple expression of humility. My life is not ultimately in my hands. I cannot control the future. I do not know what today holds for me. Expressions such as "Lord willing" bring my finitude into view, and keep me grounded in the moment I possess here and now. "Lord willing" isn't a theological argument, it's good mental and spiritual hygiene. 

But another way to look at this issue is through the contrast of hard versus soft magical worlds. In a soft magical world, we know that God is providentially guiding the world. We trust that God is working all things toward the good. And yet, there's a mystery here. We can't see clearly what God is doing or how it all works together. Call this view "soft providence." 

By contrast, when people get triggered by expressions such as "Lord willing" they tend to describe a hard magical world, where the actions of God are clear and transparent. God wills this person to arrive safely at their destination, and God wills this person to have a car crash. Call this vision of God's actions in the world "hard providence." 

My point here is that we need to take a soft view of God's providence. We trust that God is at work in the world, but don't envision God as a puppet-master pulling strings. Soft providence leans into the mystery of God's actions and care of the world. Hard providence, by contrast, assumes that the actions of God are clear and transparent to human understanding, and therefore feels at liberty to flatly declare what God is doing in any given situation. We've all seen examples of this hard magical thinking at work, where Christian leaders look upon some tragic event and name it, with absolute confidence, as the will and work of God. In such pronouncements there is no mystery, no demonstration of apophatic humility. A hard view of providence is being articulated. God is being described as a puppet-master pulling strings.

The better way of thinking about providence, I'm suggesting, is providence in a soft magical world. We trust and know God is at work in the world. But how God is at work, and how to explain tragic events, this is hazy for us. Like with a soft magical vision of prayer, soft providence pushes us alway from overconfident pronouncements about God's will and actions in the world toward humble silence, patience and trust. 

Phrased differently, when you say "Lord willing" in a soft magical world you mean something very different from those who assume a hard magical world.

In the last post I shared that the Christian experience of enchantment is soft rather than hard magic. Our world is charged with the grandeur of God, full of wonder and awe, suffused with the miraculous. And yet, as I go on to say, this "magic" is not at our disposal. Christian enchantment is not pagan enchantment. God is not at our beck and call. God is not an energy, force, or potency in creation that we can control, direct, or manipulate. Christianity is enchanted, but it isn't a hard magical system.

However, as I also observed in the last post, many Christians are tempted to turn the soft enchantment of Christianity into something akin to a hard magical system. The example I mention in the new paperback edition of Hunting Magic Eels is the prosperity gospel. 

To be clear, I don't think the "name it and claim it" theology of the prosperity gospel is an attempt to control or manipulate God. The "name it and claim it" prayers in prosperity churches are not like magical spells. And yet, these prayers do tip toward something like hard magic. Not so much in positing some mechanism to be manipulated, but in their confidence of sure reply. 

Let me explain how confidence tips into mechanism. When the apophatic mystery of prayer is lost and replaced with overconfidence, God becomes increasingly at our disposal. Prayer begins to take on a "If A, then B" dynamic. You claim it and God will grant it. The conviction here, concerning this reliable connection, makes the relationship practically causal, and therefore mechanistic, and therefore hard magic.

You can see this causal, mechanistic, hard magical imagination at work in prosperity churches in how they struggle with lament. For lament acknowledges unanswered prayer and sits dismayed in the face of the inscrutable ways of God. Lament shatters any dream that our prayers function like spells, that God is at our disposal. 

Returning to the contrast I made between faith and magic in an earlier post, lament is what pushes prayer into a relational, rather than magical, space. In many ways, magical systems is the central debate in the book of Job. Job's friends keep defending a hard magical world. Do good and you get rewarded. Do bad and you get punished. The "mechanism" of the enchantment--"how it works"--is clear and transparent. But Job rejects this hard magical view of his situation. Job's lament concerning God's inscrutability, the infuriating mystery of his situation, pushes him into a relationship with God. Job's friends preach magic. Job seeks an encounter.  

I expect some readers will not like using hard versus soft magic to analyze these issues, finding the notion of "magic" both confusing and unnecessary. To such readers I say: Stop being a theological snowflake. I'm experimenting here, floating some thought balloons. And for my part, I find the hard versus soft magic contrast helpful in illuminating some things. Specifically, I think there is a way our overconfidence in prayer, as you see in prosperity gospel spaces, along with a marginalization of lament, puts God too much at our disposal in a way that causes prayer to tip into the magical. More simply, lament protects prayer from becoming magic. Lament shoves us back into mystery, which recenters our relationship with God. 

Lament and mystery preserve the soft enchantments of prayer, protecting prayer from the temptations of hard magical thinking.  

"Mount Zion is glad"

Out at the prison, my co-teacher is leading a study on the book of Judges. Judges is an a odd book. The are heroic deeds and adventures, but as the book progresses things get grimmer and grimmer, ultimately culminating in one of the darkest stories in the whole of the Bible. The book of Judges ends with this plaintive assessment: 

In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.

And yet, when the kings do eventually show up, life doesn't get any better. Just like with Judges, as we go further into 1 and 2 Kings and 1 and 2 Chronicles things get grimmer and grimmer. The legacy of Israel's kings ends in idolatry, disaster, and exile.

In short, much of the Old Testament is dedicated to the task of chronicling the train wreck of human political projects. Even the very best of rulers, from Samson to David, are a mess. The Bible has a very critical and pessimistic vision of human politics. Perhaps especially of a human politics devoted to serving God. 

Obviously, this strikes me as having relevance for our debates about Christian nationalism. To be sure, this is a messy debate, and it's often unclear what we mean by "Christian nationalism." I found my colleague and friend Brad East's essay in Christianity Today How (Not) to Talk About Christian Nationalism to be helpful and clarifying. 

Those cautions duly noted, I remain confused about why any student of the Bible has any positive expectations or hope for human politics, or any optimism about a Christian political project. I can't see where on the pages of Scripture that hope is coming from. Politically invested Christians are constantly taking inspiration from the story of Israel, yet seem perversely unable to internalize its moral and meaning. Zion ends in ruins. Why do Christian nationalists, however defined, fail to miss this pretty obvious plot point? The Biblical illiteracy of the Biblical literalists always astonishes me. 

Psalm 48 praises God as the king of Zion. Curiously, no human king is spotted in the poem. Instead, God is the one who directly rules the city, defeats its enemies, and dispenses righteous judgments. Because of all this "Mount Zion is glad."

Psalm 48 is a beautiful vision. And yet, Israel never achieves this vision, not ultimately, because human kings, rulers, and politicians are, in stark contrast with Psalm 48, quite visible in the halls of power. Samson and King David are not Yahweh. Mount Zion is glad in Psalm 48 precisely because no human ruler makes an appearance.

For those who have ears, let them hear.

Having set out Brandon Sanderson's contrast between hard and soft magic, how might such an idea be of use in pondering Christianity?

Let's start by noting how sociologists of religion have struggled to offer clear definitions of magic and religion given the diversity of religious and magical practices across time and cultures and the often complicated ways they overlap.

One common attempt to make a contrast between religion and magic has been to describe magic as a metaphysical technology, a means via a hex, spell or ritual to harness some natural or spiritual power/force in order to achieve a goal. Magic is a metaphysical tool to make something happen. In this, magic tends toward the pragmatic rather than the relational. Religion, by contrast, involves communal, cultural, and cultic rituals, practices, and observances that instantiate a relationship between a group and a deity. In contrast to magic, religions often involve moral codes that express relational commitment to the deity. Finally, where magic tends toward individual practice, religions function to bind together social and cultural groups.

But as I said, the lines are fuzzy here. For example, Roman religious observance had a lot of magical aspects. And some Christian practices, especially when it has fused with indigenous pagan practices, can also blend with the magical. 

The reason for the blurring is easy to see. If magic is harnessing a power, and you're in a relationship with a powerful spiritual being, why couldn't you try to ask, persuade, or compel that powerful being to do things for you? 

Here's where, I think, Sanderson's contrast between hard and soft magic can be illuminating. Recall, with hard magic the mechanism is transparent. We know how the magic works. Consequently, that mechanism can be used to solve our problems. By contrast, we don't know how soft magic works. Soft magic enchants our world, filling it with wonder and awe, but we cannot harness or use it to fix things in life.

As I share in the paperback edition of Hunting Magic Eels, Christianity is a soft magical world. By this I mean that our world is full of wonder and awe. God's divine presence fills all of creation. Hope and possibilities exist in our world that cannot be found within a purely materialistic view of the cosmos. Miracles happen. Angels are encountered unawares. As Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote, "The world is charged with the grandeur of God."  

In describing Christian enchantment as "soft magic" I mean that, following Sanderson, we do not know how this enchantment "works." Neither can we control or manipulate it. We could say that there is a apophatic aspect to soft magic, a persistent mystery. Consequently, and this is key to the point I want to make, the soft enchantments of Christianity cannot be exploited to solve our problems. God is not a tool to get us something we want. 

This is not to say God doesn't help us or answer our prayers. The point is that God is not at our disposal.  God's ways are mysterious to us. We know that he is with us and working for our good, but many of our prayers go unanswered and God's plans are often inscrutable. Our experience with God is enchanted, but it's a soft enchantment.

And yet, and here's my second big point, many Christians are tempted to turn the soft, apophatic enchantment of Christianity into hard magic. We seek God as a solution to our problems, looking for a magical fix. But God is not a Cosmic Genie in the Bottle granting our wishes, or a Cosmic Vending Machine giving us what we want if we push the right buttons. 

Relatedly, some Christians are tempted to think that God's designs are transparent to us. We can become overly confident in naming "God's will" in our lives. The humility of apophatic mystery is replaced with hubristic pronouncements about God's providential actions, intentions, and plans.

What I am suggesting is that Christian enchantment, our magical world, is soft, which is to say apophatic. God enchants our world, but in a way that is fundamentally mysterious and not at our disposal. And yet, there are some Christians who are tempted to turn the soft enchantment of faith into a hard magical system. And when this happens, a suite or problems and issues emerge. I'll turn to some examples of this in the posts to come.    

In one of the new chapters of the paperback edition of Hunting Magic Eels, "Hexing the Taliban," I use the idea of hard and soft magic to draw some contrasts between witchcraft and faith. You can check out that new chapter if you want to explore that discussion. 

Having used the contrast between hard and soft magic in the paperback edition, I've kept exploring this idea and pondering its application to different questions of faith. So, here's a series of some experimental theology, exploring how the notion of magical systems might apply to Christian theology.

To start, what do we mean by hard and soft magical systems?

As I acknowledge in the paperback edition of Hunting Magic Eels, my son Brenden introduced me to this idea. Brenden is a huge fantasy fan, and loves the work of the fantasy novelist Brandon Sanderson. 

One of the things Sanderson is noted for is his theory about hard and soft magical systems, and how these systems should and shouldn't be used in the plots of fantasy fiction. According to Sanderson, the magic in fantasy fiction should never be used to resolve plot difficulties if the audience doesn't understand the mechanics of the magic. Otherwise, the magic looks like a cheat, a deus ex machina. However, if the author explains the mechanics of the magic in enough detail, its "physics" if you will, then magic can be used to resolve plot difficulties. Understanding the "physics" of the magic allows the reader to follow along and see the puzzle the characters are needing to solve to save themselves or defeat an enemy. Sanderson summarizes this belief of his as his "First Law" in using magic in fantasy fiction:

SANDERSON’S FIRST LAW OF MAGICS: AN AUTHOR’S ABILITY TO SOLVE CONFLICT WITH MAGIC IS DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL TO HOW WELL THE READER UNDERSTANDS SAID MAGIC.

When an author explains the magical system in enough detail where it can be used to solve conflict in a story, Sanderson calls this a "hard magical system." As Sanderson writes:

[A hard magical system is] where the authors explicitly describes the rules of magic. This is done so that the reader can have the fun of feeling like they themselves are part of the magic, and so that the author can show clever twists and turns in the way the magic works. The magic itself is a character, and by showing off its laws and rules, the author is able to provide twists, worldbuilding, and characterization.

If the reader understands how the magic works, then you can use the magic (or, rather, the characters using the magic) to solve problems. In this case, it’s not the magic mystically making everything better. Instead, it’s the characters’ wit and experience that solves the problems. Magic becomes another tool—and, like any other tool, its careful application can enhance the character and the plot.

By contrast, there is what Sanderson calls "soft magic." In a soft magical world it's unclear to the reader how the magic works. According to Sanderson, in a soft magical world magic shouldn't be used to solve problems or conflict in the story. What's the point, then, of magic in a soft magical world? For Sanderson, soft magic is less about solving plot problems than used by the author to create a sense of wonder, awe and enchantment. Sanderson describes this, applying his system to the work of Tolkien:

[Soft magic is] for those who want to preserve the sense of wonder in their books. I see a continuum, or a scale, measuring how authors use their magic. On one side of the continuum, we have books where the magic is included in order to establish a sense of wonder and give the setting a fantastical feel. Books that focus on this use of magic tend to want to indicate that men are a small, small part of the eternal and mystical workings of the universe. This gives the reader a sense of tension as they’re never certain what dangers—or wonders—the characters will encounter. Indeed, the characters themselves never truly know what can happen and what can’t.

I call this a “Soft Magic” system, and it has a long, established tradition in fantasy. I would argue that Tolkien himself is on this side of the continuum. In his books, you rarely understand the capabilities of Wizards and their ilk. You, instead, spend your time identifying with the hobbits, who feel that they’ve been thrown into something much larger, and more dangerous, than themselves. By holding back laws and rules of magic, Tolkien makes us feel that this world is vast, and that there are unimaginable powers surging and moving beyond our sight.

As I shared, I used this contrast between hard and soft magic to draw some contrasts between Christianity and witchcraft in the new edition of Hunting Magic Eels. Having set the contrast before you here, I want to devote a few posts applying the notion of soft and hard magic to some other theological topics. 

So, our study of Revelation out at the prison kicked off last night. 

In starting the series, I surveyed four common ways people read the book. These are, as summarized by ChatGPT and edited by me:

1. Preterist:

The preterist view holds that the events described in the Book of Revelation were largely fulfilled in the past, specifically in the first century, during the time of the Roman Empire. Preterists argue that most of the prophecies in Revelation refer to first century events such as the fall of Jerusalem in 70 AD or the Roman persecution of Christians under Nero and Domitian.

2. Historicist:

The historicist view sees the events of Revelation as unfolding gradually throughout the course of history, from the time of the apostles to the present day. Historicists often interpret specific symbols in Revelation as representing historical events, identifying them with different periods and figures throughout history. This view was popular during the Reformation.

3. Futurist:

The futurist view asserts that the majority of the events in the Book of Revelation are yet to occur and will take place in the future, often associated with the end times or the second coming of Christ. Futurists interpret many of the prophecies in Revelation, such as the rise of the Antichrist, the Great Tribulation, and the final judgment, as events that are still awaiting fulfillment.

4. Symbolic (or Idealist) View:

The symbolic view, also known as the idealist view, emphasizes the symbolic and timeless nature of the imagery in Revelation, suggesting that it conveys general spiritual truths rather than specific historical events. Symbolic interpreters see the book as describing the ongoing spiritual battle between good and evil, with the various symbols representing universal principles rather than concrete historical or future events.

Of course, people mix and match here. In the Churches of Christ I was raised with a mix of preterist, historicist, futurist, and symbolic readings. Most of Revelation, I was taught, occurred during the fall of Jerusalem in 70 AD or the Roman persecution of the early church. Nero was 666. But I was also taught some historicist stuff, that various images in Revelation referred to Alexander the Great or the Catholic Church. The only real futurist view we held, being amillennialists, concerned the Second Coming. Finally, most of the sermons I heard about Revelation set forth a symbolic view, that we, as modern readers, can take from Revelation timeless truths and encouragements. We all struggle to "come out" from Babylons of various sorts. And as many preachers have summarized it, no matter what you think of Revelation, the book communicates one simple message: In the end, God wins.

I shared all these views out at the prison last night. I mainly did so as a therapeutic exercise. Simply appreciating the diversity of perspectives here cultivates some intellectual charity and humility. My way of reading Revelation might not be the only way. 

When the men asked me how I read Revelation I shared that my views are a mix of preterist and symbolic. I think Revelation was written to the seven churches of Asia and not to us, written to encourage those churches to hold fast during the difficult persecution they were facing or soon to face. But I take away from that encouragement truths and hopes for my own spiritual life. What inspired the seven churches of Asia to hold fast inspires me today to hold fast. In this, I read Revelation just like the other New Testament epistles, as letters written to specific churches facing particular problems that I can learn from and apply, with wisdom, knowledge, and care, to Christian life today.

But I then took my own poll, asking the men to raise their hands about which view described how they read Revelation. In a class of about thirty-five, one or two hands went up for the preterist view. One or two hands for the historicist view. One of two hands for the symbolic view. But over thirty hands up for the futurist view. 

Like I said, this is going to be a very interesting study...

In Brian K. Blount's commentary on the book of Revelation he offers a twist on how I've typically read the social setting of the book. 

Specifically, as described in the last post, I've read the social setting as being one of acute persecution. Revelation was written, therefore, to give the persecuted community hope. The theme of vindicated martyrs along with associated judgment upon the persecutors features large in Revelation.

Blount gives this setting a bit of twist. Yes, the church was being persecuted, but Christians were not being actively hunted down. As long as the Christian communities accommodated themselves to Roman culture and worship things were okay. According to Blount, it was this accommodation that Revelation is so fiercely calling out. As Blount describes:

[Christian] complicity in artisan, trade, and funeral associations allowed for upward social and economic mobility. They passed themselves off as Roman cultic devotees in order to avail themselves of Roman resources...

[John] wants the Christians to see that they are caught up in a draconian, prostituting system. The only challenge to that system resides in the will of those who refuse to participate in its many social, economic, and political benefits. Whatever it costs them, those Christians must find a way to stand up and opt out. That, in essence, is his prophetic charge.

This changes how we think of the word "martyr." Instead of a murdered person Blount asks us to pay attention to the meaning of the word. A martyr is a "witness." Not just or primarily in death, but in the visible contrast and nonconformity of our lives. Blount writes:

[John's] confessional witness (martys) language is, then, his prophetic language. Martys is a word of active engagement, not sacrificial passivity. A believer's witness might provoke such a hostile response that it leads to the believer's death, but always, at least in the first-century mind-set, it seems, transformative focus was on the provocative testimony that had to be given, not a passive life that had to be extinguished. When someone in John's turn-of-the-century environment said "witness," she meant witness, not martyr. 

In short, the prophetic and pastoral concern of Revelation, according to Blount, isn't persecution per se, but the Christian avoidance of persecution, refusing to stand up and become a witness. Christians were "passing" as Romans, reaping the social and fiscal benefits of political and religious conformity. John wants this accommodating behavior to stop. And he knows that if the Christian community comes "out of the closet," as it were, they are going to face fierce opposition, and even death. Fearlessly stepping out into the open as a Christian to face these hostile forces and bitter consequences is the demand of Revelation. Blount shares:

Here is where both John's prophetic call and a consummate prophetic problem arise. If John was indeed asking his people to stand up and stand out in a world they had accepted and that that accepted them, a world into which they had covertly and successfully passed, he was essentially telling them to go out and pick a fight! No matter the consequences! He was ordering his people to self-identify, to declare that they were not nonaccommodating Christians who could no longer participate in a world that had not really noticed them since they had heretofore been accommodating to it. In a classic "Don't ask, don't tell" (that I'm a Christian) kind of environment, John was essentially ordering his Christians to be about the business of telling on themselves, with a full knowledge of the repercussions such telling might bring...He was asking them to come screaming out of the Christian closet, knowing that it could well solicit the same consequence it had attracted to the Lamb: slaughter. 

John's visions operate in support of his effort to incite his followers to self-identify and then stand behind that self-declaration, that revelation, no matter what the consequences...

I love this, and these are stirring words. And yet, I'm mindful how easily they might be misconstrued. In the culture wars there's a whole of Christians "picking a fight" with the culture. But much of this conflict misunderstands the social context of Revelation. John wasn't asking the church to "win back" Rome. Following Blount, John was asking Christians to stop passing as Romans. In Revelation, the state is Babylon and the Christians are called to "come out" of her exploitive political, religious, and economic practices. Ponder the economic aspects of Babylon and how disconcertingly similar they are to America. In short, the proper way to translate Revelation into our context is to see America, not as Zion, but as Babylon, and to demand that Christians stop passing as Americans. 

Now that's a provocative question to ask! What might that mean to stop passing as an American? And what sort of persecution might that provoke? Such are the questions, I think, Revelation places before us.

"sing praise"

Here's something you probably didn't know, or didn't want to know, about me. I'm a bit of a Swiftie. 

Taylor Swift wasn't on my radar screen during her early career. But I do try to pay attention to what my students are listening to. So in 2014, our student office worker was listening to Swift's recently released album 1989. If you know Taylor Swift you know 1989 was the album where she stepped away from her country roots to fully embrace pop. My student played me some of the songs on 1989 and I thought Jana would like the album. Jana likes upbeat pop. So on a road trip, I played the album and Jana fell in love. We've been Taylor Swift fans ever since.  It's something we share together. We listen to the albums when they come out. I've taken Jana to both the Reputation and The Eras tour concerts.

As you might know, Taylor Swift released another album this week--she's a very busy and hardworking girl--entitled The Tortured Poets Department. Keeping with tradition, Jana and I listened to the album together.

My love of Taylor Swift is really about my love for Jana. Jana loves Taylor Swift and I want to share in what Jana loves. So when an album or concert comes out I want to experience that with her. The same way she watches football and basketball games with me. She does struggle, however, whenever I try to play Bob Dylan. Which I understand. Some pleasures just can't be shared. :-) 

Anyway, if you've been to The Eras concert you'll have witnessed what I witnessed, young girls (and old!), standing for three hours straight and singing every single verse and chorus. Non-stop singing, never missing a line. The Eras tour is a three hour singalong. 

Jana and I didn't stand for three hours. We're getting pretty old for that sort of exertion. Plus, while we love Taylor Swift's music, we aren't obsessed with Taylor Swift the person. I can't name you her past boyfriends. We don't wait up for her albums to drop or chase Easter eggs she puts out on social media. Basically, we like Taylor Swift's music, but we're normal, adult people with day jobs. 

But back to the three hour singalong of The Eras tour...

Watching the young girl to my left at the concert stand and passionately sing for three hours, I was struck by the power of music. Music is intoxicating. It creates an emotional connection. Music connected this young person to the artist and the music connected everyone in the stadium. As you're aware, music concerts are religious experiences for attendees. Sporting events create similar experiences of transcendence. To be sure, religious people detect a threat here. As we move deeper and deeper into a post-Christian culture, people will grow hungry for transcendence. And they will seek out those experiences at concerts and sporting events. That, or they'll experiment with psychedelics. 

Which brings me to Psalm 47's "sing praise." 

I've always been struck that ours is a singing faith. Singing is at the heart of our spiritual practices. And I believe that is due to the psychophysiology of singing. We are embodied and emotional creatures. And our spirituality has to penetrate and shape us affectively and physiologically. Music does this. Singing praise connects us to each other and to God. Singing creates the neurological and social scaffolding for an experience of transcendence. And I don't see why secular artists like Taylor Swift should be the only beneficiary of this aspect of human psychology.

Affectivity is often disparaged in many religious circles and in the spiritual formation literature. But I've been reading Jonathan Edwards' The Religious Affections, and Edwards is clear: Emotions are the motor of human psychology. You see it right there in the Latin root movere, which means "to move," in the words move, motor, motivation, and emotion. Emotions move us. Emotions motivate us. Emotions are our motor. 

And what is something that gets that motor engaged and running? Singing! Singing does this, perhaps more than any other spiritual practice we do. 

You might not like Taylor Swift. (And let's admit that the discourse about her online is getting very tired.) You'll have your own music to listen to and concerts to attend. But let's not forget the exhortation of Psalm 47. 

In all your singing, make space to sing praise.

In the last post I described how the extreme imagery of Revelation is rhetorical in nature. Still, people have concerns. As Brian K. Blount's observes in his introduction to his commentary on Revelation:

Revelation...is a violent book. Some interpreters argue that because of its violence, it does not belong in a New Testament canon that takes its direction and energy from a Jesus who extended forgiveness to sinners and counseled love even of one's enemies. 

How to respond to these concerns? Blount starts off with this observation:

John's presentation in the form of (divine) passive verbs demonstrates his understanding that the agent behind the violence is God. It is a violence meant to frighten those who are persecuting God's people so that they will cease their hostilities. It is a violence done on behalf of a people who are being persecuted so as to ensure them that God has heard their cries and is responding swiftly and convincingly. It is a violence meant to scare those who are evil straight back to the ways of a good God, and to warn those who already stand with God to maintain their place lest they find themselves in the same crosshairs as their intractable enemies. The violence is, then, like the furious fire of a kiln, which burns away all impurities until what is pulled from the furnace emerges unblemished and pristine. 

...The divinely orchestrated destruction is God's way of shepherding human traffic in the direction of eschatological salvation. Those who refuse to follow are pushed. Those who are following are often caught up in the maelstrom. Because there is no rapture in the book of Revelation, believers also find their way to God through the terror that those opposed to God inflict on the earth and the terror that God wields in what John sees as a just response. The conflict in heaven, having spilled onto earth, catches up everyone and everything in creation.

John justifies God's violence by staging it as a just response to the cries of God's people...

Blount continues by comparing Revelation to the Ten Plagues inflicted upon Egypt, cataclysms also intended to free God's people from violence and oppression. But such visions unsettle many modern readers of the Bible. Blount continues:

Can such a God be justified in a twenty-first century context? It is a difficult question, to be sure. It is the book's binary (either/or) dualism that almost ensures a need for God's violence. At every turn, good is threatened by great and powerful evil. If there is to be justice, such evil must be eradicated by the good at whatever cost. God therefore meets fire with apocalyptic fire.

It raises a question: Are modern readers of the Bible too sensitive and fragile when reading Revelation? Blount quotes Allan Boesak, who observes in his book Comfort and Protest, "People who do not know what oppression and suffering is react strangely to the language of the Bible." In a related vein, Miroslav Volf observes that in these strange reactions of the comfortable "one can smell a bit too much of the sweet aroma of suburban ideology." More, we see in progressive reactions to Revelation the "pleasant captivity of the liberal mind." 

This is true! I've observed it myself. In my Bible teaching I toggle between very different audiences back to back. On Sundays at church I teach a Bible class for a theologically progressive, politically liberal, highly educated, and comfortably middle class audience. And then, the very next day, on Mondays, I teach a Bible study for men incarcerated in a maximum-security prison. Here's what I've observed about these two Bible classes. The very comfortable and liberal church group blanches at Revelation. They are very triggered. The men in the prison? They don't blink an eye at Revelation. 

The strangest thing is how the very liberal group at church considers themselves to be social justice warriors. The very people who rage about injustice and oppression react very strangely when the Bible speaks up for victims and rains verbal fire down upon oppressors.

Out at the prison we are about to begin a study of the book of Revelation. Over the last few years we've been working our way through the entire Bible. We started in Genesis and now, at long last, we reach Revelation.

This is going to be an interesting study. The men out at the unit have been thoroughly marinated in dispensational theology. Many of them are convinced that we are in, or approaching, the end times. I have my work cut out for me.

In preparing for the study, I've been looking at various commentaries. One recommended to me by my friend Mark is Brian K. Blount's commentary. Blount's commentary is rare among Biblical commentaries because he's a really great writer, with a flair for vivid, bracing prose. I wanted to use this series to share some of Blount's material from his Introduction, how he approaches the book of Revelation.

Blount opens the Introduction by commenting on John's emotional state in writing the book: "In the literary storm that is the book of Revelation, John writes in anger." In the next paragraph, Blount continues:

Revelation is a mean book; it is not, however, mean-spirited. The line between those two points on the human emotional scale is admittedly razor thin. John's meanness is the effect of a sure cause. It derives from the anger he feels about the injustices that have been imposed upon him and his people, and the even greater injustices that he is sure will soon rise if his people live out their faith in the way that he hopes they will.

You might not like these descriptions, that John "writes in anger" or that Revelation is "a mean book," but Blount sure does grab your attention right out of the gate! And Blount does have a point. Revelation has some pretty grisly passages about the plight of the wicked and rebellious. Are these passages, in their imaginative excessiveness, "mean"? Feel free to debate that word, but the visions in Revelation are very violent and off-putting to many. Just spend time with graphic novel depictions of Revelation and the point is made. Consequently, it's critical when approaching Revelation to know how to handle the violence, pain, and blood. For example, as Blount continues, John has repentance on his mind, not retribution. Blount writes:

John not only allows for repentance; he also encourages it, begs for it, and pleads with those who have joined forces hostile to God's world-transforming intent to come back to God's way of being and doing in the world...

The point is that Revelation is rhetorically excessive because it's polemical. Revelation is trying to accomplish something in the lives of its listeners. Revelation is a jolt. A thunder clap. A five alarm fire. Stated simply, the violence is rhetorical. John's words are trying to kidnap your attention and galvanize your immediate energetic response. Focusing on those rhetorical goals is the proper way to approach the verbal onslaught that is the book of Revelation.

Toward the end of 1 John there is a puzzling and controversial passage:

If anyone sees a fellow believer committing a sin that doesn’t lead to death, he should ask, and God will give life to him—to those who commit sin that doesn’t lead to death. There is sin that leads to death. I am not saying he should pray about that. All unrighteousness is sin, and there is sin that doesn’t lead to death. (1 Jn. 5.16-17)

In this exhortation regarding petitionary prayer, two sorts of sins are described. There is a sin that "doesn't lead to death" and there is a sin that "leads to death." What, exactly, is 1 John talking about here? Specifically, what is the nature of these two types of sin?

Historically, there have been two streams of interpretation regarding the sin that "leads to death." On the one hand is the view that what is being described is a sin that is so grievous it places one's soul at risk. For example, in the Catholic church there is a contrast between venial (for example, lust or telling a lie) and mortal sins (like murder). Venial sins, being less severe, do not separate you from God. Mortal sins, by contrast, separate you from sanctifying grace. Dying in a state of mortal sin, therefore, would "lead to death."

An alternative take on this text goes back to the topic of the last post. Specifically, the sin that "leads to death" isn't a particular sin but is, rather, a continued habit or pattern of sinning. That is, there are occasional and isolated sins committed by those striving to do the will of God. These sins don't lead to death. By contrast, intentional and continual rebellion against God would lead to death. 

What is to be said about these two views? Is the sin that "leads to death" a particular, grievous sin? Or is it willful and habitual rebellion? 

The answer I floated out at the unit (recall, these are notes from my Bible study out at the prison) goes back to the point I made in the last post. Specifically, I think the issue here continues to concern the atonement. Let's back up and read the text right before the passage in question:

The one who believes in the Son of God has this testimony within himself. The one who does not believe God has made him a liar, because he has not believed in the testimony God has given about his Son. And this is the testimony: God has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. The one who has the Son has life. The one who does not have the Son of God does not have life. I have written these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life. (1 Jn. 5.10-15)

Notice the focus on the work of Christ. The one who has the Son has life. And the one who does not have the Son does not have life. Everything is dependent upon one's relationship to Christ.

Then, right after the "sin that leads to death" passage, we read this:

We know that everyone who has been born of God does not sin, but the one who is born of God keeps him, and the evil one does not touch him. (1 Jn. 5.18)

Here it is again, the same point we discussed in the last post: The one who has been born of God does not sin. Which, as we noted in the last post, sits in seeming contradiction with 1.8: "If we say, 'We have no sin, we are deceiving ourselves, and the truth is not in us." How to make sense of this?

Well, if the argument I made in the last post is correct, then the issue here, regarding the sin that leads to death, is less about a particular sin or a pattern of sinning. Rather, the issue goes back how one relates to the work of Christ. The passage regarding the sin that "doesn't lead to death" is preceded by a passage describing how the person who has the Son "has life" (i.e, not death). Further, after the passage about the sin that "doesn't lead to death" we revisit the theme that the one who has been born of God "does not sin." As I argued in the last post, this sinlessness is due to the fact that there is no sin "in him" (that is, "in Christ"). 

Summarizing, it seems to me the issue concerning the sin that "leads to death" is if our sin is taking place "in Christ" or not. If our sin is taking place "in Christ" we are in a state of both life and sinlessness because, as 2.1-2a declares: "If anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the Father—Jesus Christ the righteous one. He himself is the atoning sacrifice for our sins."

An additional thing to note here is the Greek preposition pros, generally translated as "unto." Pros means "toward," as in tending or heading toward a destination. There is a sin, therefore, that is "going somewhere," either toward death or not.

Basically, here's my take about all this. The sin that doesn't lead to death is the sin of the Christian who remains in Christ. This sin doesn't lead to death because of the atoning work of Christ (see, again, 2.1). By contrast, outside of Christ there is no atonement. Sin outside of Christ, therefore, is tending toward death. Sin outside of Christ takes you down the dark road. 

Stated even more simply, the sin that doesn't lead to death is the sin of those in Christ. Outside of Christ, however, sin has a destination. And that destination is death.

The title of this post might seem strange. Of course Christians sin. But there's actually a bit of a puzzle here if you do a close reading of 1 John.

1 John starts off by making the claim that, as I said, Christians sin:

If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us. (1.8-10)

Seems clear and straightforward. And yet, later in 1 John we read this:

Everyone who remains in him does not sin; everyone who sins has not seen him or known him. (3.6) 

Everyone who has been born of God does not sin, because his seed remains in him; he is not able to sin, because he has been born of God. (3.9)

So what's going on here? If we say we have no sin we are a liar. But the one who is born of God "does not sin."

Some translations try to resolve the tensions here by translating 3.6 and 3.9 in a way that highlights an ongoing pattern of sin. For example, the NIV translates 3.6 this way:

No one who lives in him keeps on sinning. No one who continues to sin has either seen him or known him.

The NLT translates 3.9 this way:

Those who have been born into God’s family do not make a practice of sinning, because God’s life is in them.

I'm not enough of a Greek scholar to judge if these translations are legitimate or not, but you can see what they are trying to do to resolve the tension with 1.8-10. And not just 1.8-10, our lived Christian experience as well, the fact that we do sin. These translations are making a contrast between an isolated act and an ingrained habit and pattern of sinning, an ongoing rebelliousness. We do sin, yes, but Christians do not "make it a practice of sinning."

Such a contrast might be enough to resolve the tensions for you. But you still might have some questions. And there are some Christians who look at texts like 1 John 3.6 and 3.9 as evidence for the possibility of complete sanctification, like John Wesley's view of Christian perfection. 

I don't have any amazing or bulletproof answers here, but the argument I made out at the prison when we wrestled with these texts circled less about "sin" versus "patterns of sin" than about the centrality of the atonement. For example, let's go back up to 1.8-10 and read a bit further into Chapter 2:

If we say, “We have no sin,” we are deceiving ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say, “We have not sinned,” we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.

My little children, I am writing you these things so that you may not sin. But if anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the Father—Jesus Christ the righteous one. He himself is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for ours, but also for those of the whole world.

I think this is critical for 1 John's later discussion about sinlessness in Chapter 2. My thought is that, when 1 John mentions sinlessness in Chapter 3, the issue isn't about our behavior as much as Christ's atonement. We sin, but we are sinless, because of Christ. Let's look at the fuller context of 3.6 and 3.9:

Everyone who commits sin practices lawlessness; and sin is lawlessness. You know that he was revealed so that he might take away sins, and there is no sin in him. Everyone who remains in him does not sin; everyone who sins has not seen him or known him.

Little children, let no one deceive you. The one who does what is right is righteous, just as he is righteous. The one who commits sin is of the devil, for the devil has sinned from the beginning. The Son of God was revealed for this purpose: to destroy the devil’s works. Everyone who has been born of God does not sin, because his seed remains in him; he is not able to sin, because he has been born of God.

Notice how the work of Christ weaves through the passage about sinlessness. "He was revealed that he might take away sin." "Everyone who remains in him does not sin." "The Son of God was revealed for this purpose: to destroy the devil's works." Here is what I think 1 John is saying here, connecting 3.6 back to 1.8-10: Everyone who remains in Christ does not sin because there is no sin in him. I think that "in him" is key. Yes, I sin, but if I remain in him and confess my sin then I do not sin because I am in him and in him there is no sin. 

Simply put, I don't think the issue of sinlessness refers to our moral capacity for Christian perfection. I think the issue of sinlessness is primarily about "remaining in him" and that "in him" there is "no sin." The critical issue isn't our morality but Christ's sufficiency. 

I'm not saying I'm right about this and you might have a different take. But I raise this line of argument to set up one more post about 1 John, the discussion we had out at the prison about 1 John 5.16-17 and the enigma that is "the sin that leads to death." In the next post I'll share that discussion.

"we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea"

I have a new book coming out in October. The Shape of Joy is now available for preorder (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org). 

The Shape of Joy continues my project of integrating faith and psychology. After many books that have been very faith forward, The Shape of Joy is my most psychologically focused book, keeping my eye on our mental health crisis and sharing much of the literature coming out of the field of positive psychology. I talk about humility, ego volume, mindfulness, gratitude, mattering, meaning in life, the small self, and awe. All to have a conversation about a joy that is increasingly missing or fragile in the world and in our lives. The Shape of Joy tells the surprising story about how transcendence is good for you. Joy isn't found by turning inward. Joy is found by turning outward. Joy has a shape. Happiness has a geometry. 

In Chapter 1 of The Shape of Joy, entitled "The Collapse of the Self," I quote Psalm 46:

God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,
though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains tremble with its tumult.

The point I make in quoting Psalm 46 is a point I also make in Hunting Magic Eels: We need to lean upon a reality more sturdy than ourselves. As I share in The Shape of Joy, psychological research is revealing just how unsteady and unhappy the mind is when it is left all alone, when we're trapped inside our heads to stew in anxious worry or depressive rumination. Left alone with our thoughts we are very unsteady creatures. The mind needs to make contact with and rest in a reality that is independent of its own subjectivity. Especially when the storms of life begin to howl. Especially when our dreams crash and burn. Especially when we face heartache and failure. 

Here, then, are the mental health benefits of transcendence. In making contact with God the mind finds refuge, strength, and help in times of trouble.