Lawrence Garcia Reviews James D.G. Dunn’s “Jesus Remembered”

Perhaps one of the most curious ironies of our post-Christian culture is that we still desperately crave to know who the historical Jesus of Nazareth really was. To prove this point, one need only browse the local bookstore’s religious section to see the plentitude of books about the historical Jesus on offer.  The flip side to this irony is historiography’s inability to arrive at anything like a consensus about the Jesus of history after roughly two-centuries of critical attempts, making it seem impossible to present the Jesus-craven public with an agreed-upon historical reconstruction. All this on the heels of a more optimistic era when scholars had identified set criteria (e.g. “critical method”) that they believed, perhaps rather naively, would give rise to an “objective” historical reconstruction of the man of Nazareth. Thus, the question, “Who do people say that I am?” posed by Jesus seems to be haunting us still.

If we are ever to answer this question satisfactorily, at least from a historiographical perspective, we are going to have to clear the board and alter our strategy—of course!—this doesn’t mean our previous attempts have been in vain, after all, we are here because of them and we are sure to play the game differently in light of our mistakes and progresses (I speak as a biblical scholar). One scholar playing this historical-Jesus game differently is James D.G. Dunn, who, in his massive Jesus Remembered, the first volume in his series Christianity in the Making, paves new ground and insight into how scholars might finally move towards a more unanimous picture of the allusive Nazarene—though the edges are sure to remain rough and the outer lines blurry. According to Dunn, his fresh approach is prompted by recent developments within the field which are as follows:

(a)    “In terms of analyzing sources and traditions, a crises of the hitherto self-assured historical-critical method of analyzing sources and traditions, a crises occasioned by post-modernism in its various forms, needs to be addressed at some length.”

(b)   “The interaction with social-scientific disciplines, particular sociology, has shed a good of fresh light on the texts and Christianity’s beginnings, which need to be incorporated, but critically, into any such overview.”

(c)    “The discovery of new texts, particularly the Dead Sea Scrolls and codices from Nag Hammadi, has undermined the older wisdom which had previously determined scholarly views on the emergence of Christianity in its distinctiveness from its Jewish matrix and within the religious melting pot of the first- and second-century Mediterranean world.”

But before Dunn can employ these developments into a critical articulation of the historical Jesus he must first diagnose both the methodological and the presuppositional errors of previous critical attempts. The first, scholars over emphasis on “texts” for sources of information regarding the historical Jesus, usually witnessed in the reconstruction of hypothetical earlier texts (e.g. Q, even layers of Q!) from the Synoptic Gospels to identify information unadorned by later Christian theology or redaction. This methodology assumes there is an unChristianized Jesus awaiting us behind the later theologically charged documents in our possession. However, this method has failed, as many form critics following Bultmann a century ago learned that there is no tradition unadorned by the church’s Christology. What should likewise make us suspicious is the Jesus that usually appears often reflects the scholar doing the reconstruction, and thus we are just trading one Christology for another. The problem, simply put, is that the only Jesus that existed from the very first is the Jesus remembered by his closest followers. What we have in the Synoptics (and to an extent, John) is the standardization of decades of oral retellings which were never static per se, but lively and organic. The idea of a textual source[s] for Jesus that is in some sense “purer” is sheer fallacy, because such a period or text never existed. Dunn sums it up well when he writes:

There was teaching of Jesus which had made such an impact on his first hearers that it was recalled, its key emphases crystallized in the overall theme and/or in particular words or phrases, which remained constant in the process of rehearsing and passing on that teaching in disciples’ gatherings and churches. All the teachings reviewed would have been important to their identity as disciples and community of disciples and for the character of their shared life. Such teaching no doubt have been treasured and meditated upon in communal gathering.

The second obstacle that must be overcome prior to achieving a consensus on the historical Jesus lies in the realm of the presuppositional, which Dunn categorizes loosely between a “flight from dogma” and a “flight from history.” The former tended to approach the task with the Enlightenment’s ethos that all things ecclesiastical—hence the church’s Christology—must be shed for a more objective/scientific approach. The weakness in this anti-ecclesial approach is that it ignores vast amounts of quality source information for the historical Jesus simply out of a priori bias, such as miracles, and often fails to recognize the otherness of historical times and places, as was first-century Galilee. For example, we cannot assume that because we do not believe in certain things (e.g. apocalyptic end of the world), that Jesus couldn’t have either. The latter, the “flight from history” is summed up well by Gotthold Lessing who famously said, “Accidental truths of history can never become necessary truths of reason.”  In sum, the religious faith of Christians cannot be proven by the historical method and should thus be jettisoned for the pursuit of universal meaning and reason (more or less) contained therein. Nevertheless, such a dichotomy will not do, because the truth that Jesus’ disciples felt compelled to remember was precisely in the manner of retelling the historical events themselves. In other words, they managed to hold faith and history together. And any hope of reconstructing the historical Jesus will of course have to do the same.  Dunn’s approach will allow for both the church’s faith and the historical events which sparked them to remain in dialogue while keeping in mind the oral nature behind and within the sources. Dunn remarks:

The idea that Jesus reconstructed from the Gospel traditions (the so-called ‘historical Jesus’), yet significantly different from the Jesus who taught in Galilee (the historical Jesus!) is an illusion. The idea that we can see through the faith perspective of the NT writings to a Jesus who did not inspire faith or who inspired faith in a different way is an illusion. There is no such Jesus. That there was a Jesus who did inspire the faith which in due course found expression in the Gospels is not in question. But somehow to hope to strip out the theological impact which he actually made on his disciples, to uncover a different Jesus (the real Jesus!), is at best fanciful.

Now that we are aware of the nature (a combination of flexibility and stability) of oral tradition as it relates to the sources that we have for the historical Jesus coupled with the fact that historical events themselves were the causal force behind the church’s faith and theology, we can finally proceed towards the task of reconstructing a historical abstraction of the man of Nazareth. While doing so we will be keen to our sources, historical context, and oral themes and patterns that are contributing factors to our “quest.” Dunn divides his investigation by “Mission of Jesus,” “Jesus Self-Understanding,” and the “Climax of Jesus’ Mission.” The picture that emerges is parallel to what we see depicted in the Synoptics, but what we see is more or less a vague representation that can be summed up as follows:

1. Whose aim it was to restore/renew Israel in some sense, though it is not clear how this might spell out.
2. Whose mission entailed good news to the poor and a call to sinners under God’s final rule.
3. Was central to the arrival of the inaugurated eschatological kingdom of God as foretold by the prophets and witnessed through his mighty deeds.
4. Perceived an intimate sense of sonship with God as “Father” and invited others to participate in the same.
5. Allowed the office of prophet at times as a useful description for his mission.
6. Seems to have repudiated the title of Messiah as it carried to much nationalistic baggage.
7. Jesus seems to have to have preferred the title “son of man” as it evoked the image of expectant suffering, though he used this often in the plain sense of “one like a human.”
8. Provoked his crucifixion by his symbolic actions of judgment in the Temple.
9. Was crucified, and believed to be vindicated by way of bodily resurrection by his followers.

The outline above thus corresponds to the Jesus as remembered by his earliest followers and we should hopefully begin to witness more historical reconstructions along this general pattern, after all, the only historical Jesus available will always be the one who elicited the faith of his disciples; any other will be an illusion built largely after our own fancy.

Dunn’s Jesus Remembered is a crowning achievement in the “quest for the historical Jesus” and is chalk full of fresh insight and methods that will better equip those undertaking the task in the near future. First, it is helpful in correcting our anachronistic perceptions that an oral culture like first-century Judea was anything like the print culture of the twenty-first.  Second and most of all, we can thank Dunn for helping us to cross Lessing’s “ugly, broad ditch” between truth/reason and history—the moment when these necessary truths were often discovered; reminding us that neither flight from history nor faith will do in the pursuit of the historical Jesus. We may be in a “post-Christian” era, but the Jesus of history to whom we still want to know still looks a lot like the church’s Jesus of faith. Paradox indeed.

A Response to Jack Sanchez’s “The Incoherence of Physical Immortality in the Christian Hope”

Fantastic post, and yes, these hard questions must be asked and faced. However, in seriously considering your argument (some of it assumed rather than proved, of which more anon) it suffers from Modernist assumptions about epistemology, that is that what we can ‘know’ can only be proved by experience (empiricism) and reason. To begin with, what is “coherent” can often be culturally conditioned, which doesn’t mean we lapse into total subjectivity, but that we are more critical and open to what is “coherent” to other people in different times and places (‘immortal body’ to Paul), not to mention other avenues of epistemology. We must be open to other avenues (historiography for one) of knowledge, as historian of philosophy Fredrick Copleston says,

“There are other levels of experience and knowledge than that represented by empirical science”

Craig Keener adds,

“Multiple epistemologies are needed; as abstract mathematics and empirical inquiry can be employed in a complementary manner, we may need different methods to discover different kinds of knowledge. In many cases, complementary explanatory models, each explaining different elements of data, can work together… In contrast to pure empiricism, even much of the structure of mathematics rests on axioms that are presupposed rather than proved; the ‘work’ within their closed systems, but they do not allow ‘pure’ deductive logic that some earlier rationalists supposed.”

With that said, I do not want to narrow our field of epistemology to what is coherent (undergirded by our limited experience and culturally situated rational) to you and I, especially with our limited understanding and field of experience. What follows will be a point by point engagement with your post:

1. “However, the Christian hope is predicated on the possibility of physical immortality. If physical immortality is not an achievable condition, then the Christian hope is rendered void. Therefore, if physical immortality is not attainable, then there is not a Christian hope. One might assert that the stakes are high and the positions ought to be considered most stringently.”

The first problem with framing the question this way is its total absence of Divine causation. The Christian hope of bodily resurrection is set within the wider framework of a re-creative act by God at the parousia. In this sense its “achievability” is determined by God himself (is there anything too hard for him?), nowhere is immortality posited as God’s act of creating a purely self-sustaining being that runs off its “own steam” so to speak. All that is created still requires God’s sustenance (angels and demons are an example). In this case, even a non-bodily/immaterial being is not anymore self-sustaining than a bodily/material one is, as both are sustained ultimately by God. So the logic of ‘immaterial = nonsustained’ and ‘material = sustained’ (at least this is what I sense your logic is following, but I’m open to correction on this point) is logical fallacy as both are sustained at some level or another. Or maybe we need to redefine immortality as your definition seems to require a self-sustaining being, but this is assumed rather than proved. This also assumes (a violation of your own epistemic criteria) that a “immaterial body” is not at some level “something” created and therefore no less contingent as a material body is; it is not in difference but degree that we are dealing with here, since both body and ‘soul’ are created by God, in this sense they share a wider taxonomy as things created. In truth, only God himself is “self-sustaining” and any hope of immortality is not that we are somehow divinized to the same degree, but that the only truly self-sustaining One will himself sustain us as ones no longer subject to death, which we will be if God fails to sustain. Thus, your definition of immortality must be widened to include a factor of contingency.

1. “expounding on their nature, and then demonstrating how the two are inconsistent; that is, you cannot have both in the same time and in the same respect. In the end, I will conclude that the Christian hope, upon further analysis, is incoherent and must be relinquished.”

Again, I disagree with your way of framing the question, namely the usual false either/or’s which permit only one position to be true. Precisely because upon further examination the texts in question usually refuse such neat polarizations and are usually more of a both/and argument (e.g. 1 Cor 15). To even raise the discussion concerning the term anastesis means we are discussing something not neatly categorized by our present mode of ontological experience. Thus, to restrict what is possible (nothing philosophically speaking) by what otherwise is unquantifiable by modern forms of empirically based science (what exactly a resurrection body will be like) is reductionistic. However, what you may deem improbable may be subject to change if, let’s say Jesus’ resurrection by historiographical measures is ‘fact’, because improbability (someone rising from the dead) decreases when the phenomenon actually does finally occur (Jesus rising).

1. “Immortality might be defined as a state of being that is not able to die or perish. If one indeed enjoyed the ontological position of immortality, then one would enjoy a state of timeless existence. Furthermore, this being would not be contingent upon anything for preservation. If an immortal being was contingent upon another force outside of itself for preservation, then the immortal being would cease to enjoy the status of timeless existence if the force of immortality either ceased to exist or revoked its source of preservation.”

Again, your way of defining ‘immortality’ is up for debate. And I’m sure many—no less Paul!—would want a say in exactly what ‘immortality’ entails, in other words, it will not do to allow you to dictate the precise meaning of these terms unchallenged. Moreover, who says that immortality will be timeless? Unless you mean by this vague statement, ‘not subject to death.’ As to ‘contingency’ the only truly noncontingent being is God; all created beings are contingent upon their creator for their existence. Thus, immortality for humans is not divinization to God’s own ontological state of being, but to a sustained contingency in where the creator sustains continually the being in question. By your definition of immortality only God could be immortal, but surely this is more a warning signal that we are incorrectly defining our terms.

1. “Even if the force of preservation was eternal (God?), that is, cannot cease to exist, the force of preservation is arbitrary in the sense that it is logically possible for the source of preservation to be revoked at any time, and thus, the body would cease to be immortal. However, this is inconsistent with the definition of immortality. It is by the very nature of immortality that it is not possible one cannot cease to exist. Thus, an immortal being cannot depend upon another cause for its preservation. It is by the very nature of an immortal being that it is self-preserving and always enjoys an ontological condition of existence.”

This point of your argument suffers from the possibiliter ergo probabiliter (‘it’s possible therefore it’s probable’) fallacy. As stated before, anything is possible, but what separates the wheat from tares here is the degree of probability, which the hypothesis with the greater degree of probability should be championed (e.g. resurrection hypothesis of which Paul’s arguments rest).  It is here that you again assume the nature of immortality as “not depending upon another cause for its preservation.”  But I, and Paul, would disagree at this point because humans (and therefore contingent by necessity as a created being) are not self-sustaining, neither here nor in the age to come. By your continued definition of immortality only God could be immortal, even if we were never material/bodily beings to begin with.

1. “On the other hand, something that is physical is made up of different components and more basic aggregates. Things that are physical are by nature subject to change, decay, and waste away. Physical things are not self-maintaining in the sense that they depend upon something else for their existence.”

Again you’re continuing to assume that non-physical (beings?) are not at some level made up of basic aggregates. How do we know? No one to my knowledge has studied a soul/spirit, angel, demon, or God under a microscope. Science is presently causing energy matter to heat up to a degree where it actually travel inter-dimensionally which should cause us to modify our material/immaterial dichotomies. And the assumption that immaterial things are somehow not subject to decay is inconsistent with a theistic worldview seeing that even ‘immaterial’ (I use that loosely) beings are likewise subject to death and decay should God fail to sustain their current ontological mode of existence. In this sense, both spirit and body are ontologically similar because both are dependent on God for their existence. God is not bound to laws of nature, in fact thousands of recorded cases (empirically verified e.g. the Shrine of Lourdes) of God reversing what otherwise is the normal process of decay (God regenerating limbs, raising the dead, restoring sight beyond former degenerative conditions, etc.). It thus seems that God is able to work at higher complexities within the material world, even restoring it to its former conditions. In this case these are ‘signs’ that give us clues to what God will ultimately do at the end of time, if it can be proven that he does it on a smaller scale what prevents him from doing this a cosmological scale?

1. With this under our purview, let us consider if a physical immortality is achievable given our current definition of the terms.

Exactly! If Paul, or any New Testament writer is trying to claim immortality as you have defined it, we might be safe to conclude that this is unachievable seeing that God would have to divinize us to his own state of ontological existence which immaterial beings like angels do not even enjoy. But what’s so great about this? Even Paul would say that such an immortality is impossible given that we are created beings, material or otherwise. He assumes by fact of his argument what you are here trying to prove. Paul knows that our current state of existence “flesh and blood” cannot inherit the kingdom of God; this of course is not the same thing as “material body cannot inherit the kingdom,” but that human bodies subject to decay as they are cannot take part in a renewed world of incorruption. This is why we he argues that what is “sown in corruption” is raised in “incorruption” (not immortality as you have defined) and the body which will no longer be a “fleshly” body, but will be animated by God’s own Spirit as a “spiritual body.” The body will be animated by Jesus who is a now a “life giving spirit.”

Paul, moreover, like the rest of the NT writers, is working backwards off of what happened to Jesus. In other words, what happened to Jesus is what will happen to all believers (in John even nonbelivers!). All of our accounts of Jesus’ resurrection make explicit his bodily capacity although transformed radically. Jesus’ body is not purely physical, but neither is it purely immaterial, it seems to possess a transphysicality, a new body though continuous with the old (empty tomb) capable of moving through heaven/earth. The resurrection is by the historical method a demonstrable fact of history. The bodily resurrection of Jesus is the only hypothesis that has the explanatory scope and power to explain the historical bedrocks of Christianity: (1) Jesus was crucified (2) the earliest disciples believed they had encountered a risen Jesus (3) empty tomb (4) the conversion of James (5) the conversion of Paul, a known enemy of the church. This event demands that we recalculate what is probable or coherent by our own limited epistemic range of data.

Lawrence Garcia Reviews Peter Enns’ “The Evolution of Adam: What the Bible Does and Doesn’t Say About Human Origins”

The theory of evolution, it’s not going away. And for many, Christian or not, the evidence for evolution is compelling enough to warrant it as the most probable hypothesis for explaining human origins. For many Christians this conflict between evolution and what the Bible says about human origins means the ghosts of the sixteenth and seventeenth-century Scientific Revolution have been stirred and are once again haunting the church.  The church survived the revolution; however, the challenges that, let’s say the heliocentric model posed to Scripture’s implied geocentric model, pale in comparison to the textual and doctrinal challenges that the theory of evolution poses. For one, Scripture portrays Jesus’ death as the single soteriological act that redeems man from specifically Adam’s primordial act of disobedience (e.g. Romans 5:12-19), and thus there are some theologians who might conclude, “If evolution is true, then Christ has died in vein and your faith is futile!” Implied in this position is the theological premise that for Jesus’ death to be truly effective necessarily demands a historical Adam. The big question then is, “How can the church make sense of its central tenets in lieu of the rising acceptance of the evolutionary model?” Peter Enns’ The Evolution of Adam: What the Bible Does and Doesn’t Say About Human Origins is a biblical scholar’s attempt at beginning to answer some of these urgent questions. Enns writes,

My goal is to focus solely on how the Bible fits in to all this. The biblical authors tell a very different story of human origins does than science. For many Christians, the question that quickly surfaces is how to accept evolution and value Scripture as God’s Word. In other words, “If evolution is true, what do I do with my Bible?”

Simply stated, Enns is proposing an evolution of Adam, not as an attempt to force Genesis 1-3 to accommodate evolution—a sort of exegetical procrustean bed approach, but rather that, “Our understanding of Adam has evolved over the years and it must now be adjusted in light of the preponderance of (1) scientific evidence supporting evolution and (2) literary evidence from the world of the Bible that helps clarify the kind of literature the Bible is.” In other words, the book isn’t a sustained argument for evolution per se, Enns seems to take the evolutionary theory for granted, but rather a serious look into what kind of ancient text Genesis actually is. By examining the literary function of Genesis we will be able to both clarify and limit how Genesis can bear down on the rising conflict between the Genesis creation accounts and the mounting evidence for evolution (not a battle between “religion and science”). This approach has a certain strength to it as both sides of this discussion usually make the mistake of presupposing that Genesis is a literal portrayal of the creation of the cosmos (ancient historiography though not purely mythological in character was quite libertarian compared to the limits of modern historiography).

In order to classify the sort of text Genesis is we’ll need to perform a “genre calibration” where we “[place] Genesis side by side with primordial tales of other ancient cultures to help us gain a clearer understanding of the nature of Genesis.” We’ll likewise have to study the date of composition, authorship, and coherence of Genesis using Biblical criticism, that is, an “academic study of the Bible.” It is after pairing up Genesis with other A.N.E texts like the Enuma Elish and the Gilgamesh Epic—ancient creation and flood stories, and after having examined the text critically that we can conclude:

It was written after the exile that Israel’s sacred collection of books came to be—not out of dispassionate academic interest on the part of some scribes but as a statement of self-definition of a haggard people who claimed and yearned for a special relationship with their God. The Bible, including the Pentateuch, tells a story for contemporary reasons: Who are we? Who is our God?

Such were the hard questions Israel had to ask while languishing in Babylonian exile. The creation narratives, shaped around Israel’s own national story and seven-day liturgical life, thus become a resolute act of self-definition and theological reaffirmation in the face of national crises. But what happens when later interpreters like Paul employ this document to formulate their soteriological framework for the value of Jesus’ crucifixion? In order to deal effectively with this question we must keep in mind two factors: “(1) the Jewish climate of the day, likewise marked by creative ways of handling Scripture; and (2) Paul’s uncompromising Christ centered focus… Paul is not doing ‘straight exegesis’ of the Adam story. Rather, he subordinates that story to the present, higher reality of the risen Son of God.” Thus, a synthesis between evolution and Paul’s (and ours) Gospel can be maintained because Jesus’ efficacious death, in the face of evolution, still deals decisively with,

1. “The universal and self-evident problem of death.”
2. “The universal and self-evident problem of sin.”
3. “The historic event of the death and resurrection of Christ.”

What Enns has accomplished by this genre-sensitive approach is a new avenue for the often stand-still debate between creationists and evolutionists (and those in between) to finally move forward beyond the narrow either/or’s—evolution or Adam, old earth or young earth—that are usually put forward by both sides. First, for intra-Christian dialogue where the central tenets of the Christian kerygma can be maintained without compromise while one’s position on Genesis and evolution can differ dramatically, thus allowing for Christian unity to be maintained. Second, for those who maintain the false, over-dramatized tension between Scripture and science, can finally be equipped to make more informed judgments on the places where new discoveries may challenge old assumptions in the text without necessarily having to abandon a biblical worldview altogether. Finally, this is an informed book that both embraces what modern science is telling us and at the same time maintains a deep devotion to sacred Scripture and its centerpiece, the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Lawrence Garcia Reviews Christopher Byan’s “The Resurrection of the Messiah”

When in the first-century a small rag-tag band of Jews left their home towns of Galilee and Jerusalem armed with the gospel of Jesus the Messiah for the wider Greco-Roman world, they made astounding assertions concerning one man that continue, even two thousand years later, to lay claim on every individual that encounters that message. Namely, that Israel’s God had raised to new bodily life a certain Jesus, crucified under Pontius Pilate, as king of the world; and that all, even those at the helm of political power should repent and believe in lieu of God’s impeding “Great Divine Clean-Up” (as J.D. Crossan once put it). Such a bold claim concerning Jesus’ resurrection to cosmic lordship deserves careful analysis if we are going to sign-up for this kingdom program, especially since it demands that we in turn pick up our own crosses to help bring this cosmic clean-up about. To this end, Christopher Bryan’s The Resurrection of the Messiah will assist anyone serious about examining the central resurrection-claims of the early church. Bryan writes:

Why did the Christians make this claim, and what did they mean by it? Why did they stubbornly persist in it despite the disbelief that it must inevitably have engendered? What did happen to the one they called Lord in the days and weeks following his crucifixion? In the following pages I intend to give some indication of my response to those questions.

            Of course, such a quest will entail coming to terms with the historical backdrop and the range of usage for resurrection terminology preceding, during, and to an extant following the original Christian kerygma. Bryan details the spectrum of beliefs about resurrection during the second Temple period concluding that its primary meaning is that through “the redemptive graciousness of God, death will be undone, miraculously overcome through the exercise of a power that is God’s alone.” This mighty act of the one creator God is the fitting conclusion to Israel’s hopes that despite their checkered history, God’s justice would have the last word. Such a this-worldly/material affirming eschatology of course went against the grain of much of the dominating thought that pervaded the Greco-Roman world under the influence of Stoic and Epicurean philosophers who prized a non-bodily after life. However, Bryan is able to illustrate through epigraphic evidence (ancient inscriptions) that resurrection hopes were in fact enjoyed by some non-Jews, thus cautioning us to not assume that revivification of the body after death was only held by those of the Jewish worldview. This historical foundation gives us, as it did the early Christians, the language to understand what the resurrection of Jesus means. In light of this examination Bryan concludes:

Resurrection is to do with a new creation—let it be said frankly, a “barely imaginable” creation—that fulfills the prophetic hope for peace and justice. And the basis for that hope is, as I have said, Israel’s conviction that God is indeed just and will therefore be faithful: faithful to Israel and faithful to the creation. Therefore, death, though grim and terrible, does not have the final word over any part of that creation, including its material aspects. The final word is God’s word. Death will be defeated.

Now that we understand the historical and theological climate of the resurrection claims of the early church we can begin our interrogation of the various witnesses of the biblical canon.  After cross-examining the apostle Paul, the Gospel writers (respectively) Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, what we see is that time and again a four-fold pattern emerges: (1) “that Jesus died” (2) “and that he was buried” (3) “and that he has been raised” (4) “and that he appeared.” Yes, there are discrepancies in the details, but such a broad agreement among witnesses at different times and places is not so easy to explain away, especially when one of them was a well-known opponent of the church. Bryan then goes on to test various hypotheses that attempt a naturalistic explanation for the four-fold pattern to see if any of them are more probable than the resurrection claim, such as “deceit,” “resuscitation,” “hallucination,” and “vision.” In the end, the naturalistic hypotheses fail miserably at explaining the four-fold pattern above, however the resurrection hypothesis:

(1) Covers the data, in that it would adequately explain their extraordinary behavior and their extraordinary explanation of it; and (2) it appears to work, in that generations of otherwise ordinary people who have accepted it have thereby found themselves able to lead lives of meaning and grace. In most areas, the fact that a hypothesis covers the data and appears to work is generally taken as serious evidence in its favor.

Now that we can see the resurrection event is a probable fact of history, coupled with the inherent meaning that such a claim carries once understood in the theological backdrop of Israel’s story, we are warranted in picking up our crosses and signing up for God’s plan of a “Great Divine Clean Up.”  It is this “so what?” that I appreciated most about Bryan’s book, as many scholars who deal with this subject often conclude with the probability of the resurrection hypothesis while leaving the implications of it to others in the realm of theology. However, for the early Christians this one man event in history meant something for everyone theologically, and Bryan is bold enough to step into the theological realm making the book an important contribution to uniting these often standoffish fields of study; and for this we can be nothing but thankful.

Lawrence Garcia Reviews “The Resurrection of Jesus: A New Historiographical Approach” By Michael R. Licona

  After a long night (two centuries worth) of attempts at “objective” historiography—“The principles and methodology of historical research and presentation” as one dictionary defines it—both biblical scholars and historians proper are beginning to sober up, that is, they are realizing that a purely objective historical method that allows us to reconstruct history in completely neutral terms is a modernist fallacy. Especially, when it comes to the so-called “miracle” claims of ancient texts; for on the one hand, if when historians or biblical scholars following their methodology deem that the miraculous or inexplicable is the best way to describe the events in question, then many historians/scholars following Humian principles a priori reject the hypotheses, after all, “miracles don’t happen.” On the other hand, many theistic historians/scholars might likewise reject off-hand any hypotheses, no matter how sound the evidence and argument, that concluded with naturalistic explanations for some of Jesus of Nazareth’s reported miraculous deeds.

Of course, such a historiographical deadlock smells like a conflict of worldviews, not so much a disagreement on method. This ideological tug of war is especially apparent when the question of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead—“The prized puzzle of New Testament research”—is raised. Can historians, to a degree, bracket their worldviews while following a historiographical method in order to arrive at a firm conclusion on the matter? Michael R. Licona’s The Resurrection of Jesus: A New Historiographical Approach is a bold attempt at doing so. Licona’s writes this concerning his approach in comparison to other attempts at answering this question:

So how does my research differ from previous treatments? In the pages that follow I will investigate the question of the historicity of Jesus’ resurrection while providing unprecedented interaction with the literature of professional historians outside the community of biblical scholars on both hermeneutical and methodological considerations.

In other words, Licona will offer an unparalleled attempt to strictly follow the methods that historians proper do when attempting to reconstruct adequate description of past, only this time, in relation to the historicity of the resurrection event.  However, as many postmodern historians are quick to remind us, such an adventure will require methodological criteria for transcending one’s horizon—“How historians view things as a result of their knowledge, experience, beliefs, education, cultural conditioning, preferences, presuppositions, and worldview.” Thus, Licona proposes various criteria for transcending one’s horizon (or at least momentary detachment):

1. Method: “the manner in which the data are viewed, weighed, and contextualized; criteria for testing the adequacy of hypotheses; and a fair consideration of competing hypotheses.”

2.  The Historian’s horizon and method should be public: “[that] historian’s horizon can be public or open to scrutiny.”

3.  Peer pressure: “submitting our interpretation of data and historical descriptions to those who are certain to have a different opinion.”

4.  Account for historical bedrock: that is, “that any hypothesis that fails to explain all of the historical bedrock, it is time to drag that hypothesis back to the drawing board.”

5. Detachment from bias: “they should force themselves to confront data and arguments that are problematic to their preferred hypothesis.”

There are however, many scholars, philosophers, and historians that reject any notion that historiography can make a determination for or against the historicity of the resurrection; believing that judgments on the miraculous are outside the realm of the historiographer. This actually proves to be nothing more than an ideological wall that Licona must scale by showing the logical inconsistencies in the various arguments of philosopher David Hume, historian Brian McCullagh, and biblical scholars J.P. Meier and Bart Erhman. He concludes, “Historians are not prohibited from investigating the historicity of the resurrection of Jesus, although historians cannot grant the resurrection in the fullest theological sense.”

Before Licona can test the resurrection hypothesis in light of other naturalistic hypotheses for the resurrection claims of the early church, he must sift through potential ancient sources and establish the historical bedrock—the uncontested historical facts—to which ever hypothesis wins the day must explain. After a detailed examination of the data, Licona concludes with three historical bedrock; they are as follows:

1. “Jesus died by crucifixion”

2.  “Very shortly after Jesus’ death, the disciples had experiences that led them to believe and proclaim that Jesus had been resurrected and had appeared to them.”

3. “Within a few years after Jesus’ death, Paul converted after experiencing what he interpreted as a postresurrection appearance of Jesus to him.”

The final chapter is a weighing in of competing hypotheses. In order to grade the plausibility (and thus most probable), the hypothesis must rate the highest in five categories: “(1) plausibility, (2-3) explanatory scope, explanatory power, (4) less ad hoc, (5) illumination.” The competing hypotheses are Geza Vermes’ apparition theory, Michael Goulder’s hallucination theory, Gerd Lüdemann’s emotional state-to-hallucination theory, John D. Crossan’s altered state of consciousness theory, and finally Pieter F. Craffert’s ethical and theological objections; all are weighed on the scales of our five criteria along with the resurrection hypothesis. What happens next is perhaps as shocking as the original resurrection appearances themselves: the resurrection hypothesis far exceeds the other five explanations both in explanatory scope and in accounting for our historical bedrock. Licona concludes, “Accordingly we are warranted in placing [the resurrection hypothesis] on our spectrum of historical certainty at ‘very certain.’” He continues, “The only legitimate reasons for rejecting the resurrection hypothesis are philosophical and theological in nature.” In sum, Licona’s The Resurrection of Jesus is the work for which all future proposals will have to contend, and as I see it, it’s going to be awhile before we see that.

Lawrence Garcia Reviews Yung Suk Kim’s “Christ’s Body In Corinth: The Politics of A Metaphor”

For those on whom it is being imposed, “unity” can be an ominous word. After all, history has proven such words—unity, concord, and harmony—are usually employed ideologically by the social elite upon the marginal, a sort of rhetorical tool in the ideological tool belt of those situated at the pinnacle of power. Ancient statesmen and philosophers like Cicero and Seneca—Rome’s ruling elite—wrote about homonoia (concord) in which everyone was to do their part within the empire by helping to maintain the status quo; the radical social division between rich and poor, free and enslaved, male and female. Was Paul’s “Body of Christ” metaphor analogous to the concept of homonia? Did Paul develop this image of the Christological body as a way to promote an ideology that served to maintain their positions of power? No, says Yung Suk Kim in his book titled Christ’s Body In Corinth: The Politics of A Metaphor, a radical break from the traditional ecclesial-organic understanding of Paul’s metaphor “body of Christ.” In his book Kim argues:

In the context of a deepening fragmentation of the world today, we need to embrace a different conception of community—a community of all diversity and solidarity. I believe such a conception is available in Paul’s new imagination of the body of Christ as a collective participation in Christ crucified. In that community, the image of Christ crucified deconstructs the conception of the community based on powers of wealth, status, and identity and reconstructs the community based on sacrificial love and solidarity with those who are broken in society.

However, if Paul’s metaphor is going to take on new relevance, the vulnerabilities in the traditional ways we have understood Paul’s body image will have to be exposed. To this end, Kim deals head-on with both the “organic unity” approach that often results in the silencing of the marginal by trumpeting the social-norms of the “hegemonic voices” in the community, and the “corporate solidarity” approach which has a “broader conception of community,” but still fails in alleviating the plight of those residing at the margins. What is needed is a proposal that won’t wind up being the functional equivalent to the Roman concept of homonoia, after all, the problems in the Corinthian body are because they are practicing the very social values of the wider culture—“concord.” Thus, we have to wonder how a re-affirmation of the wider Greco-Roman values actually solves the problem of abuse of the poor by the rich at Corinth. Kim writes:

A new conception of community in the context of marginalization and social fragmentation requires that we imagine anew the Pauline “body of Christ” as a social site for realizing the ethical, holistic, and life-giving potentialities of Christ’s life and death. In particular, the image of Christ crucified may be seen as deconstructing powers and ideologies of wealth, status, or belonging and reconstructing the community through sacrificial love.

                This will likewise entail a re-sketching of the “in Christ” metaphor, not as a static boundary marker per se, but as a spatial “gathering of differences” where the “weak” in Corinth can claim a place of significance and appreciation. This theory has a practical strength to it as Paul is not just conjuring up abstract metaphors, but aiming at cruciforming concrete ways of life in Corinth. To be “in Christ” is neither mystical nor existential, but a manner of life that participates and identifies with those—“the not many mighty” in Corinth for whom Christ has died. Such a reading actually addresses the problems we see cropping up throughout the Corinthian correspondence: ideological power struggles linked either to Paul, Apollos, Cephas, or Christ; the freedom touting that caused the weaker in Corinth to fall; and the exclusion of the marginal by the rich at communal meals, and especially, at the Eucharist. So, far from solidifying the existing hierarchies in Corinth, Paul’s “body of Christ” metaphor urges the strong to practice an active identification with the marginalized in Corinth for whom God identified himself with at Calvary.

Among the many volumes in the Paul In Critical Contexts series, Kim’s proposal is one of the most plausible re-imaginings of Paul and his writings. It both lays bare our often uncritical use of the “body of Christ” metaphor which if used to maintain ideological or social hierarchy in the church can actually rub against Paul’s reason for employing it. And if allowed to do its deconstruction/reconstruction of how we understand Paul’s term we will certainly witness an improvement in the way the wealthy and powerful in our churches relate with the lowly and weak, crystalizing Paul’s grand vision of a new creation at last.

Lawrence Garcia Reviews Kevin J. Vanhoozer’s “The Drama of Doctrine: A Canonical Linguistic Approach to Christian Theology”

  A robust treatment of doctrine—what spirited understanding discovers at the end of its examination of the apostolic witness of the Christ event—is not enjoyed by many congregations of our time. Either it is wrongly conceived as something that “divides,” or in this age of over specialization, it is totally relinquished into the hands of an elite few, namely, those western academics who bear all the credentials qualifying them to handle such sacred elements. However, there is a drastic consequence for this doctrinal void that characterizes many pulpits: a culturally saturated church that fails to live and proclaim the truth as it is revealed in Jesus Christ. Fortunately, Kevin J. Vanhoozer’s The Drama of Doctrine: A Canonical Linguistic Approach to Christian Theology functions as a much-needed vaccine to this anti-doctrinal contagion currently plaguing the church, Vanhoozer writes:

This book sets forth new metaphors for theology (dramaturgy), Scripture (the script), theological understanding (performance), the church (the company), and the pastor (director).It argues that doctrine, far from being unrelated to life, serves the church by directing its members in the project of wise living, to the glory of God. It sets out to convince ministers and lay people alike not to dismiss doctrine as irrelevant, and to encourage theologians not to neglect the needs of the church. It aims to make the pastoral lamb lie down with the theological lion.

This dramatic metaphor for theology reminds us that theology is not reducible to mere cognitive-propositions (systematic approaches have often been guilty of this) that fall under an either/or rubric of “true and false,” a theory-laden framework that, as Vanhoozer rightly points out, runs roughshod over genre, silences the polyphonic “authorship” of Scripture, and proof-texts in order to fit Scripture into one monological scheme. Taking its cue from the cultural-linguistic theory—the “form of the church’s life and language that gives doctrines their substance and meaning”—Vanhoozer develops what he calls a “canonical-linguistic approach” which unlike its cousin sets theological meaning and truth within the Scriptural canon and not ecclesial culture. In sum, Scripture and doctrine are the church’s canonical script by which it is cast into a role within the wider Trinitarian Theo-drama of redemption where it is called to render a performance that is faithful between the two great “speech-acts” of redemption—the crucifixion/resurrection and the Parousia. Vanhoozer states:

Theology’s task is to equip disciples to speak and act in ways that correspond to the Gospel in particular contexts. Not Just any word or action will do. Not all words and acts are appropriate to the subject matter; not all words and acts achieve theo-dramatic “fit.” The drama of evangelical theology pertains to knowing how to interpret—which is to say, perform—the gospel in concrete situations. Doctrine’s role in the drama is to enable the church to build wisdom’s house: a pattern of speech and action that fits with creation and redemption alike to the glory of God.

Drama, this flexible metaphor for what we do with theology and doctrine, creates enough breathing room for the truthful assertions Scripture makes, but places them within a wider historical theater where God, his Christ, and Spirit are the star actors in a cosmic drama to which the [c]atholic church—the various interpretive communities that have existed throughout time and space since Pentecost—are called to render fitting performances for their specific role. Scripture thus functions like “stage directions for the church’s performance of the Gospel.” Scripture’s authority thus rests ultimately in the divine playwright—God himself—who employs his Spirit to direct the church’s evangelistic performance of the canonical script; the theologian functioning as a dramaturge—“the person responsible for helping the director [pastor] to make sense of the script both for the players and for the audience.”

Eventually, as actors in this theo-drama we will need to prepare to play our role for our particular cultural situation, and an uncreative rehearsal of previous performances will not suffice. First, to render fitting performances we will need to avoid hypocrisy, mere external renditions of our part; instead we must “become the role we play.” Second, we will need to realize our identities as “created persons recreated in Christ—[as] the high and holy calling of the actor/disciple, and the goal of spiritual formation.” Third and finally, developing a “disciple’s diet,” a doctrinally informed way of life that gives way to saintly character. Of course, all this in relation to the climactic speech-act of atonement, both substitutionary and victorious, whereby the one creator God enters into covenant and communion with humanity.

In a church-culture bereft of “thick” doctrinal readings of Scripture, Vanhoozer’s “The Drama of Doctrine” is a much needed theatrical-boost to our reasons to live out a doctrinally soaked vocation in a postmodern world which has lost its way. Vanhoozer’s dramatic approach to theology will aid in helping to mend the chasm between the church’s theory and practice. I cannot possibly recommend this book enough.

Lawrence Garcia on Scot McKnight’s Jesus and His Death: Historiography, the Historical Jesus, and the Atonement Theory

It is quite fascinating that among the thousands of ignominious crucifixions performed by the Romans within the first-century, either side of Jesus of Nazareth, that his and his alone, set forward a chain of events that would go on to forever alter history. That within decades, Jesus’ fate on the “dreaded wood” as they called it began to be interpreted as everything from a cosmic sacrifice for sins to that of God’s great act of faithfulness to the Abrahamic covenant begs for the historian and theologian alike to make sense of the matter. Especially, as to exactly how and on what terms Jesus himself may have understood his possible demise. It is this great historical question that Scot McKnight’s Jesus and His Death: Historiography, the Death of Jesus and Atonement Theory seeks to answer. McKnight asks:

Did Jesus think he would die prematurely? If so, what point in his life did that occur to him? from the outset? Following the death of John the Baptist? After he was opposed by the leaders? Or, only after he entered Jerusalem that last week? Furthermore, did Jesus think about his death in saving terms? Did he think it was of more than martyrological value or not? And if not, what are we to make of the continued witness of the church to the atoning value of his death?

Of course, to answer such questions in a postmodern world McKnight must face the charge that the modernist historical quest of a century ago is said to be a historian’s power play that is “all rhetoric, all discourse, all language, and in effect all autobiography.” In order to refute this charge McKnight navigates the terrain between the trenches of modernist and postmodernist historiographical theory concluding that what is needed in this era of historiography is a “chastened post-modernist modernism,” a sort of modernist quest that now knows “our narratives are not equivalent with the past, and they (postmodernists) remind us that our narratives need to be held lightly with the obvious potential of being revised and even jettisoned, but they cannot steal from us this: that our narratives either more or less cohere with what we can know about existential facts and their contexts in such a way that we can derive a narrative that approximates truth.” A satisfactory answer if you ask me. Moreover, I was pleasantly surprised that this historical quest wasn’t necessarily going to be a skull and bones re-presentation—a sort of lowest-common denominator of what the historical method has left over, once having devoured the Gospel tradition. Rather, McKnight’s proposal would be a narrative representation that considers the evidence guided, as it were, by a hermeneutic of love that operates on a basis of trust rather than a priori suspicion.

Having dealt with the historical question McKnight’s Jesus and His Death goes on to evaluate the various proposals of scholars concerning how Jesus may have perceived his own death, ranging from Schweitzer’s wheel of the great Tribulation to the suffering servant motif championed by T.W. Manson. All in route to the central question, “How is it possible for a Jew who believed in God’s sovereign and providential care, who surely believed that God had accomplished forgiveness through the sacrificial system of the temple—especially Yom Kippur, and who preached the arrival of the long expected kingdom that was interrelated to these themes about God and forgiveness—how it even possible, we must ask, for such a person suddenly to think his death was the sacrifice of all sacrifices, the end of the temple system, and a sure atonement for all people?” This question brings to surface the possibility that the church’s soteriological interpretation of Jesus’ crucifixion may have differed from how Jesus may have conceived the matter. McKnight writes:

It matters, then, to many creedal Christians that Jesus’ death occurred and for some it matters what Jesus thought of his death. It matters for some, too, that what early Christians thought about the death of Jesus is in some sense consonant both with what happened and with what Jesus thought of his death. Was his atonement theology arbitrarily imposed on the Jesus traditions or was it organic evolution from the Master himself?… To the texts we now must turn.

It is when we turn to the texts themselves armed with our hermeneutic of trust yet not without a critical eye to what may be later theological imposition that we can begin to reconstruct how Jesus may have understood his own death. McKnight argues that the place to begin is with what can be properly labeled the “bookends” of orientation. These, for McKnight, are to be located in the sixth request of Matthew’s “Our Father” prayer where Jesus petitions God to “lead us not into temptation,” and the Gethsemane prayer in Mark where in the context of “test/temptation” Jesus requests that his Father remove the “cup.” Once we understand that the “testing” wasn’t what we usually regard as an individual temptation to sin, but rather the great time of testing that was to befall Israel in the end of days preceding the final kingdom of God, we can begin to uncover the framework of how Jesus saw his own fate within the final chapters of Israel’s story. Jesus, for sure, had already considered his probable fate after John the Baptist met a bad end under Herod Antipas. Thus, as a “Scripture prophet” Jesus began combing the Scriptures to “lend significance to his death” landing on prophets like Daniel, Zechariah, and possibly Isaiah to identify the tenor and tone for his forthcoming death. McKnight goes on to write:

Jesus sees in his death a foretaste of the imminent judgment of God on the city of Jerusalem for recalcitrance. Thus, he sees his fate and Jerusalem’s fate tied together, perhaps so closely that one speaks of the other. The eschatology inherent in such an understanding of Jesus, and his desire for the city to turn from its ways confirm the interpretation offered. Jesus evidently, at this time, in his life sees no hope for the city to turn; the judgment is inevitable, and he will go down as part of the city’s defeat.

All of this plays out when Jesus marches his way south to Jerusalem for what he perceived as the final Passover/Pesah, what for him would essentially be a new Exodus. Jesus, however, would take the role of the sacrificial victim allowing those who participate in his death to “be redeemed from the affliction” when God passes over them to judge unfaithful Israel. This plausible historical-narrative representation makes sense of why the early church began to attach unheard-of theological significance to Jesus’ death, not because they created it ex nihilo, but precisely because Jesus himself set the precedent of attaching grand theological significance to his death. Thus, the high views of Jesus’ death witnessed in the prologue of John or the first two chapters of Hebrews is not antithetical to Jesus’ vision of his own death, but organically linked to it.

Surprisingly, McKnight’s book doesn’t end there. Before concluding, he goes on to examine the various interpretations of Jesus’ death throughout the rest of the New Testament. This brief excurses, filled with outstanding insight, reads like theological icing on the historiographical cake. Over all, this book is a serious piece of history that can sit on the shelf next to the New Testament, lending it historical nuance and insight. If one desires to grapple with a sound historical enquiry into how Jesus may have understood his own fate then I highly recommend this book.

Paul as the Embodiment of God’s Covenant Righteousness

God made the one who did not know sin to be sin for us, so that in him we would become the righteousness of God (2 Cor. 5:21 NET).[1]

One need only turn to the “soteriology” section of most traditional systematic theological works to illustrate how this verse is normally understood, for example:

Further, the imputation of Christ’s righteousness is to us judicial (legal), not actual. While the actual transfer of guilt from one person to another is not possible, the legal transfer is… What is more, this perfect righteousness is what we are “in Christ,” not in ourselves (2 Cor. 5:17): “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21). This is possible because in salvation we are united with Jesus…[2]

All the traditional Reformed boxes have been checked: forensic imputation, our inabilities, Christ’s own prefect righteousness, and salvation by way of being united to Jesus. However, is this soteriological schema necessarily what Paul is trying to convey? After all, “imputation,” or at least the Greek word translated as such, is found not in verse 21, but in verse 19 which says neither that our sins are, “imputed to Christ” nor that specifically Christ’s righteousness is “imputed to us as sinners.” Rather, it states that God “wasn’t counting (logizómenos) people’s trespasses against them.” Actually, Paul is saying that our trespasses aren’t counted against us. Moreover, the term “Christ’s perfect righteousness” is entirely absent from the passage which should make us a bit tentative about reading it in so uncritically. Finally, when one considers the thematic unity of the letter as a whole,[3] Paul’s statement in 5:21 suggests a different meaning altogether. In order to tease out more fully what Paul means in 5:21 we must understand the crises that sparked the writing of the letter. I will summarize the issue by citing Udo Schnelle:

The opponents accuse Paul of being strong in his letters but weak when he appears personally (10:1-10). Whereas the opponents also interpreted it as weakness that Paul obviously does not have at his command the means of putting himself forward means that are equally central in ancient and modern society. And finally, the opponents reproach Paul for not allowing himself to be supported by the church—from their  perspective, an indication of his lack of love for the congregation. The Corinthians were impressed by these objections and by the manner in which the opponents appeared before the congregation. They were fascinated by preachers who knew how to get along on the basis of their personality. Rhetorical training, the claim to special knowledge, and imposing external appearance were probably characteristic features of these outsider missionaries.[4]

It is difficult in light of the issues surrounding Paul’s situation vis-à-vis his opponents to see that Geisler’s, et al, rendering of the verse could in any sense address the actual situation, let alone clinch his position. However, I suggest that if we de-generalize this verse from abstract soteriology to a very particular argument concerning Paul’s own ministry in light of the cross that we will be able to tease out how this verse fits within the wider aim of the letter. Though articulated in differing ways, there is a red thread throughout the letter, that is, that Paul’s shameful suffering, lack of rhetorical skill, and unimposing appearance is not antithetical to the Gospel, but characterized by the cross and thus in total continuity with it. Here are a few examples of Paul alluding to his suffering apostolic ministry:

(1)   For just as the sufferings of Christ overflow toward us, so also our comfort through Christ overflows to you (1:5).

(2)   But thanks be to God who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ (this is not a good thing as those lead in triumphal processions in Rome were usually chained and humiliated generals, soldiers, and slaves) and who makes known through us the fragrance that consists of the knowledge of him in every place (2:15).

(3)    Not that we are adequate in ourselves to consider anything as if it were coming from ourselves, but our adequacy is from God, who made us adequate to be servants of a new covenant not based on the letter but on the Spirit, for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life (3:5-6).

(4)   Therefore, since we have this ministry, just as God has shown us mercy, we do not become discouraged. But we have rejected shameful hidden deeds, not behaving with deceptiveness or distorting the word of God, but by open proclamation of the truth we commend ourselves to everyone’s conscience before God (4:1-2).

(5)   But as God’s servants, we have commended ourselves in every way, with great endurance, in persecutions, in difficulties, in distresses… (6:4)

What quickly becomes apparent is that Paul is being quite consistent, certainly through the first six chapters, which happens to be the very context of 5:21, with his apostolic defense. His aim is to illustrate that his manifold sufferings are not something that disqualifies his apostleship, rather, it is clear cut proof that it bears the stigmata of Jesus’ own suffering for sins. Thus, Paul’s ministry of reconciliation (already mentioned twice in 5:18-19) is a protraction of God’s new covenant act revealed in Christ’s atoning death. Moreover, this implies that his opponents’ self-glorifying ministry complete with its rhetorical red bow is in discontinuity with God’s apocalyptic act at Calvary. N.T. Wright puts succinctly:

Paul’s covenantal theology was thought through at every point, not least in our present passage, in the light of the death and resurrection of Jesus the Messiah, which revealed that God’s covenant faithfulness was precisely the ground for salvation for the whole world… it was through the covenant with Abraham and his seed that God always intended to reconcile the world to himself, and in Christ that plan is now complete. All that remains is for the apostolic ministry to be put in effect, through which this divine covenant faithfulness can be become effective for any and all who will listen to the message[5].

In conclusion, when we re-consider the wider aim of the letter itself and follow the contours of Paul’s apostolic defense it will quickly become apparent that to treat 5:21 as abstract soteriology, as in Geisler’s treatment, rather than a self-description of Paul’s suffering apostleship is simply missing the point. The verse should read as following, “God made him who did not know sin to be sin for us, so that in him we (Paul’s and his apostolic team) would embody the covenant-righteousness of God.” What the Corinthians needed to see was that Paul’s contemptible ministry was organically linked to God’s great covenant act at Calvary; the humiliating, inglorious, and shameful death of Jesus the Messiah was flowing over into Paul’s ministry, if only, they had eyes to see.

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[1] The NET translation will be used unless stated otherwise.

[2] Dr. Norman Geisler, Systematic Theology, Volume Three: Sin-Salvation, (Minneapolis: Bethany House, 2004), 249.

[3] Many scholars consider 2 Corinthians to be a composite of four of Paul’s letters of correspondence with the Corinthian community, but even so, my argument is not entirely dependent on this unity.

[4] Udo Schnelle, Apostle Paul: His Life and Theology, (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic), 259.

[5] N.T. Wright, On Becoming the Righteousness of God: 2 Corinthians 5:21 in Pauline Theology, Volume II, ed. D.M. Hay (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1993), 200-208.

What has the Society of Biblical Literature to do with the Salsa Congress?: Reflections of an Aspiring Salsa Dancing Scholar

Me, David, and Michael F. Bird.

I straddle two very diverse worlds simultaneously: (1) a life devoted to learning all things scholarly and Biblical. (2) and a burning desire to dance salsa. Yes, I know, certainly an odd couple, yet I am often torn between reading the latest book on the Historical Jesus and mastering another dance pattern that will wow my implicit male, and yes I must confess, the women too, but don’t tell my wife (it’s a “man” thing forgive me), competition on the dance floor. Thus, a brief glance at my pictures on Facebook will yield what confuses most that have: an awkward amalgamation of detailed book reviews, pictures with Kenneth Bailey and other of my favorite scholarly types, and me caught striding across the wood floor of the local salsa hot spot. However, my purpose of this reflective post is not to repent of my sinful dancing (sorry to my Southern Baptist friends), nor is it to turn from my New Perspective on Paul framework (sorry to my Reformed friends), but to detail what struck me while simultaneously attending the Annual Society of Biblical Conference and the Annual Salsa Congress, both in San Francisco this year and on the same weekend to boot.

I can at least say this with all honesty, that I had scheduled my trip to the Annual Society of Biblical Literature Conference (what will now be abbreviated to “ASOBL” as typing this over and over again is quickly becoming redundant) months before I discovered that the Annual Salsa Conference (from now on “ASC”) just happened to be on same weekend. So of course, I immediately knew that is was ordained of God that I attend both—sit in on lectures by day, dance till I drop by night. Nevertheless, what quickly struck me was how, in many ways, both conferences were so much alike. Here are a few of my observations:

(1)    Both took over large hotels for their 3-4 day venue.

(2)    One had table upon tables of books to sell by every publisher seemingly known to man while the other had tables full of dance shoes, costumes, instructional DVD’s, and clothing.

(3)    The ASOBL had running sections on various Biblically related themes while the ASC had running sections for various dance techniques.

Perhaps, what struck me the most was how each conference had their very own, what my hip-hop friends would call “big dawgs.” Yup, those who, when they walk into a room cause heads to turn, jealous up-and-comers to look  away in disgust, boisterous conversations to lower  to a faint whispers, and sycophants (like me) to come out of the obscure places they were hiding up until that moment. So quickly, just to name a few, in the salsa world is a certain Johnny Vasquez (my scholar friends are now saying “who”) and N.T. Wright in the theological world of Biblical scholarship (I just lost all of my “salseros”). Of course, there were many others, but there were some, on both sides of the fence, who imbibed a sort of arrogance, probably due to the enjoyed renown they receive within their respective fields. Let’s just say there were certain individuals at both conferences that just seemed outright unapproachable and haughty.

However, if I were to take them from their normal environment where they are well-acknowledged, let’s say, placing Mr. Wright (this is no jab at him as he is incredibly gracious, it just humors me to think of him trying on some dance shoes) into one of the dance classes, let’s say “Intermediate Partner work” and Mr. Vasquez in one of the lectures in the “Biblical Theology and the Bible section,” both would be considered “nobodies” and both might be completely lost.  My point?  Is that maybe those of us who enjoy prestige, be it in dancing or scholarship or wherever, in our fields should be a tad bit more humble and grateful to those who cheer us on as we dance or spend their hard-earned money to buy our books. Remember, without those who support you, you would be a nameless face like the rest of us. So next time you are on your way to meet up with a distinguished group of Ivy League professors or an after party with all the big “whose-who’s,” pause and take the time to talk to the “little guys,” say “thank you” to those who complement your work, and perhaps, spontaneously make someone’s day, if not year, by taking them out to lunch.

Nevertheless, as I wind up this reflection, there were some “big dawgz” who stood out against the grain. The first was an outstanding female dancer by the name Zulmara Torres whose fine personality and approachableness stood out from those snooty dancer types. I can honestly say that every time I saw her she was waving and interacting with people. She might of danced with me had I asked, but I was a little intimidated (still working on the whole “timing” thing). The second was notable scholar Michael F. Bird, who joined me and a friend of mine for lunch (the same guy who had lunch scheduled the next day with one of the top New Testament scholars in the world). Mr. Bird didn’t know us from a stranger on the street, yet he took time out of his busy schedule to make our day. Thus, my hope is that a lot more “big dawgs” will start appreciating us “little dawgz” because without us there is no you. After all, you won’t be famous forever, dancers grow old and ungracious and books get outdated and eventually forgotten, but an act of kindness will last forever.

Me and Zulmara.