Religion Is All Too Human
Oh my, I read another Professor Giles's post this morning, and it got me started. Many folks are still frantically discussing “The Real Jesus of Nazareth.” Well, it’s Christmas time, after all.
To borrow a phrase from Friedrich Nietzsche’s famous work, the whole story is human, all too human. To be free and spiritual, we must dodge dogma and go straight to the human heart and mind.
Joshua wasn’t a Christian, Buddha wasn’t a Buddhist, and Marx wasn’t a Marxist. Moses wasn’t WOKE, and ancient Romans weren’t LGBTQ. And Josh’s DNA probably didn’t have traces from sub-Saharan African groups at the time.
If we want to be historically accurate, how would we describe “Left” and “Right” in ancient Judea? We constantly project our definitions into the past—some might think this is a mistake.
The concepts of “Left” and “Right” as we understand them today didn’t exist in ancient Judea. Those terms arose from the French Revolution, with those who supported the monarchy seated on the right side of the assembly and those who supported the revolution sitting on the left.
So, what was ancient Judea’s political and social landscape, and are there some rough parallels to modern concerns?
Many prophets (like Amos, Isaiah, and Micah) railed against exploiting the poor and vulnerable by the wealthy and powerful. They demanded fairness, echoing concerns about economic inequality often associated with the modern Left. Some Jewish groups, like the Essenes, emphasized communal living and welcomed those marginalized by mainstream society, which is analogous to the Left’s focus on social inclusion. The Sadducees, a priestly class, held significant power and often aligned themselves with the ruling elite, which resembles the modern Right’s association with established institutions and hierarchies. Groups like the Pharisees emphasized strict observance of Jewish law and ritual. This focus on tradition and order parallels some aspects of modern conservatism. The Zealots were a revolutionary faction that advocated an armed rebellion against Roman occupation. Their fervent nationalism and willingness to use violence could be compared to specific right-wing nationalist movements today.
These are loose comparisons. Ancient Judean society was complex and cannot be neatly categorized using modern political terminology.
The primary concerns in ancient Judea revolved around religious law, social justice within their community, and relations with occupying powers. Modern political divides, such as individual liberties vs. collective good or the state’s role in the economy, were not central in the same way. Analyzing their motivations and actions within their historical context provides a much richer and more accurate understanding.
All that having been said, Right-Wing-Jesus memes are hilarious.
Professor Giles neglected to mention Christian Zionism. There are many good books (no pun intended) on the subject. A Short History of Christian Zionism: Reformation to the Twenty-First Century is one I’d recommend.
It’s also important not to gloss over the Orthodox tradition. The Coptic Christians in Ethiopia still adhere to Miaphysitism. It’s a key doctrine in Oriental Orthodox Christianity, which includes the Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria (to which the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church belongs). Miaphysitism (from Greek “μία” (mia), “one” + “φύσις” (physis), “nature”) holds that Jesus Christ has one unified nature that is both fully divine and fully human. This single nature results from the divine and human natures being inseparably united in the Incarnation.
If there is a divine nature, then nature is it. So say I.
Jah, within its core, “I and I,” represents the belief that Jah (God) resides within each individual. It emphasizes the divine spark present in every human being. It signifies the interconnectedness of all people through their shared divine essence, which contrasts with the perceived separation and individuality emphasized in Western culture. Rastafarians often use “I and I” in place of “we” or “us.” This linguistic shift focuses on collective identity and shared responsibility and emphasizes the importance of community and unity within the Rastafarian movement. By replacing “me” with “I,” Rastafarians aim to overcome feelings of objectification and inferiority often associated with colonial oppression. It’s a way of asserting their inherent dignity and value as individuals and people.
“I and I” is part of a broader linguistic practice called “Iyaric,” which adapts Jamaican patois to express Rastafarian beliefs and challenge the dominance of standard English. It’s a form of cultural and linguistic resistance against colonial legacies. “I and I” reflects a holistic worldview that sees everything as interconnected and divine, including not just people but also nature and the universe.
Rastafarians are heretics; they made some profound choices.
I appreciated Professor Giles bringing up the etymology of heresy—it’s an important point.
Middle English heretik, borrowed from Anglo-French & Late Latin; Anglo-French heretic, heretik, borrowed from Late Latin haereticus, hereticus, borrowed from Late Greek hairetikós, from hairetikós, adjective, "departing from dogma, heretical," going back to Greek, "able to choose, due to choice," from hairetós "that may be taken, eligible, chosen," verbal adjective of haireîn "to take, grasp, (middle voice) obtain, choose, prefer" + -ikos -ic entry 1 — more at heresy
“Good God, man, you digress!”
Monophysitism (from Greek “μόνος” (monos), “alone, only” + “φύσις” (physis), “nature”) suggests that Christ has only one nature, which is divine. Human nature was somehow absorbed or overwhelmed by the divine nature. I wish. This is considered a heresy by both Miaphysites and Chalcedonian Christians (like Roman Catholics and Eastern Orthodox). Miaphysitism emphasizes the complete and inseparable union of Christ’s divinity and humanity and rejects any notion that Christ’s two natures are separate or divided. Miaphysites strongly reject Monophysitism, insisting that Christ’s human nature is fully preserved in the Incarnation.
The “Tewahedo” in the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church reflects this belief in the “one unity” of Christ’s nature. This theological distinction led to a schism between Oriental Orthodox churches and the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches in the 5th century, following the Council of Chalcedon. However, there has been increased dialogue and understanding between these branches of Christianity in recent decades.
The filioque (Latin for “and from the Son”) is a term that refers to the addition of the phrase “and the Son” to the Nicene Creed in Western Christianity. This addition asserts that the Holy Spirit proceeds from both the Father and the Son, while the original Nicene Creed stated that the Holy Spirit proceeds “from the Father” alone.
The filioque does my head in. Hundreds of years of debate on this stuff will never sort it out for me. The filioque has significant implications for understanding the Trinity (God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit). It emphasizes the unity of the Father and the Son in their relationship to the Holy Spirit. The addition of the filioque was a gradual process, beginning in Spain in the 6th century and eventually becoming standard in the Western Church. However, it was never accepted by the Eastern Church. The filioque became a major point of contention between Eastern and Western Christianity, contributing to the Great Schism of 1054 that formally divided the two branches of the Church. The filioque remains a disagreement between the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Churches. However, there have been efforts in recent decades to foster dialogue and understanding on this issue.
The Eastern Church argues that adding the filioque was an unauthorized alteration of the Creed, made without the consent of an ecumenical council. Oh, dear me, and The Council should know! The Eastern Church believes the filioque compromises the Father’s unique role as the sole source of the Godhead and disrupts the balance within the Trinity.
Both sides claim scriptural support for their position, with the Western Church citing verses like John 15:26 (“But when the Helper comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth, who proceeds from the Father, he will bear witness about me.")
To some, ongoing dialogue offers hope for greater understanding and eventual reconciliation; to others, it’s a mortal sin. And don’t get me started on Ecumenism.
For me, the mental gymnastics Christian Apologists hurl are annoying and mundane as hell. Who invented “hell,” yep, hell is all too human.
Christians, by and large, don’t get Joshua.
Like Ricky Bobby in Talladega Nights, my sweet baby Jesus is lovely and cute as a bug’s ear.
Here’s a book by a Christian who gets Josh.
A God Named Josh: Uncovering the Human Life of Jesus Christ (A Documentarian’s Historical & Illuminating Biography—Get to Know the Human Side of Our Lord & Glimpse the Miracle of the Incarnation)
Did the Roman Empire kill Jesus?
The Romans, specifically Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea, ultimately held the authority to carry out Jesus’ execution. Crucifixion was a Roman method of punishment, and Roman soldiers carried out the sentence. Jared Brock has a blood-curdling description of the crucifixion in A God Named Josh.
The Gospels depict some Jewish religious leaders of the time as instrumental in Jesus’ arrest and trial. They accused him of blasphemy and sedition, and they pressured Pilate to condemn him. Christian theology often views Jesus’ death as a sacrifice for the sins of all humanity. From this perspective, all people bear some responsibility for his death. (Dear me! Fear God! How sad is that?) Many Christians believe that Jesus’ death was part of God’s plan for salvation. In this view, God allowed Jesus to be crucified, even though he was innocent, to redeem humanity.
And some folks in the United States of New Miracles think that the violence in the Middle East is part of God’s plan. I call that pathological.
Blaming “the Jews” for Jesus’ death is historically inaccurate and has fueled anti-Semitism for centuries. The Gospels portray a specific group of Jewish religious leaders as playing a role, not the entire Jewish population. The motivations of those involved were likely complex and varied. Pilate may have been concerned about maintaining order, while the Jewish leaders may have felt threatened by Jesus’ teachings. I enjoyed Jared Brock’s interpretation of this.
Ultimately, Christian theology focuses on the redemptive power of Jesus’ death and resurrection rather than assigning blame for his crucifixion.
While the Romans were directly responsible for carrying out Jesus’ crucifixion, the question of who killed him is more complex. Different perspectives highlight the roles of various individuals and groups and the theological significance of his death. It’s crucial to approach this topic sensitively and avoid generalizations that could fuel prejudice.
God became a man and allowed himself to be killed so he could prove he was God by transcending death. He was tortured to death and then was seen walking around again with his people. I’ve been wrestling with this since I was a child Catholic in New Market, and it still does my head in. When I was around ten, I told our village priest that God created us because he was lonely and had no creator, so we were God’s creator. The memorable thing about that encounter was that my priest said something like, “That’s a lovely idea, Steven.” He didn’t drag me by my arm into the Confessional like my aunt did whenever she thought I had committed a mortal sin. He just smiled that smile that seemed to say aren’t children brilliant?
Referring to Mercion is fascinating and illustrates how diverse the early followers of Jesus were.
Marcion of Sinope, a 2nd-century theologian, proposed a radical reinterpretation of Christianity that diverged significantly from what would become mainstream Christian thought. He believed in a stark dualism between the Old Testament God, whom he saw as a harsh, wrathful deity, and the New Testament God revealed through Jesus Christ, a loving and merciful God of compassion.
Marcion rejected the entire Old Testament, claiming it had no connection to the true God of Jesus. He argued that the God of the Old Testament was a demiurge, an inferior creator god responsible for the material world and its inherent evils. This demiurge, according to Marcion, was legalistic, vengeful, and incompatible with the loving God revealed by Jesus.
In Marcion's view, Jesus was not the Jewish Messiah prophesied in the Old Testament but rather an emissary sent by the true, higher God to deliver humanity from the clutches of the demiurge. He believed Jesus was a divine being who only appeared to be human, a concept known as docetism. This belief stemmed from Marcion's conviction that the material world was inherently evil and, therefore, a truly good God could not have taken on human flesh.
People have been nasty to each other since Josh rose from the dead. The problem of evil is a problem.
Marcion's interpretation of Jesus had profound implications for his understanding of salvation. He taught that salvation came solely through faith in Jesus Christ and his revelation of the true God, not through adherence to the Jewish law or the Old Testament. This led him to create his own canon of scripture, which included only a heavily edited version of Luke's Gospel and ten of Paul's letters, purged of any perceived Jewish influence.
While Marcion's views were ultimately deemed heretical by the early Church, they significantly impacted the development of Christian theology. His challenge forced the early Church to grapple with the relationship between the Old and New Testaments and to more clearly define its understanding of the nature of God and the person of Jesus Christ.
I appreciate Professor Giles's mention of Hans Küng; he’s brilliant, and his work is a must for anyone interested in Christology.
Dear God, aren’t stories fun!
