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Jesus of Nazareth: The Book by Fr. Richard John Neuhaus

May 16, 2012

The unknowing reader might at first think that Jesus of Nazareth is coauthored. At the top of the dust jacket is “Joseph Ratzinger.” Then, directly below it, in much larger type, “Pope Benedict XVI.” Perhaps it was, in the manner of many books, written by the pope “with the assistance” of Joseph Ratzinger. But of course that is not the case. The book, we are told, has undergone a “long gestation.”

Most of it was written by Joseph Ratzinger when he was Joseph Ratzinger, and he says that, since becoming Benedict XVI, “I have used every free moment to make progress on the book.” As it is, Jesus of Nazareth is Part I of a larger project. It is the story of Jesus from his baptism in the Jordan to Peter’s confession of faith and the Transfiguration. Part II, including the infancy narratives, may or may not come later [It has. DJ], “As I do not know how much more time or strength I am still to be given.”

We [First Things] are very pleased to have published the review of Jesus of Nazareth by Richard Hays, the distinguished professor of New Testament at Duke University. It is, I believe, the very model of what a book review should be. It tells what the book is about, respectfully engages its arguments, and sets forth in an accessible way both its strengths and weaknesses. I expect the pope was pleased with Mr. Hays’ sympathetically critical treatment of the book. But, of course, and as always, there is more to be said.

Initial reports that the pope was going to publish the book emphasized the novelty of the idea. One British paper excitedly reported that the pope was declaring that he is not infallible. And indeed he writes: “It goes without saying that this book is in no way an exercise of the magisterium, but it is solely an expression of my personal search ‘for the face of Jesus.’ Everyone is free, then, to contradict me. I would only ask my readers for that initial goodwill without which there can be no understanding.” It also goes without saying — although the pope has just said it — that this book has nothing to do with infallibility, which is a very precise and narrowly defined exercise of teaching authority that ensures that the Church will never require anyone to believe what is false.

Nor is it unprecedented for a pope to publish a book that claims no magisterial authority. One thinks, for instance, of John Paul II’s Crossing the Threshold of Hope and Memory and Identity, the former, like the present book, being an international bestseller. Some popes are undeniably prolific. Leo XIII, pope from 1878 to 1903, issued eighty-five encyclicals, plus hundreds of pastoral letters, bulls, and other documents. But it is true that in the past two centuries popes tended to be seen as rather remote figures who spoke in public seldom and then in the mode of magisterial authority. That changed dramatically with John Paul II, and Benedict is obviously following in his steps, and indeed going further. He has, for example, engaged in extended Q & A sessions in public gatherings.

The complaint is heard that John Paul, and now Benedict, are expanding papal authority and hogging the public spotlight, making the pope the teacher of the Church. Who listens to their bishop when they can listen to the pope? The same voices once complained that the papacy needed to be “humanized” and “personalized” rather than presenting itself as an oracle issuing occasional pronunciamentos from on high. There is no pleasing some people.

A Living Relationship
As to why he published Jesus of Nazareth, Benedict says, “It struck me as the most urgent priority to present the figure and the message of Jesus in his public ministry, and so to help foster the growth of a living relationship with him.” The entire book is marked by this sense of urgency. It is not so much another book about Jesus as it is an invitation to follow him in the adventure of discipleship. Of course it is also about Jesus and is supported by the scholarship pertinent to historical facts and the development of the Church’s understanding of his person, message, and mission. Although, as Richard Hays respectfully noted, some of the scholarship is rather dated.

Of the writing of books about Jesus there is no end. I don’t know whether Benedict had in mind and seeks to counter fabrications such as The Da Vinci Code and its predecessors and imitators, but it seems more than likely. I see Garry Wills has a new book out, What Jesus Meant. It purports to explain what Jesus meant to say and no doubt would have said had he the advantage of being Garry Wills. While Wills and likeminded authors depict a Jesus in radical discontinuity with the Church’s teaching, Benedict — convincingly, if not surprisingly — makes the case that, from the beginning and on all the really big questions, the Church got it right.

Benedict is taken with Jacob Neusner’s little book, A Rabbi Talks with Jesus. In many ways, Benedict acknowledges, Jesus disappointed some messianic expectations. “What did Jesus actually bring,” Benedict asks, “if not world peace, universal prosperity, and a better world?” “The answer is very simple: He brought God.” He continues:

He brought the God who formerly unveiled his countenance, gradually, first to Abraham, then to Moses and the Prophets, and then in the Wisdom Literature — the God who revealed his face only in Israel, even though he was also honored among the pagans in various shadowy guises. It is this God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the true God, whom he has brought to the nations of the earth. . . . Jesus has brought God and with God the truth about our origins and destiny: faith, hope, and love. It is only because of the hardness of hearts that we think this is too little.

He is the “Christ,” meaning the Messiah. Since the title “made little sense outside of Semitic culture,” it was “joined with the name of Jesus: Jesus Christ. What began as an interpretation ended up as a name, and therein lies a deeper message: He is completely one with his office; his task and his person are totally inseparable from each other.” “In the end,” writes Benedict, “man needs just one thing, in which everything else is included; but he must first delve beyond his superficial wishes and longings in order to recognize what it is that he truly needs and truly wants. He needs God. And so we now realize what ultimately lies behind all the Johannine images: Jesus gives us ‘life’ because he gives us God.”

It is frequently claimed, Benedict writes, that the teachings of Jesus, especially in the Beatitudes, represent “the Christian ethics that is supposedly superior to the commands of the Old Testament.” This, he says, is wrong, since “Jesus always presupposed the validity of the Ten Commandments” and explicitly said, “Think not that I have come to abolish the law and the prophets; I have come not to abolish them but to fulfill them.”

Running throughout Jesus of Nazareth is a powerful anti-Marcionite insistence upon the inseparability of the Old and New Testaments. The German biblical scholar H. Gese is favorably quoted: “Jesus himself has become the divine word of revelation. The gospels could not illustrate it any more clearly or powerfully: Jesus himself is the Torah.”

In his “talk” with Jesus, Rabbi Neusner poses the question: What of the law and the prophets did Jesus leave out? The answer is “Nothing.” So what then did he add? The answer is “Himself.” To which Benedict adds, “Perfection, the state of being holy as God is holy as demanded by the Torah, now consists in following Jesus.”

Agreeing with Neusner, Benedict underscores that the crucial decision is in response to the question, Who is Jesus? Echoing Lumen Gentium (Light to the Nations), the Second Vatican Council’s constitution on the Church, Benedict writes: “Jesus has brought the God of Israel to the nations, so that all the nations now pray to him and recognize Israel’s Scriptures as his word, the word of the living God. He has brought the gift of universality, which was the one great definitive promise to Israel and the world. This universality, this faith in the one God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob . . . is what proves him to be the Messiah.”

As an aside, Benedict takes exception to the now common use of the Tetragrammaton (“I am who I am”), the name of God given to Moses. This, he says, is who God is without qualification. “The Israelites therefore were perfectly right in refusing to utter this self-designation of God, expressed in the word YHWH, so as to avoid degrading it to the level of the names of pagan deities. By the same token, recent Bible translations were wrong to write out this name . . . as if it were just any old name. By doing so, they have dragged the mystery of God, which cannot be captured in images or in names that lips can utter, down to the level of some familiar item within a common history of religions.”

Benedict returns to the Jewish-Christian connection in his treatment of the parable of the prodigal son, which he prefers to call the parable of the two sons. A conventional interpretation is that the elder brother represents the Jews. In the parable, the father says to the elder brother, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.” In this way, writes Benedict, “the father not only does not dispute the older brother’s fidelity but explicitly confirms his sonship.” Thus “it would be a false interpretation to read this as a condemnation of the Jews,” writes Benedict.

At the same time, there are those, both Jews and non-Jews, for whom “more than anything else, God is Law; they see themselves in a juridical relationship with God and in that relationship they are at rights with him. But God is greater: They need to convert from the Law-God to the greater God, the God of love. . . . In this parable, then, the Father through Christ is addressing us, the ones who never left home, encouraging us, too, to convert truly and to find joy in our faith.” This is a delicate treatment of a delicate subject. Christians who affirm the universality of the mission of Christ cannot help but hope that all people, including Jews, will accept him as the promised Messiah. At the same time, one is somewhat surprised to find in the foregoing passage traces of the idea that Judaism is a religion of law while Christianity is a religion of love. That is an idea that is apparently rejected elsewhere in the book.

Jesus of Nazareth is indisputably a scholarly work, although a scholarly work that is readily accessible to the general reader. Benedict at several points addresses the problems associated with contemporary biblical scholarship. A purely historical approach to individual texts cannot recognize the Bible as the Bible, the book of the Church. Such a method “can intuit something of the ‘deeper value’ the words contain. It can in some sense catch the sounds of a higher dimension through the human word, and so open up the method to self-transcendence.

But its specific object is the human word as human.” “We have to keep in mind the limits of all efforts to know the past: We can never go beyond the domain of the hypothesis, because we simply cannot bring the past into the present.” Therefore, we must go beyond the historical-critical method to recognize that these texts constitute the one Scripture that speaks with a living voice and is to be understood by “taking account of the living tradition of the whole Church and of the analogy of faith (the intrinsic correspondence with the faith).”

An “Anonymous Community”
While recognizing the limits of much biblical scholarship, Benedict regularly invokes its practitioners, either to agree or disagree with them. In one paragraph, for instance, we encounter Peter Stuhlmacher, Martin Hengel, E. Ruckstuhl, and P. Dschulnigg. (German is, after all, the pope’s first language.) Many scholars claim that the high Christology to be found in, for instance, John’s gospel is the construction of the early community trying to make sense of their experience of Jesus. Benedict is skeptical. “The anonymous community,” he writes, “is credited with an astonishing level of theological genius — who were the great figures responsible for inventing all this?

No, the greatness, the dramatic newness, comes directly from Jesus; within the faith and life of the community it is further developed, but is not created. In fact, the ‘community’ would not even have emerged and survived at all unless some extraordinary reality had preceded it.” On question after question, critical biblical scholarship turns out to offer little more than “a graveyard of mutually contradictory hypotheses.” But as I said, while he recognizes the severe limits of such scholarship, Benedict nonetheless employs its findings and suppositions in advancing his argument.

Benedict does not mention by name Hans Urs von Balthasar, whose work he has elsewhere praised very highly, but one suspects Balthasar’s presence, if only to disagree with him, in the treatment of Christ’s descent into hell. There is this, for example, on the baptism of Jesus: “Jesus’ baptism, then, is understood as a repetition of the whole of history, which recapitulates the past and anticipates the future. His entering into the sin of others is a descent into the ‘inferno.’ . . . He goes down in the role of one whose suffering-with-others is a transforming suffering that turns the underworld around, knocking down and flinging open the gates of the abyss.”

And there is this: “The Apostles’ Creed speaks of Jesus’ descent ‘into hell.’ This descent not only took place in and after his death but accompanies him along his entire journey. He must recapitulate the whole of history from its beginnings — from Adam on; he must go through, suffer through, the whole of it, in order to transform it.” And again: “Thus it is not only after his death, but already by his death and during his whole life, that Jesus ‘descends into hell,’ as it were, into the domain of our temptations and defeats, in order to take us by the hand and carry us upward.” While employing aspects of its rhetorical force, Benedict distances himself from Balthasar’s contention that, in his descent, Jesus experienced the hell of the damned.

A striking feature of the book is the author’s delight in tackling biblical passages that strike many as strange, if not contradictory. He notes, for instance, that the “Good Shepherd” text of John 10 does not begin with “I am the good shepherd” but with another image, that of the door. “He who does not enter the sheep-fold by the door but climbs in by another way is a thief and a robber; but he who enters by the door is the shepherd of the sheep.” Then Jesus says, “I am the door of the sheep.” How to understand this? Benedict answers: “This can only really mean that Jesus is establishing the criterion for those who will shepherd his flock after his ascension to the Father. The proof of a true shepherd is that he enters through Jesus as the door. For in this way it is ultimately Jesus who is the shepherd — the flock ‘belongs’ to him alone.”

Or consider Luke 9:18, where we read, “As he was praying alone, the disciples were with him.” That is, says Benedict, a “deliberate paradox.” “The disciples are drawn into his solitude, his communion with the Father that is reserved to him alone. They are privileged to see him as the one who . . . speaks face-to-face with the Father, person to person. They are privileged to see him in his utterly unique filial being — at the point from which all his words, his deeds, and his powers issue.”

In his treatment of these and other passages, Benedict follows the pattern of the early Church Fathers. Nothing in the biblical text is accidental or out of place; every passage, every word, has its purpose. While his book does not address in detail the question of scriptural inspiration, the presupposition of divine direction is evident in every page.

As I said, the review by Richard Hays in the last issue is, in my judgment, altogether admirable and quite the best that I have seen anywhere. The foregoing reflection is simply intended to lift up additional aspects of the book, in the hope that it will encourage others to read it with the care that it deserves. Jesus of Nazareth is not, as the author himself takes pains to underscore, the last word on the subject. But it is a greatly needed word in a time when mass audiences are titillated by fanciful fabrications about the discovery of “the real Jesus.” The last word on the Word will be spoken when there is a final answer to the last words of the Bible, “Come, Lord Jesus.”

Posted in Book Recommendations, Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Jesus, Pope Benedict XVI | Tagged Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Jesus of Nazareth, the adventure of discipleship | Leave a Comment »

Christ, the Teacher of Happiness And Maker of Saints – Clarence J. Enzler

April 16, 2012

While others stoked the fires of the Italian Renaissance in Florence and Rome, Giovanni Bellini set the early standard in Venice until his death on November 29, 1516. Born 1430, Bellini introduced a sensuality and warmth to the religious standards that had become cold and stale over time. His painting of St. Francis in Ecstasy (above, from 1480) places the world-renouncing saint within a beautiful panorama of nature. Although St. Francis of Assisi is shown at the moment of highest communion with the divine, God never “shows his face” in this painting, except in the details of his creation all around Francis. St. Francis almost becomes dwarfed in the larger scheme of nature here, downplaying him and, by extension, all humanity in contrast to the bigger picture of all of creation. Bellini thus gives new life to a familiar standard of religious iconography and actually manages to recreate the original spirit of St. Francis himself, who strove to become attuned to nature and use it as another pathway to God.
From http://artblogbybob.blogspot.com

Written by a layman and father of thirteen children who eventually was ordained to the diaconate, My Other Self is a deeply devotional book. It is also a beautiful book and one that is very accessible to most Catholics. Composed of a series of meditations (or, perhaps more properly, soliloquies) in which Christ speaks directly to the individual human soul, this book reminds us over and over again of the infinite gentleness and love that our Divine Savior has for us.
Fr. Benedict J. Groeschel, C.F.R.

Nothing highlighted. Read slowly. Listen.

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Happy are the blameless, who walk in the way of the Lord.
Psalm 118:1

My dear friend, my greatest desire is that you be happy. It would be more impossible for me not to want you to be happy than for you not to want to eat when you are hungry.

I am not good merely as a creature is good. I am goodness. Goodness is of my very nature. You cannot fully comprehend that. I ask only that you believe it.

Believe that I am goodness itself. Believe that I want your happiness far more than you yourself want it. Believe that I can and will give you happiness.

I have made you in my own image, able to share in my divine life, and destined for that life. Give me your good will here on earth, and your happiness even in this life will surpass your dreams. And when you reach your eternal destiny, your joy will be such as you could never begin to imagine.

Do not refuse to do what will make you happy. Millions of your fellow men spurn me. Adam and Eve, anxious to do as they pleased, lost Paradise.

The chosen people of old, instructed by the prophets and even by my Father himself, refused to walk in his ways. They murdered the prophets. They worshiped idols and false gods. They gave themselves up to lust in the wilderness. And the wrath of the Lord was so kindled against them that he delivered them into the hands of nations who oppressed and humbled them.

I came upon the earth, sharing in your lowly manhood. By my own life I have shown you how to be happy. Although I constantly teach men peace and contentment through my Church, many close their ears. They seek joy in a thousand vanities and ten thousand pleasures. But the happiness they pursue in sin turns to ashes in their mouths. Listen to me. Turn to me; give me your mind, your heart, your soul. I shall not hide the truth from you. You desire happiness. I shall teach you the ways of happiness.

Happy is the one who does not follow the advice of the wicked, who does not walk in sin, who does not insult his Maker by foolish pride.
Happy is he who is considerate of the needy and the poor.
Happy are the blameless who follow in my path, who, keep my laws night and day, who seek me with their whole heart.
Happy are all who take refuge in me. I shall be their shield, encouraging them and protecting them against danger. They will not fear any evil, even though thousands of enemies are arrayed against them on every side. They will have great peace. For them there is no stumbling block.
I say to you, happy shall you be if you fear your Lord and walk trustingly in his way.

Yes, I will your happiness. Never believe that I desire anything but peace and contentment for you. I have given you my own happiness, my own joy, my very own peace. I want you to be a peacemaker, a maker of joy and happiness for those about you. I have commissioned you to help reconcile the world with me, to bring my peace to earth.

I desire your love, and the product of love is not depression, but happiness, enthusiasm, joy. What have you to fear? Live joyfully! Live happily! Live enthusiastically! Your joy is that God exists, ruling all, caring for all. You will not draw to me the souls I long for so greatly by being ill-natured, gloomy, a pessimist.

Did I not say, “When you fast, do not imitate the gloomy looking hypocrites” And did I not say, “Come to me . . . and I will refresh you”? It grieves me that so many believe that I am a stern, hard God, pleased by the spectacle of lowly man wiping the sweating brow of his soul while he asks himself, “Can I be saved? Can I possibly be saved?”

Did I give my life for you to torment you? To cause you anxiety? I do not dwell in gloom, darkness, or dejection, but in light, love, and joy. Be of good heart. Even when men revile you and persecute you and speak all manner of evil against you falsely because of me, be glad and lighthearted. I am your light and your salvation. Whom shall you fear?

I am the defense of your life. Whom shall you dread?

With a great desire, I desire your happiness. I can make you happy. I will make you happy. Be lighthearted, then, and rejoice in me that you may dwell in my house all the days of your life and enjoy my graciousness and kindness.

Christ, Maker of Saints
Rejoice in the fact that your names are engraved in heaven.
Luke 10:20

My friend, the secret of happiness, here on earth and hereafter, is to be as saintly as possible. A saint is a person who is happy — forever.

‘To be a saint is one goal that you surely can reach. To be healthy, rich, honored, may be beyond your power. But you can confidently expect to be a saint. Ask this of me, and you shall receive it. Trust yourself to me without reserve; and I say to you that it will be far easier for you to become a saint than not to become one.

You desire happiness. Happiness lies in holiness. Do not think that holiness consists of unremitting penance, of hair shirts and bloody scourgings, of trances and ecstasies, of long nights spent motionless in prayer. These are not essential to holiness. Holiness consists of but one thing: the union of your will with mine.

The one service you have in your power to give me is to do my will. The act of love that most honors me is to make your will one with mine, to desire nothing except what I desire, to will all that I will. It is not sacrifice, but love, that melts my heart. I shall show you how to be a saint. Do as I did; follow in my footsteps.

I became man not to do my will, but the will of him who sent me. I exalted my Father’s glory on earth by doing the task he set before me. I became man at the precise moment and in the exact place he willed me to do so.

In the same way, I have appointed you a task: to bear fruit, to be my witness. For this reason you live at this time, in this nation, in this community, under these particular circumstances. Had you the wisdom of all the angels, you could not have chosen a better time and place for your life. You live here because it is best for you.

Follow me. You will bear abundant fruit if you live in me and I in you; separated from me, you can do nothing. Unite your will with mine, for that union is perfection, holiness, sanctity. In sanctity lies your happiness.

I do not expect you to become perfect overnight. Yet, if I so desire, I can make you perfect in a single instant. In my sight time is nothing; one day is a thousand years. Be not impatient. Let me mold you as I choose. Let me form in you the image of myself. Let me transform you into me.

Let me teach you, in my own way, the ABCs of sanctity.

Some souls, touched by my consolations, seek to run too fast. They strive almost to kill themselves by penances and fasting. They wish to take on more than they can bear. Avaricious for spiritual advancement, they are forever comparing what they do with the “little” that others do. They want to pray longer than anyone else, to wield greater influence with me, to convert more souls than my great saints. They advance a little in holiness and they fancy themselves perfect. They impede their progress, they sometimes even retrogress, because they refuse to allow me to mold them in my own way.

Be different, I beg you.

Do not let spiritual pride take root in you. Do not be jealous of those who seem more “favored.” Be patient. Give me your whole self to do with as I please, in all things, every day of your life, and I promise to shower grace upon you. I shall lead you to a firm, true, unselfish love. I shall remove from you the desire for consolation, and make you content with whatever I send. You will do penance for love of me, but you will learn that penance of itself is a little thing. Millions of persons throughout the world live daily lives of far greater deprivation than you with all your penances, because millions are always hungry, insecure, sick, cold, frightened, lonely. You will understand that holiness does not consist in penance and sacrifice, but in union with my will.

You will realize that I do not wish you to pray when your present duty calls you to active work, and that I do not will that you should work when it is time for prayer. You will learn that of yourself you are nothing. Everything good that you do or think comes from me. Your soul, my dear friend, is but the instrument upon which I work. It is the reservoir into which the water of grace flows. All that you can do is to open or close its valve by the action of your will. Although your achievements for me may be negligible, the gift of yourself is priceless in my eyes.

Your one desire will be that I may be served and loved. No longer will you desire to be my personal instrument for conversions, for preaching, for wonder-working. No longer will you desire to do more than anyone else. You will only want more to be done. And you will gladly be the least in my Father’s house, if by being the least my glory is better served.

You will put on my virtues. You will be a victim with me for the salvation of mankind. You will be another Christ. Identified with me, you will be my other self. That is the union with me that the greatest saints achieved.

That is the union with me that I have destined for you.

Posted in Book Recommendations, Jesus | Tagged Being a saint, Clarence J. Enzler, goodness, Happiness, Holiness, My Other Self | Leave a Comment »

On John Dominic Crossan — Rev. Robert Barron

March 9, 2012

The Rev. Robert Barron, a priest of the Archdiocese of Chicago, is founder of WordOnFire.org and host of the Catholicism Project. He is the Francis Cardinal George Professor of Faith and Culture at Mundelein Seminary. This was buried in a CNN religion blog website.

I confess that I was a little surprised when I visited the CNN website and found a feature on John Dominic Crossan, the controversial scholar of the historical Jesus. I was surprised, not so much that Crossan was being profiled, but that the article was not appearing at Christmas or Easter or on the occasion of a papal visit. Dr. Crossan, you see, is a favorite of the mainstream media, who never seem to miss an opportunity to try to debunk classical Christianity, especially on major Christian holidays.

Crossan was a Catholic priest who left the priesthood in the late 1960s, finding that he was unable to hold to orthodox Christian beliefs concerning the divinity of Jesus. He gave himself to the study of 1st century Jewish culture and to the discovery of who Jesus “really” was, once the veneer of traditional dogma had been scraped away.

Throughout the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s of the last century, Crossan published a whole series of books and articles laying out his vision of Jesus as a “Mediterranean peasant” who had the temerity to challenge the Roman power structure, to advocate the concerns of the poor, and to show the power of the path of non-violence.

Now Crossan is a graceful writer and a careful scholar, and I’ll acknowledge gratefully that I’ve learned a great deal from him. His emphasis on Jesus’ “open table fellowship” and his readings of Jesus’ parables as subversive stories are both, I think, right on target. The problem is that he so consistently reads Jesus through a conventional political lens that effectively reduces him to the level of social reformer.

How does Crossan explain the accounts of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead? They are, he says, essentially “parables,” figurative representations of the disciples’ conviction that Jesus’ way was more powerful than the Roman way. They were never meant to be taken literally but rather as poetic inspirations for the succeeding generations of Jesus’ followers. How does he explain the church’s dogma of Jesus’ divinity? It is, essentially, a misleading overlay that effectively obscures the dangerous truth of who Jesus really was: a threat to the cultural, religious, and political status quo.

Skilled at translating academic debates into relatively accessible language and blessed with a charming Irish brogue, Crossan became a favorite of television producers and documentarians. On numerous programs and specials, Crossan has popularized his reductionistic vision of Jesus and has succeeded in convincing many that orthodox Christology is appealing only to those who haven’t taken the time to think through the historical evidence clearly. Time and again, he has argued that his version of Christianity is for those who haven’t “left their brains at the door.”

The little problem, of course, is that Crossan is compelled to ignore huge swaths of the New Testament in order to maintain his interpretation. All of the evangelists indeed present Jesus as a dangerous, even subversive figure, a threat to the conventional Jewish and Roman ways of organizing things, but they are much more interested in the utterly revolutionary fact that Jesus is the Son of God.

They assert that he is Lord of the Sabbath and that he is greater than the Temple; they show him as claiming authority over the Torah itself; they relate stories of his blithely forgiving sins; they report his breathtaking words, “unless you love me more than your mother or father … more than your very life, you are not worthy of me;” they consistently show him as the master of the forces of nature. The only one who could legitimately say or effectively do any of these would be the one who is himself divine.

St. John gives explicit and philosophically precise expression to this conviction when he says, in regard to Jesus, “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” To maintain that all of this is a distorting overlay is simply absurd and requires that one blind oneself to the deepest intention of the evangelists themselves.

And the theory that the resurrection is an imaginative construct gives every indication of having been formulated in a faculty lounge and, in fact, does violence to the spirit of the early Christianity. What one senses on practically every page of the New Testament is an excitement generated by something utterly new, strange, unprecedented.

When the first Christians proclaimed the Gospel, they didn’t say a word about Jesus’ preaching; what they talked about was his resurrection from the dead. Look through all of Paul’s letters, and you’ll find a few words about Jesus’ “philosophy,” but you’ll find, constantly, almost obsessively, reiterated the claim that God raised Jesus from death.

The great New Testament scholar N.T. Wright points out, moreover, that the very emergence of Christianity as a messianic movement is practically unintelligible, on historical grounds, apart from the reality of the resurrection. This is the case because one of the chief expectations of the Messiah was that he would conquer the enemies of Israel. Someone’s death at the hands of the Romans, therefore, would be the surest sign imaginable that that person was not the Messiah.

Yet the first believers announced, over and again, that Jesus is the Messiah of Israel: Jesus Christ simply means “Jesus the Messiah.” How could they possibly say this unless they were convinced that in some very real way Jesus had indeed proven more powerful than his Roman executioners?

This is where we see how untenable Crossan’s reading is. If Jesus did not rise from the dead, then his disciples had no business saying that he had conquered Rome or that his way was more powerful than the Roman way. In fact, one would be justified in maintaining just the opposite.

My hope is that careful students of the New Testament and of early Christianity will see that John Dominic Crossan’s painfully reductive reading is a distortion of who Jesus was and that classical orthodox Christianity tells the deepest truth about the one called “the Christ.”

Posted in Fr. Robert Barron, Jesus, The State of the Catholic Church | Tagged Jesus as social reformer, John Dominic Crossan, the Historical Jesus, the resurrection as imaginative construct | 2 Comments »

The Prayer of Jesus: Jesus’ Prayer on the Mount of Olives in the Letter to the Hebrews – Pope Benedict XVI

January 24, 2012

William Blake, The Agony in the Garden, circa 1799-1800

We must turn our attention to the passage from the Letter to the Hebrews that points toward the Mount of Olives. There we read: “In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to him who was able to save him from death, and lip was heard for his godly fear” (5:7). Here we may identify an independent tradition concerning the Gethsemane event, for there is no mention of loud cries or tears in the gospels.

We have to admit that the author of the Letter is clearly not referring exclusively to the night in Gethsemane, but has’ in mind the whole of Jesus’ via dolorosa right up to the crucifixion, that is to say, to the moment when, according to Matthew and Mark, Jesus “cried out with a loud voice” the opening words of Psalm 22; these two evangelists also tell us that Jesus expired with is loud cry; Matthew expressly uses the word “cried” at this point, meaning “cry out” (cf. 27:50). John speaks of Jesus’ tears at the death of Lazarus, and this in the context of his being “troubled” in spirit — for which, as we have seen, John uses the word that was to reappear in the “Palm Sunday” passage corresponding to the Mount of Olives tradition.

Each time, it is a question of Jesus’ encounter with the powers of death, whose ultimate depths he as the Holy One of God can sense in their full horror. The Letter to the Hebrews views the whole of Jesus’ Passion — from the Mount of Olives to the last cry from the Cross — as thoroughly permeated by prayer, one long impassioned plea to God for life in the face of the power of death.

If the Letter to the Hebrews treats the entire Passion as a prayer in which Jesus wrestles with God the Father and at the same time with human nature, it also sheds new light on the theological depth of the Mount of Olives prayer. For these cries and pleas are seen as Jesus’ way of exercising his high priesthood. It is through his cries, his tears, and his prayers that Jesus does what the high priest is meant to do: he holds up to God the anguish of human existence. He brings man before God.

There are two particular words with which the author of the Letter to the Hebrews underlines this dimension of Jesus’ prayer. The verb “bring” (prospherein: bring before God, bear aloft — cf. Heb 5:1) comes from the language of the sacrificial cult. What Jesus does here lies right at the heart of what sacrifice is. “He offered himself to do the will of the Father”, as Albert Vanhoye comments (Let Us Confidently Welcome Christ Our High Priest, p. 60).

The second word that is important for our purposes tells us that through his sufferings Jesus learned obedience and was thus “made perfect” (Hebrews 5:8-9). Vanhoye points out that in the Pentateuch, the five books of Moses, the expression “make perfect” (teleioun) is used exclusively to mean “consecrate as priest” (p. 62). The Letter to the Hebrews takes over this terminology (cf. 711, 19, 28). So the passage in question tells us that Christ’s obedience, his final “yes” to the Father accomplished on the Mount of Olives, as it were, “consecrated him as a priest”; it tells us that precisely in this act of self giving, in this bearing-aloft of human existence to God, Christ truly became a priest “according to the order of Melchizedek” (Hebrews 5:9-10; cf. Vanhoye, pp. 61-62).

At this point, though, we must move on toward the heart of what the Letter to the Hebrews has to say concerning the prayer of the suffering Lord. The text states that Jesus pleaded with him who had the power to save him front death and that, on account of his godly fear (cf. 5:7), his prayer was granted. But was it granted? He still died on the Cross! For this reason Harnack maintained that the word “not” must have been omitted here, and Bultmann agrees. But an exegesis that turns a text into its opposite is no exegesis. Rather, we must attempt to understand this mysterious form of “granting” so as to come closer to grasping the mystery of our own salvation.

We may distinguish different aspects of this “granting”. One possible translation of the text would be: “He was heard and delivered from his fear.” This would correspond to Luke’s account, which says that an angel came and comforted him (cf. 22:43). It would then refer to the inner strength given to Jesus through prayer, so that he was able to endure the arrest and the Passion resolutely. Yet the text obviously says more: the Father raised him from the night of death and, through the Resurrection, saved him definitively and permanently from death: Jesus dies no more (cf. Vanhoye, Let Us Confidently Welcome Christ Our High Priest, p. 60). Yet surely the text means even more: the Resurrection is not just Jesus’ personal rescue from death. He did not die for himself alone. His was dying “for others”; it was the conquest of death itself.

Hence this “granting” may also be understood in terms of the parallel text in John 12:27-28, where in answer to Jesus’ prayer: “Father, glorify your name!” a voice from heaven replies: “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again. The Cross itself has become God’s glorification, the glory of God made manifest in the love of the Son. This glory extends beyond the moment into the whole weep of history. This glory is life. It is on the Cross that we see it, hidden yet powerful: the glory of God, the transformation of death into life.

From the Cross, new life comes to us. On the Cross, Jesus becomes the source of life for himself and for all. On the Cross, death is conquered. The granting of Jesus’ prayer concerns all mankind: his obedience becomes life for all. This conclusion is spelled out for us in the closing words of the passage we have been studying: “He became the source of eternal salvation to all who obey him, being designated by God a high priest according to the order of Melchizedek” (Hebrews 5:9-10; cf Psalm 110:4).

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The Prayer of Jesus: Jesus’ Will and the Will of the Father – Pope Benedict XVI

January 23, 2012

Giovanni Bellini, Le Christ Benissant, 1465 – 1470, at the Louvre in Paris

What does this mean? What is “my” will as opposed to “your” will? Who is speaking to whom? Is it the Son addressing the Father? Or the man Jesus addressing the triune God? Nowhere else in sacred Scripture do we gain t deep an insight into the inner mystery of Jesus as in the laver on the Mount of Olives. So it is no coincidence it the early Church’s efforts to arrive at an understand of the figure of Jesus Christ took their final shape as a result of faith-filled reflection on his prayer on the Mount of Olives.

At this point we should undertake a rapid overview of the early Church’s Christology, in order to grasp its understanding of the interrelation between the divine will and the human will in the figure of Jesus Christ. The Council of Nicea (325) had clarified the Christian concept of God. The three persons — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — are one, in the one “substance” of God. More than a century later, the Council of Chalcedon (451) sought to articulate the relation between divinity and humanity in Jesus Christ by adopting the formula that the one person of the Son of God embraces and bears the two natures — human and divine — “without confusion and without separation”.

Thus the infinite difference between God and man, between Creator and creature is preserved: humanity remains humanity, divinity remains divinity. Jesus’ humanity is neither absorbed nor reduced by his divinity. It exists in its fullness, while subsisting in the divine person of the Logos. At the same time, in the continuing distinction of natures, the expression “one person” conveys the radical unity that God in Christ has entered into with man. The formula of Pope Leo the Great — two natures, one person — expresses an insight that transcended by fit the historical moment, and for that reason it was enthusiastically accepted by the Council Fathers.

Yet it was ahead of its time: its concrete meaning had not yet been fully set forth. What is meant by “nature”? But more importantly, what is meant by “person”? Since this was by no means clear, many bishops after Chalcedon said that they would rather think like fishermen than like Aristotle. The formula remained obscure. Therefore the reception of Chalcedon was an extremely complex process, and fierce battles were fought over it.

In the end it led to division: only the Churches of Rome and Byzantium definitively accepted the Council and its formula. Alexandria in Egypt preferred to remain with the formula of “one divinized nature” (monophysitism); while farther east, Syria remained skeptical about the notion of one person, as it appeared to . compromise Jesus’ true humanity (Nestorianism). It was not simply ideas that were at issue here: more significantly, contrasting forms of devotion burdened the debate with the weight of religious sensibilities, rendering it insoluble.

The Ecumenical Council of Chalcedon continues to indicate, to the Church of all ages, the necessary pathway into the mystery of Jesus Christ. That said, it has t be appropriated anew in the context of contemporary thought, since the concepts of “nature” and “person” have acquired quite different meanings from those they had at the time. This task of reappropriation must go hand to hand with ecumenical dialogue with the pre-Chalcedonian Churches, so that our lost unity may be regained in the core of our faith — in our confession of the God who became man in Jesus Christ.

The great battle that was fought after Chalcedon, especially in the Byzantine East, was essentially concerned with the question: If there is only one divine person in Jesus, embracing both natures, then what is the status of his human nature? If it subsists within the one divine person, can it be said to have any real, specific existence in itself? Must it not inevitably be absorbed by the divine, at least at its highest point, the will?

This leads us to the last of the great Christological heresies, known as ” monotheletism”. There can be only one will within the unity of a person, its adherents maintained; a person with two wills would be schizophrenic: ultimately it is in the will that a person manifests himself, and where there is only one person, then ultimately there can be only one will. Yet an objection comes to mind: What kind of man has no human will? Is a man without a will really a man? Did God in Jesus truly become man, if this man had no will?

The great Byzantine theologian Maximus the Confessor (d. 662) formulated an answer to this question by struggling to understand Jesus’ prayer on the Mount of Olives. Maximus is first and foremost a determined opponent of monotheletism: Jesus’ human nature is not amputated through union with the Logos; it remains complete. And the will is part of human nature. This irreducible duality of human and divine willing in Jesus must not, however, be understood to imply the schizophrenia of a dual personality.

Nature and person must be seen in the mode of existence proper to each. In other words: in Jesus the “natural will” of the human nature is present, but there is only one “personal will”, which draws the “natural will” into itself. And this is possible without annihilating the specifically human element, because the human will, as created by God, is ordered to the divine will. In becoming attuned to the divine will. it experiences its fulfillment, not its annihilation.

Maximus says in this regard that the human will, by virtue of creation tends toward synergy (working together) with the divine will, but that through sin, opposition takes the place of synergy: man, whose will attains fulfillment through becoming attuned to God’s will, now has the sense that his freedom is compromised by God’s will. He regards consenting to God’s will, not as his opportunity to become fully himself, but as a threat to his freedom against which he rebels.

The drama of the Mount of Olives lies in the fact that Jesus draws man’s natural will away from opposition and back toward synergy, and in so doing he restores man’s true greatness. In Jesus’ natural human will, the sum total of human nature’s resistance to God is, as it were, present within Jesus himself. The obstinacy of us all, the whole of our opposition to God is present, and in his struggle, Jesus elevates our recalcitrant nature to become its real self.

Christoph Schonborn says in this regard that “the transition between the two wills from opposition to union is accomplished through the sacrifice of obedience. In the agony of Gethsemane, this transition occurs” (God’s Human Face, pp. 126-27). Thus the prayer “not my will, but yours” (Luke 22:42) is truly the Son’s prayer to the Father, through which the natural human will is completely subsumed into the “I” of the Son. Indeed, the Son’s whole being is expressed in the “not I, but you” — in the total self-abandonment of the “I” to the “you” of God the Father. This same “I” has subsumed and transformed humanity’s resistance, so that we are all now present within the Son’s obedience; we are all drawn into sonship.

This brings us to one final point regarding Jesus’ prayer, to its actual interpretative key, namely, the form of address: “Abba, Father” (Mk 14:36). In 1966 Joachim Jeremias wrote an important article about the use of this term in Jesus’ prayer, from which I should like to quote two essential insights: “Whereas there is not a single instance of God being addressed as Abba in the literature of Jewish prayer, Jesus always addressed him in this way (with the exception of the cry from the Cross, Mark 15:34 and parallel passages). So we have here a quite unmistakable characteristic of the ipsissima vox Jesu (Abba, p. 5).

Moreover, Jeremias shows that this word Abba belongs to the language of children — that it is the way a child addresses his father within the family. “To the Jewish mind it would have been disrespectful and therefore inconceivable to address God with this familiar word. For Jesus to venture to take this step was something new and unheard of. He spoke to God like a child to his father … Jesus’ use of Abba in addressing God reveals the heart of his relationship with God” (p. 62). It is therefore quite mistaken on the part of some theologians to suggest that the man Jesus was addressing the Trinitarian God in the prayer on the Mount of Olives. No, it is the Son speaking here, having subsumed the fullness of man’s will into himself and transformed it into the will of the Son.

Posted in Jesus, Pope Benedict XVI | Tagged Christoph Schonborn, Early Church Christology, ipsissima vox Jesu, Jesus' Humanity, Jesus' use of Abba, Jesus' Will, Maximus the Confessor, Monophysitism, Monotheletism, Nestorianism, The Will of the Father | Leave a Comment »

The Prayer Of Jesus: The Prayer On The Mount Of Olives – Pope Benedict XVI

January 20, 2012

Christ in Gethsemane by Heinrich Ferdinand Hofmann, 1890

The prayer on the Mount of Olives, which follows next, has come down to us in five versions: first, there are the accounts in the three Synoptic Gospels (Matthew 26:36-46; Mark 14:32-42; Luke 22:39-46); then there is a short text in the Fourth Gospel that John places among the collection of Jesus’ sayings in the Temple on “Palm Sunday” (12:27 28); and finally there is one based on a separate tradition in the Letter to the Hebrews (5:7-10). Let us now attempt, by examining these texts together, to approach as close as we can to the mystery of this hour of Jesus.

After the common recitation of the psalms, Jesus prays alone — as on so many previous nights. Yet close by is the group of three disciples — Peter, James, and John: a trio known to us from other contexts, especially from the account of the Transfiguration. These three disciples, even though they are repeatedly overcome by sleep, are the witnesses of Jesus’ night of anguish. Mark tells us that Jesus “began to be greatly distressed and troubled”. The Lord says to his disciples: “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch” (14:33-34).

The summons to vigilance has already been a major theme of Jesus’ Jerusalem teaching, and now it emerges directly with great urgency. And yet, while it refers specifically to Gethsemane, it also points ahead to the later history of Christianity. Across the centuries, it is the drowsiness of the disciples that opens up possibilities for the power of the Evil One. Such drowsiness deadens the soul, so that it remains undisturbed by the power of the Evil One at work in the world and by all the injustice and suffering ravaging the earth.

In its state of numbness, the soul prefers not to see all this; it is easily persuaded that things cannot be so bad, so as to continue in the self satisfaction of its own comfortable existence. Yet this deadening of souls, this lack of vigilance regarding both God’s closeness and the looming forces of darkness, is what gives the Evil One power in the world. On beholding the drowsy disciples, so disinclined to rouse themselves, the Lord says: “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death.” This is a quotation from Psalm 43:5, and it calls to mind other verses from the Psalms.

In the Passion, too — on the Mount of Olives and on the Cross Jesus uses passages from the Psalms to speak of himself and to address the Father. Yet these quotations have become fully personal; they have become the intimate words of Jesus himself in his agony. It is he who truly prays these psalms; he is their real subject. Jesus’ utterly personal prayer and his praying in the words of faithful, suffering Israel are here seamlessly united.

After this admonition to vigilance, Jesus goes a short distance away. This is where the prayer on the Mount of Olives actually begins. Matthew and Mark tell us that Jesus falls on his face — the prayer posture of extreme submission to the will of God, of radical self-offering to him. In the Western liturgy, this posture is still adopted on Good Friday, at monastic professions, and at ordinations.

Luke, however, has Jesus kneeling to pray. In terms of praying posture, then, he draws Jesus’ night of anguish into the context of the history of Christian prayer: Stephen sinks to his knees in prayer as he is being stoned (Acts 7:6o); Peter kneels before he wakes Tabitha from death (Acts 9:40); Paul kneels to bid farewell to the Ephesian elders (Acts 20:36) and again when the disciples tell him not to go up to Jerusalem (Acts 21:5). Alois Stöger says on this subject: “When they were confronted with the power of death, they all prayed kneeling down. Martyrdom can be overcome only by prayer. Jesus is the model of martyrs” (The Gospel according to Saint Luke II, p. 199).

There now follows the prayer itself, in which the whole drama of our redemption is made present. In Mark’s account, Jesus begins by asking that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him (14:35). This is then filled out by a statement of the essential content of the prayer: “Abba, Father, all things are possible to you; remove this chalice from me; yet not what I will, but what you will” (14:36).

We may distinguish three elements in this prayer of Jesus. First there is the primordial experience of fear, quaking, in the face of the power of death, terror before the abyss of nothingness that makes him tremble to the point that, in Luke’s account, his sweat falls to the ground like drops of blood (cf. 22:44). In the equivalent passage in Saint John’s Gospel (12:27), this horror is expressed, as in the Synoptics, in terms reminiscent of Psalm 43:5, but using a word that emphasizes the dark depths of Jesus’ fear: tetáraktai – is the same verb, tarássein, that John uses to describe Jesus’ deep emotion at the tomb of Lazarus (cf. 11:33) as well as his inner turmoil at the prophecy of Judas’ betrayal in the Upper Room (cf. 13:21).

In this way John is clearly indicating the primordial fear of created nature in the face of imminent death, and yet there is more: the particular horror felt by him who is Life itself before the abyss of the full power of destruction, evil, and enmity with God that is now unleashed upon him, that he now takes directly upon himself, or rather into himself, to the point that he is “made to be sin” (cf. 3 Corinthians 5:21).

Because he is the Son, he sees with total clarity the whole foul flood of evil, all the power of lies and pride, all the wiles and cruelty of the evil that masks itself as life yet constantly serves to destroy, debase, and crush life. Because he is the Son, he experiences deeply all the horror, filth, and baseness that he must drink from the “chalice” prepared for him: the vast power of sin and death. All this he must take into himself, so that it can be disarmed and defeated in him.

As Bultmann rightly observes: Jesus here is “not simply the prototype, in whom the behavior demanded of man becomes visible in an exemplary manner … he is also and above all the Revealer, whose decision alone makes possible in such an hour the human decision for God” (The Gospel of John, p. 428). Jesus’ fear is far more radical than the fear that everyone experiences in the face of death: it is the collision between light and darkness, between life and death itself — the critical moment of decision in human history. With this understanding, following Pascal, we may see ourselves drawn quite personally into the episode on the Mount of Olives: my own sin was present in that terrifying chalice. “Those drops of blood I shed for you”, Pascal hears the Lord say to him during the agony on the Mount of Olives (cf. Pensées VII, 553).

The two parts of Jesus’ prayer are presented as the confrontation between two wills: there is the “natural will” of the man Jesus, which resists the appalling destructiveness of what is happening and wants to plead that the chalice pass from him; and there is the “filial will” that abandons itself totally to the Father’s will. In order to understand this mystery of the “two wills” as much as possible, it is helpful to take a look at John’s version of the prayer. Here, too, we find the same two prayers on Jesus’ lips: “Father, save me from this hour … Father, glorify your name” (John 12:27-28).

The relationship between these two prayers in John’s account is essentially no different from what we find in the Synoptics. The anguish of Jesus’ human soul (“I am troubled”; Bultmann translates it as: “I am afraid”, p. 427) impels him to pray for deliverance from this hour. Yet his awareness of his mission, his knowledge that it was for this hour that he came, enables him to utter the second prayer — the prayer that God glorify his name: it is Jesus’ acceptance of the horror of the Cross, his ignominious experience of being stripped of all dignity and suffering a shameful death, that becomes the glorification of God’s name.

For in this way, God is manifested as he really is: the God who, in the unfathomable depth of his self-giving love, sets the true power of good against all the power of evil. Jesus uttered both prayers, but the first one, asking for deliverance, merges into the second one, asking for God to be glorified by the fulfillment of his will — and so the conflicting elements blend into unity deep within the heart of Jesus’ human existence.

Posted in Jesus, Pope Benedict XVI | Tagged praying posture, The Prayer On The Mount Of Olives, The summons to vigilance, Those drops of blood I shed for you, three elements in this prayer of Jesus | Leave a Comment »

The Nature of Jesus’ Resurrection and Its Historical Significance – Pope Benedict XVI

January 16, 2012

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas is a painting of the subject of the same name by the Italian Baroque master Caravaggio, c. 1601-1602. It is housed in the Sanssouci of Potsdam, Germany. Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus (at the National Gallery in London) graces all our pages where the world these apostles knew, like ours, is analogous to the basket of food and teeters perilously over the edge.

Let us ask once more, by way of summary, what it was like to encounter the risen Lord. The following distinctions are important:

Jesus did not simply return to normal biological life as one who, by the laws of biology, would eventually have to die again.
Jesus is not a ghost (“spirit”). In other words, he does not belong to the realm of the dead but is somehow able to reveal himself in the realm of the living.
Nevertheless, the encounters with the risen Lord are not the same as mystical experiences, in which the human spirit is momentarily drawn aloft out of itself and perceives the realm of the divine and eternal, only to return then to the normal horizon of its existence. Mystical experience is a temporary removal of the soul’s spatial and cognitive limitations. But it is not an encounter with a person coming toward me from without. Saint Paul clearly distinguished his mystical experiences, such as his elevation to the third heaven described in 2 Corinthians 12:1-4, from his encounter with the risen Lord on the road to Damascus, which was a historical event — an encounter with a living person.

On the basis of all this biblical evidence, what are we now in a position to say about the true nature of Christ’s Resurrection?

It is a historical event that nevertheless bursts open the dimensions of history and transcends it. Perhaps we may draw upon analogical language here, inadequate in many ways, yet still able to open up a path toward understanding: we could regard the Resurrection as something, akin to a radical “evolutionary leap”, in which a new dimension of life emerges, a new dimension of human existence.

Indeed, matter itself is remolded into a new type of reality. The man Jesus, complete with his body, now belong totally to the sphere of the divine and eternal. From now on, as Tertullian once said, “spirit and blood” have a place within God (cf. De Resurrect. Mort. 51:3, CCSL, II 994) Even if man by his nature is created for immortality, it is only now that the place exists in which his immortal soul can find its “space”, its “bodiliness”, in which immortality takes on its meaning as communion with God and with the whole of reconciled mankind.

This is what is meant by those passages in Saint Paul’s prison letters (cf Colossians 1:12-23 and Ephesians 1:3-23) that speak of the cosmic, body of Christ, indicating thereby that Christ’s transformed body is also the place where men enter into communion with God and with one another and are thus all, to live definitively in the fullness of indestructible life. Since we ourselves have no experience of such a renewed and transformed type of matter, or such a renewed and transformed kind of life, it is not surprising that it over steps the boundaries of what we are able to conceive.

Essential, then, is the fact that Jesus’ Resurrection was not just about some deceased individual coming back to life at a certain point, but that an ontological leap occurred, one that touches being as such, opening up a dimension that affects us all, creating for all of us a new space of life, a new space of being in union with God.

It is in these terms that the question of the historicity of the Resurrection should be addressed. On the one hand, we must acknowledge that it is of the essence of the Resurrection precisely to burst open history and usher in a new dimension commonly described as eschatological. The Resurrection opens up the new space that transcends history and creates the definitive. In this sense, it follows that Resurrection is not the same kind of historical event as the birth or crucifixion of Jesus. It is something new, a new type of event.

Yet at the same time it must be understood that the Resurrection does not simply stand outside or above history. As something that breaks out of history and transcends it, the Resurrection nevertheless has its origin within history and up to a certain point still belongs there. Perhaps we could put it this way: Jesus’ Resurrection points beyond history but has left a footprint within history. Therefore it can be attested by witnesses as an event of an entirely new kind.

Indeed, the apostolic preaching with all its boldness and passion would be unthinkable unless the witnesses had experienced a real encounter, coming to them from outside, with something entirely new and unforeseen, namely, the self-revelation and verbal communication of the risen Christ. Only a real event of a radically new quality could possibly have given rise to the apostolic preaching, which cannot be explained on the basis of speculations or inner, mystical experiences. In all its boldness and originality, it draws life from the impact of an event that no one had invented, an event that surpassed all that could be imagined.

To conclude, all of us are constantly inclined to ask the question that Saint Jude Thaddaeus put to Jesus during the Last Supper: “Lord, how is it that you will manifest yourself to us, and not to the world?” (John 14:22). Why, indeed, did you not forcefully resist your enemies who brought you to the Cross? — we might well ask. Why did you not show them with incontrovertible power that you are the living one, the Lord of life and death? Why did you reveal yourself only to a small flock of disciples, upon whose testimony we must now rely?

The question applies not only to the Resurrection, but to the whole manner of God’s revelation in the world. Why only to Abraham and not to the mighty of the world? Why only to Israel and not irrefutably to all the peoples of the earth?

It is part of the mystery of God that he acts so gently, that he only gradually builds up his history within the great history of mankind; that he becomes man and so can be overlooked by his contemporaries and by the decisive forces within history; that he suffers and dies and that, having risen again, he chooses to come to mankind only through the faith of the disciples to whom he reveals himself; that he continues to knock gently at the doors of our hearts and slowly opens our eyes if we open our doors to him.

And yet — is not this the truly divine way? Not to overwhelm with external power, but to give freedom, to offer and elicit love. And if we really think about it, is it not what seems so small that is truly great? Does not a ray of light issue from Jesus, growing brighter across the centuries, that could not come from any mere man and through which the light of God truly shines into the world? Could the apostolic preaching have found faith and built up a worldwide community unless the power of truth had been at work within it?

If we attend to the witnesses with listening hearts and open ourselves to the signs by which the Lord again and again authenticates both them and himself, then we know that he is truly risen. He is alive. Let us entrust ourselves to him, knowing that we are on the right path. With Thomas let us place our hands into Jesus’ pierced side and confess: “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28).

Posted in Jesus, Pope Benedict XVI, The Resurrection | Tagged an ontological leap, Nature of Jesus' Resurrection, the dimensions of history, the manner of God's revelation in the world, the nature of historical event | Leave a Comment »

The Meaning of Jesus’ Death, Resurrection and Ascension in the Gospel of Luke — Mark Allan Powell

January 11, 2012

The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs, about 1423-4, Fra Angelico. From the predella of the "Fiesole Altarpiece". The central panel of the predella is "Christ glorified in the court of Heaven".

In the previous post, all of the models discussed focus primarily on the meaning of Jesus’ life as reported in the Gospel of Luke. There has been less scholarly discussion as to the meaning of Jesus’ death. Indeed, a recent book entitled The Death of Jesus in Luke-Acts states that Luke “seems uninterested in piercing through to an understanding of the theological reason for the death or in analyzing what it was intended to accomplish.”‘ This is quite a contrast from the approach of writers like Mark and Paul, for whom Jesus’ death on the cross is the starting point for theological reflection.

Luke’s apparent disinterest in the cross can be seen in the fact that he links God’s gift of salvation variously to Jesus’ birth (2:11), his life and ministry (19:9-10), and his exaltation (Acts 5:3 1), but never to his death. The missionary speeches in Acts seem to treat Jesus’ death not as the accomplishment of salvation but as a potential obstacle to its accomplishment that is subsequently overcome. Luke omits Jesus’ reference to giving his life as “a ransom for many” (22:25-27; cf. Mark 10:42-45). Nevertheless, he insists that Jesus’ death is necessary, that it is part of God’s plan (9:22, 44; 24:7, 26, 44). What, then, does it mean?

Some scholars have suggested that, while Jesus’ death does not have soteriological significance for Luke, it is important for other reasons. For one thing, it serves a moral purpose, portraying Jesus as the exemplary martyr whom persecuted Christians should imitate.

In addition, it is inspirational, intended to evoke sympathy for the suffering Christ and facilitate conversion to his cause.” Evidence for the first view is drawn from the observation that Jesus’ passion serves as a model for the story of Stephen’s martyrdom in Acts. The second point is substantiated by Luke’s unique report that those who witnessed the crucifixion were so moved that they returned home beating their breasts in repentance (23:48).

Recently, there have been attempts to show that Jesus’ death does have salvific value in Luke’s Gospel, even though it is not conceived of as an expiation for sin. Two different models have been tried, one that views martyrdom itself as redemptive, and another that interprets Jesus’ death in Luke as the foiled temptation of a “new Adam.”

It is taken for granted that Luke presents Jesus’ death as a pious martyrdom. Some scholars have pointed out, however, that in the Judaism of Luke’s day, a martyr’s death could be considered redemptive. The martyr dies for the sake of others and makes it easier for them to follow where he has gone. Robert Karris has taken up this theme afresh in Luke: Artist and Theologian. According to Luke, only God can save from sin and death, but God uses the death of the innocent Jesus to do so. Jesus’ passion presents a “double test case” for the integrity of Jesus, the persecuted one, and for the fidelity of God.

By remaining faithful in death, Jesus demonstrates his righteousness and awakens faith in those who see him as the innocent suffering righteous one (23:40-42, 47-48). God demonstrates his fidelity by raising Jesus, who typifies God’s creation held in the power of sin and death. It is ultimately the faithfulness of God that is the basis of salvation for Luke, and Jesus, as a “model of faith,” opens the way to trust in this faithfulness.

Jerome Neyrey also believes the faith of Jesus is the key to understanding the meaning of his death in Luke, but he emphasizes that this faith serves as more than just a model of trust. In his study of The Passion According to Luke, Neyrey proposes that Luke ascribes soteriological significance to the faith and obedience of Jesus through an implicit presentation of Jesus as the “new Adam.” The view that Jesus abrogates the effects of the first Adam’s sin and implements a new creation is found in the writings of Paul and in the letter to the Hebrews. In both cases, emphasis is given to the obedience, faith and righteousness of Jesus. These same themes prevail in Luke’s presentation of the passion (22:42; 23:46-47).

Luke presents Jesus as the new Adam in that he is the founder of a new period of history. This is brought out in the juxtaposition of the baptism and the genealogy pen-copes, which identify, respectively, both Jesus and Adam as God’s sons (3:22, 38). Adam, however, is not ultimately known as God’s son because of his sin and disobedience, and so the appropriateness of this term for Jesus must also be tested. Like Adam, Jesus is tempted by Satan, in the wilderness (4:1-13), in the garden of Gethsemane (22:39-46), and finally on the cross (23:32-49), but, unlike Adam, Jesus remains obedient (22:42) and faithful (23:46). Accordingly, the realm of paradise that was closed after Adam’s sin is now reopened and Jesus is able to promise repentant sinners that they will have a place there (23:43).

Neyrey, then, believes that Jesus’ death does have soteriological significance for Luke even though he does not present it as an expiation, a ransom, or a sacrifice for sins. Jesus’ acceptance of death in faith and in obedience to God’s will is the culmination of a radical holiness that has characterized his entire life. As the new Adam who does not succumb to temptation, Jesus initiates a new period of history: a time of salvation that may be described as the end of Satan’s reign (10: 18) and the inauguration of God’s reign (11:20-22). This is why, in the book of Acts, he can be referred to as the unique source of life, holiness, and salvation (3:15; 4:12; 5:31).

The Meaning of Jesus’ Resurrection and Ascension
Richard Dillon has contributed a major study of Luke’s resurrection account titled From Eye-Witnesses to Ministers of the Word. After an exhaustive investigation of the traditions behind Luke’s resurrection narrative, Dillon forms conclusions based on the evangelist’s redactional activity. Basically, Dillon finds that the evangelist has combined sayings and narrative material to form a unified composition that emphasizes the importance of the resurrection for church mission.

Luke presents the risen Jesus as instructing his followers in a way that dispels their confusion and blindness and brings them to Easter faith. There are two significant points here. First, it is not the historical facts of the empty tomb or the resurrection appearances that bring about this faith, but the words of the risen Jesus. Second, the lifting of the veil is experienced as a pure gift made possible by the teaching and activity of the risen Lord.

Accordingly, Dillon takes issue with those who think Luke’s main interest is to ensure the historicity of the resurrection and to establish the apostles as guarantors of the historical fact. Rather, Luke makes it clear that the facts are incomprehensible even to these eyewitnesses until the Lord’s revealing word transforms them. As such, they will witness primarily to an Easter faith that proclaims the pure gift of God. Just as the revelation comes to them sola gratia, so the content of that revelation is a message of divine grace and forgiveness. The resurrection of Jesus not only undoes the work of those who rejected him but also facilitates the declaration that they are forgiven.

Jesus tells his disciples that it was necessary for the Christ to die and be raised so that “repentance and forgiveness of sins might be preached in his name” (24:47). In this way, the instruction of the risen Lord reveals the positive value not only of the resurrection but also of the passion. For Luke, the traditions of the rejection and murder of Jesus display not the irredeemable perversity of humanity but the invincible persistence of divine forgiveness. Before the resurrection, Jesus’ disciples were completely in the dark as to the meaning of his passion predictions (9:45: 18:34). In the Easter stories, however, they come to understand what only the risen Christ could reveal: where human failure is total, God rules most powerfully.

What is disclosed to the disciples through divine revelation will be the hallmark of the church’s mission. God responds to human rebellion with renewed grace and continues to offer forgiveness even to those who reject the harbingers of forgiveness. Luke’s story of Jesus’ resurrection shows the divine purpose most triumphant at the very point where people’s rejection is most dramatic.

Luke, however, does not conclude his Gospel with stories of the resurrection, but, rather, with a story of Jesus’ ascension. Gerhard Lohfink, in his monograph, Die Himninelfahrt Jesit identifies this story as expressive of a tradition that is uniquely Lukan.22 Although some New Testament passages apparently assume the idea of an ascension (John 6:62; 20:17; Eph 4:8-10; 1 Tim 3:16), it is only Luke who reports the event, and he gives two separate descriptions at that! (Cf. 24:50-53; Acts 1:6-11.) Lohfink also observes that, contrary to the other Gospel writers, Luke consistently records the departures of angels and other heavenly personages (1:38; 2:15; 9:33; Acts 10:7; 12:10; cf. Luke 24:3 1). Accordingly, he feels compelled to recount the departure of the risen Lord rather than simply closing with the latter’s final words (cf. Matthew28:20).

Luke’s motive for reporting the ascension as an observable event may be attributed, in part, to his interest in history, and, more precisely, to his concept of salvation history. A visible ascension appeals to him because, as a historian, he wants to concretize events that otherwise could become subject to cosmic speculations. By fixing the ascension as an event in space and time, furthermore, he integrates the traditional theme of Christ’s elevation into his particular scheme of salvation history. For Luke, the ascension marks the end of one era and the beginning of another. Henceforth, Jesus will be absent, or, at least, he will not be present in the same way that he was before. The two accounts of the ascension in Luke and Acts separate the time of Jesus and the time of the Church.

A recent study by Mikeal Parsons reinforces many of Lohfink’s insights from the perspective of “narrative criticism.” In The Departure of Jesus in Luke-Acts, Parsons illustrates how Luke uses traditional literary devices for “endings” and “beginnings” in his two accounts of the ascension. The version given at the end of his Gospel closes out the work by recalling elements mentioned earlier and resolving major story lines. The mention of Jesus’ priestly blessing (cf. 1:23), the disciples’ return to Jerusalem (cf. 2:45), and their continuous blessing of God in the Temple (cf. 2:37) all make allusions to situations in the first part of the story.

Furthermore, the concluding reference to the disciples in the Temple provides a certain resolution to the conflict that has been developed with regard to that institution throughout the narrative: at the end of Luke’s story, the Temple is at last a “cleansed house” (cf. 19:45-48). When the resurrection and ascension stories in chapter 24 are taken together as a unit, such instances of “closure” are even more numerous, leading Parsons to believe that Luke intends them to be read as the dramatic conclusion to his work. The final image that he wishes to impress upon his readers is that of the disciples, despite the absence of their Lord, blessing God and obeying his commands with joy.

Parsons goes on to analyze the ascension narrative in Acts and finds that it serves the opposite literary purpose of opening rather than closing a work. In fact, the various discrepancies between Luke’s two accounts can be accounted for in terms of their literary function: one closes out the Gospel and the other opens the story of Acts.

It would seem, then, that Parsons confirms in his literary study what Lohfink held to be the theological significance of the two accounts: they separate the story of Jesus in the Gospel from that of the Church in Acts. In another sense, however, the two accounts may be considered a bridge between the two books. What Luke wants to emphasize is that the Church provides the ending to the story of Jesus, just as Jesus provides the beginning to the story of the Church. In the final analysis, the literary effect of beginning one book with the same incident that ended another ties the two works together and stresses the continuity rather than the distinctiveness of their contents.

In his study, Christ the Lord, Eric Franklin deals with still another aspect of the ascension in Luke, namely the apparent change of status it confers upon Jesus. Before this event, Jesus is presented primarily as one obedient to God, but, afterwards, he becomes himself the object of worship (24:52). In Acts, the disciples pray to him (7:59) and call upon his name (9:13-14). In one key passage, Peter even proclaims that it is through the exaltation that God has made Jesus Lord and Christ (2:32-36).

The change in status is only apparent, however, for Luke makes it clear that Jesus is both Lord and Christ from his birth (2:1 1). Furthermore, his subordination to the Father does not cease altogether after the exaltation (Acts 4:24-30). What the ascension signifies is the visible and concrete revelation of Jesus’ status. It is as much a transition in the apprehension of the disciples as in the career of Jesus, for it is not until this moment that understanding and joy come to them (24:52-53).

As such, the ascension account that ends Luke’s Gospel puts the whole volume into perspective and shows its significance. In his first book, Luke concentrates on presenting Jesus as the Christ, a role that is further defined in terms of the Old Testament concepts of “Prophet” and “Servant of God.” Like the disciples, however, Luke’s reader is compelled by the glorification of Jesus at the ascension to reconsider this presentation. It is then recognized that the life described is that of the one now known as “the Lord.” What Luke does in his Gospel, then, is present the earthly life of Jesus in such a way that it can be seen, in retrospect, to congeal with the more explicit Christology of Acts. Luke considers Jesus to be the ever-present, exalted Lord who is worshipped by the community. Accordingly, he tells the story of Jesus’ life as a movement toward exaltation and as a fitting prelude to the recognition and glorification that he now receives.

Salvation History and Eschatology
The question of the continuity between Luke’s story of Jesus and his story of the Church touches on what has been perhaps the most controversial issue in Lukan scholarship: Luke’s view of salvation history and eschatology.

As indicated in Chapter One of this book, Hans Conzelmann set the stage for much future discussion of Luke’s Gospel when he proposed that Luke divides history into three distinct periods: the time of Israel, the time of Jesus, and the time of the Church. The break between the first two periods is indicated in 16:16 when Jesus says, “The law and the prophets were until John; since then, the good news of the Kingdom of God is preached.” The break between the second and third periods is indicated by the division between the Gospel and Acts and by the latter’s unique description of a community that must persevere for an extended period of time in the absence of its Lord.

Conzelmann’s identification of the first break in time is generally recognized, although there has been much discussion as to whether Luke intends to place John the Baptist in the first or second period. The second break, however, is more debatable and the ramifications of its acceptance more momentous. By introducing the “time of the Church” as a major era of history and by placing Jesus in “the middle of time,” Luke, according to Conzelmann, accepts the delay of the parousia as inevitable and prepares his Church for the long haul. He sacrifices, however, something essential to the eschatological proclamation of the Gospel, namely, the present accessibility of salvation.

Conzelmann claims that, for Luke, salvation was available in the past and it will become available again in the distant future, but, for now, the Church survives on memories and promises. Luke “historicizes” the salvation brought by Christ; he is the only New Testament writer who features the historical Jesus as announcing, “Today salvation has come...” (19:9; cf. 2:11; 4:21; 22:43). But for Luke’s community, this “today” belongs to the past; it does not carry the immediacy of, say, Paul’s proclamation that “now is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2). For Luke, the time of salvation is not “now,” it is past, and its return at the end of time has been postponed indefinitely. In the meanwhile, the Church may be strengthened through the gift of the Holy Spirit, but it will also have to endure many trials (Acts 14:22).

Conzelmann’s thesis found initial wide acceptance and influenced the work of many. Gerhard Schneider wrote that Luke replaces the hope of an imminent parousia with an exhortation to always be ready. Jacques Dupont suggested that he substitutes for the ultimate hope an “individual eschatology,” by which salvation is received by the believer at the end of his or her earthly life. Gunter Klein observed that the effect of Luke’s enterprise is to make reception of salvation dependent upon communion with the sacred past, which is only accessible through legitimate tradition.;’ In one way or another, all these proposals are variations on the basic theme sounded by Conzelmann.

Helmut Flender, in his book St. Luke: Theologian of Redemptive History, proposes a somewhat different model. To understand Luke’s thinking aright it is necessary to realize that his scheme is influenced by a distinction between earthly and celestial modes of being. Salvation history and eschatology have a vertical as well as horizontal dimension, for the earthly and heavenly spheres exist concurrently. Basically, Luke understands things as working out according to the scheme described in Revelation 12: a victory in heaven first, and then the restoration of all things on earth. From Luke’s point of view, the first step is completed and the second is in the process of being fulfilled.

According to Flender, the ascension of Jesus should not be understood negatively, as a departure that precedes a period of absence, but positively, as the inauguration of his present reign. In fact, Luke has transferred many functions usually associated with Christ at his parousia to his exaltation, notably, the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. Observing that Daniel 7:13 did not originally refer to the Son of Man coming to earth but to his enthronement in heaven, Flender affirms that, for Luke, the ascension and the parousia are virtually identified. The day of the Son of Man’s revelation on earth (17:30) will be but one of the “days of the Son of Man” (17:22) that have already begun.

It has been said that Flender simply restates Luke’s predicament in spatial rather than temporal terms. Whereas Conzelmann sees salvation as removed to the past or future, Flender represents it as removed to the heavens.” He insists, however, that salvation remains perpetually present in a dialectical sense. Although Christians continue to live a historical existence, they are not caught in a dismal period of transition. Rather, they enjoy communion with the risen Christ and receive the Holy Spirit, which Flender considers much more than just a “substitute” for genuine salvation.

Accordingly, when Christian preachers tell potential converts that God will send Christ to them (Acts 3:20), they are in effect promising a personal parousia to all who repent. Similarly, Jesus’ words regarding the “today” of salvation are to be read existentially. Luke intends for his readers to hear the promises of fulfillment and salvation as applicable to their own “today” in a way that transcends the historical sense. The Church, then, shares in the basically changed situation brought about by Jesus while, at the same time, participating in the renewal of the world. This mission takes place under the direction of the heavenly Christ and the guidance of the Spirit. The message of a salvation already completed by Christ transforms the world in a way that prefigures the consummation of that salvation on earth.

Observations and Conclusions
Though many various ideas concerning Luke’s view of Jesus are presented in this chapter, the careful reader will have already noted points of convergence between them. It is widely recognized that the Gospel and Acts present different portraits of Jesus, but most scholars believe that the same Christology is behind them and that a reading of the second book is necessary to understand the first. Luke wants to present Jesus as the Messiah, but also as “more than the Messiah.”

Kingsbury, Bock, and Franklin all indicate ways in which he does this: by the use of confessional titles, Old Testament references, and the story of the ascension, Luke moves beyond reporting the bald facts of Jesus’ life to indicate more fully who he is. Similarly, the models from the ancient world that Luke uses to describe Jesus tell only part of the story. Jesus may be likened to the divine philosopher, the mythological immortal, or the Hellenistic benefactor, but, above all else, Luke wants to say that he is unique (Acts 4:12).

It can be said without question that Luke believes Jesus has brought the salvation of God, but just how that salvation was procured and how it is to be received is less certain. Part of the problem is that Luke himself uses cryptic speech, describing what Jesus “accomplished at Jerusalem” as his “exodus” (9:31) and as his “being taken up” (9:51). These expressions could refer to his crucifixion, his resurrection, his ascension, or, and this seems most likely, to all three.

Luke has been accused of harboring a “theology of glory” because he puts so little value on the death of Jesus. Though some would contest this outright, others say that what he really does is broaden the locus of salvation:35 Jesus brings salvation during his earthly life (19:9), in his death (23:43), and after his glorification (Acts 2:21, 38). The “message of salvation” (Acts 13:26) is understood in Luke’s day to include the entire contents of his first volume, that is, everything that Jesus did and taught from his birth through his ascension (Acts 1:1). It is only in this sense that one can understand the rather ambiguous promise, “Believe in the Lord Jesus and you will be saved” (Acts 16:31).

Obviously, salvation has a paradoxical quality for Luke. All scholars would agree that Luke sees conditions now as different from what they were before Jesus came. It is also agreed that he recognizes things are not yet what they shall be. The argument turns on which side of this paradox receives the emphasis: some view the evangelist as proclaiming the salvation that is already present, while others emphasize his struggle to come to grips with the reality of what is “not yet.”

As the leader of the latter camp. Conzelmann has had his day and his ideas continue to be influential. The increasing trend among scholars, however, is to do justice to the continuity that Luke sees between the time of Jesus and the time of the Church and to his recognition that salvation is a present reality for both eras. In fact, many are prepared to dispense with Conzelmann’s threefold scheme altogether and to speak only of two periods: a “time of promise” on the one hand, and a “time of fulfillment” or “time of salvation” on the other.

Posted in Jesus, The Gospel of Luke | Tagged Jesus and the first Adam, Jesus' ascension in Luke, Jesus' death serves a moral purpose, redemptive martyrdom, Salvation History and Eschatology in Luke | Leave a Comment »

Discipleship in Matthew – Jack Dean Kingsbury

January 6, 2012

Stained glass window of the Confession of Peter in Luke 9:20: "But who do you say that I am?" Peter answered: "The Christ of God,” Detail from stained glass in the church of St Mary and St Lambert in Stonham Aspal in Suffolk England.

I was collecting some biographical information on Jack Dean Kingsbury, who has been the author of this week’s posts on The Gospel of Matthew when I came across the fact that he had passed away in 2011. I first came to know Professor Kingsbury in a New Testament seminary course that featured his superior analysis of NT theology and Christology. Reciting the Benedictus, Venite a vedere this morning, I was struck by the following (said of John the Baptist) and how much it seemed to apply to a scholar like Jack Dean Kingsbury whose life was spent in the same ministry of giving light and guiding those of us in the darkness, preparing our hearts and illuminating the Gospels. God Bless you, Professor Kingsbury, your wisdom remains with us.

As for you, little child,
you shall be called a prophet of the Most High.
You shall go ahead of the Lord,
to prepare His ways before Him,
to make known to His people their salvation,
through forgiveness of all their sins.
The loving-kindness of the heart of our God,
who visits us like the dawn from on High.

He will give light to those in darkness
and those who live in the shadow of death,
and guide us into the way of peace.

****************************************************

Matthew affirms, as we mentioned above, that God is the Father of Jesus in a way that is not predicated of other human beings (11:27). Conversely, he insists that Jesus is the Son of God in a manner that is true of no one else (1:23; 3:17; 11:27).

When Jesus authoritatively summons persons to follow him and they obey his call (4:18-22; 9:9), Matthew pictures them as entering the sphere where God’s end-time rule already impinges upon the present order of things (5:3-11; 11:3-5; 12:28). Through Jesus, the Messiah Son of God, these persons enter into a relationship of sonship with God. So it is that Jesus designates them as “Sons of God” (5:9, 45; 13:38) and speaks to them of God as “your Father” (cf., e.g., 5:16, 45) .

Although Jesus and his disciples are active in the midst of Israel, Matthew marks them off more sharply as a separate group than either Mark or Luke. Jesus is “with them” and they are “with him,” and the rubric obtains: “He who is not with me is against me, and he who does not gather with me scatters” (12:30) . Consequently, Jesus and his disciples form a “family” that stands apart from the rest of Israel. In relation to himself, Jesus declares that his disciples are his true relatives (12:49) and his “brothers” (28:10). In relation to one another, he asserts that they, too, are “all brothers” (23:8). In one passage, Matthew has Jesus stress at once both his uniqueness in comparison with his disciples and his “relatedness” to them: “For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother, and sister, and mother” (12:50).

Accordingly, Jesus and the disciples comprise, in Matthew’s own terms, a brotherhood of the sons of God and of the disciples of Jesus. The very word “disciples” (mathetai) also characterizes Jesus’ followers as “learners.” Jesus is their “one teacher” and “Lord” (10:24; 23:8, 10), and they are his “slaves” who “learn from him” (10:24; 11:29; 13:36, 51-52). What he teaches them are the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven (13:11, 51). At times they stand in need of explanation from Jesus (13:36; 15:15) or they can be persons of “little faith” (6:30; 8:26; 14:31; 16:8). But basically, they do in fact comprehend his word (13:11, 23, 51-52; 15:15-16; 16:12; 26:2) .

They are not fettered with the gross ignorance that afflicts the disciples in Mark’s Gospel. Indeed, Matthew has so richly endowed the disciples of his story with insight that they have simply become representative of the Christians of his own church. If Matthew has made the figure of Jesus “transparent” to his own age, he has done the same with the disciples.

We noted that in calling disciples to follow him, Jesus mediates to them the gracious, saving presence of God and his eschatological rule (5:3-11). Jesus’ disciples, then, are the “salt of the earth (5:13) and the “light of the world” (5:14). As such, they respond to their call and the teaching Jesus imparts to them by leading lives that reflect the “greater righteousness” (5:20). What this means Jesus explains in the pivotal passage 5:48: “You, therefore, shall be perfect (teleioi), as your heavenly Father is perfect.” As this verse suggests, the disciples practice the greater righteousness when they are absolutely single-hearted, or undivided (whole, complete), in their doing of the will of God.

The ministry of the pre-Easter disciples in Matthew’s Gospel is exclusively to Israel (10:6). Jesus summons the twelve and coin-missions them to preach the nearness of the kingdom and to heal (10:1-2, 5-8). In Matthew’s scheme, this ministry of the earthly disciples is, in effect, an extension of Jesus’ own earthly ministry to Israel (9:35-38).

In contradistinction to both Mark and Luke, it is within Jesus’ earthly ministry that Matthew locates the founding of the “church” (16:18; 18:17).’1 The setting is his expanded version of the Marcan pericope on Peter’s confession of Jesus at Caesarea Philippi (cf. 16:13-20 with Mark 8:27-30). Here Peter confesses Jesus to be the Messiah, the Son of the living God (16:16). He does so in his capacity as the first of the disciples to be called (4:18; 10:2) and therefore as their spokesman (16:15-16). As the first-called of the disciples, Peter thus becomes the foundation on which Jesus promises that he will build his church (16:18). As such, he will receive from Jesus the “keys of the kingdom of heaven,” which constitute the power to decide matters that pertain to church doctrine and to church discipline (16: 19). This power, however, Peter will share with the rest of the disciples (18:18) .

One reason Matthew portrays Jesus as founding the church has to do with his concern to assert the unbroken continuity and legitimacy of the tradition of doctrine and practice observed by his own community. Matthew understands the earthly Son of God himself to be the source of this tradition (cf. 18:15-20; 28:20). The Son of God has entrusted it to his disciples, and they, in turn, have faithfully administered it and handed it on to the post-Easter church. From the earthly Son who on the pages of Matthew’s Gospel knows and does the Father’s will, the church of Matthew learns what it is to know and do the Father’s will.

Although the disciples in Matthew’s Gospel comprehend the words of Jesus and know him to be the Son of God, they, like their Marcan counterparts, are unable at the last to make good on their pledge to hold to him no matter what might befall them (26:35). The upshot is that Judas betrays him (26:14-16, 47-50), the other disciples leave him and flee (26:56), and Peter denies him (26:58, 69-75). Still, upon his resurrection the Son of God sends word to the disciples through the women that they are to go to Galilee, where they will see him (28:10). In this way, he reconciles them to himself, and commissions them to their post-Easter ministry (28:16-20).

Posted in Jesus, The Gospel of Matthew | Tagged mathetai, The Founding of the "Church", the ministry of the disciples | 1 Comment »

The Ministries of Jesus In Matthew by Jack Dean Kingsbury

January 5, 2012

Christ Preaching, REMBRANDT Harmenszoon van Rijn, C. 1643-49

Jesus’ Ministry of Preaching
Jesus’ initial act as he undertakes his public ministry in Matthew’s story is to proclaim, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (4:17). In the three passages that summarize Jesus’ activity in Israel, Matthew characterizes his message as “the gospel of the kingdom” (4:23; 9:35;[11:1]).

The term “gospel” in this expression denotes “good news.” The term “kingdom” is short for the “kingdom of heaven.” Hence, the message Jesus preaches in Israel is the “good news about the kingdom of heaven.”

The “kingdom of heaven” is an equivalent term for the “kingdom of God.” Both refer to the eschatological, or end-time, rule of God. For Matthew as for Mark, Jesus Messiah, the Son of God, is the agent of God’s end-time rule (4:17; 11:25-27). Therefore in him (1:23) , in his words and deeds (11:2-6) , the rule of God has drawn so near (4:17) that it impinges upon the present and can be described by Matthew as a present reality (11:12; 12:28). This is the import of a saying of Jesus such as this: “But if it is by the Spirit of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you” (12:28).

As a present reality, however, the kingdom is also a hidden reality. In fact, only the followers of Jesus can perceive its presence in him. This is the truth to which the Matthaean Jesus alludes when he declares to his disciples: “But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear” (13:16).

In Matthew’s thought as in Mark’s, the kingdom is not only a present, hidden reality, it is also a future reality. Although it is so near that people confront it even now in Jesus Son of God, it has not yet been consummated. Indeed, Matthew depicts in some detail the future appearance of the kingdom: the Son of man will come suddenly, all the nations will be gathered before him, he will separate them into two groups, and he will speak judgment on them, thus determining who will “inherit the kingdom” and who will “go away into eternal punishment” (25:31-46; 13:40-43; 24:29-31).

Like Mark, Matthew, too, posits continuity between the present, hidden beginnings of the kingdom in the person and ministry of Jesus Son of God and the future manifestation of the kingdom in splendor at the coning of Jesus Son of man. The former will issue ineluctably in the latter (13:31-32, 33).

On the other hand. Matthew possesses a more highly developed sense of the delay of the parousia of the Son of man than does Mark. To be sure, Mark affirms that “the gospel must first be preached to all nations” before the end will come (13:10; cf. 13:34) . But in the parable of the talents, for example, Matthew speaks of the “lord of those slaves” as not returning until “after a long time” has passed (25:19). What this suggests is that the question of Christian existence within the world is a more insistent problem for Matthew.

In the light of Matthew’s concept of the kingdom of heaven, how, then, is the expression “the gospel of the kingdom” to be defined? It is the good news that God, in the person of his Son Jesus and in the word his followers preach about him (4:23; 24:14; 26:13), has drawn near to people (first Israel and then the Gentiles) with his eschatological rule to save.

As Jesus preaches the gospel of the kingdom in Israel, he is at the same time calling people to repentance (4:17). He is, in effect, impelling them to turn away from evil and to turn toward God, i.e., to enter into the sphere of God’s gracious rule by becoming his disciples (cf. 19:21). The alternative is to refuse repentance and hence to live in the sphere of Satan’s rule (12:26; 13:38-39) . The decision each person makes is of ultimate consequence, for it will be ratified to salvation or damnation at the latter day (11:20-24; 13:36-43) .

Jesus’ Ministry of Teaching
Since Matthew presents Jesus in his Gospel as the Son of God who knows and does his Father’s will (3:13-4:11), it is not surprising that “teaching” should be the principal activity in which Jesus engages during his public ministry to Israel. This emphasis on teaching comes to the fore in three ways in particular.

First, Matthew cites “teaching” ahead of “preaching” and “healing” in the three summary passages that describe what Jesus is about in his public ministry (4:23; 9:35; 11:1).
Second, although Matthew writes that John the Baptist and the disciples “preach” (3:1; 10:7), “teaching” remains the special prerogative of Jesus (28:20). And
Third, Matthew has Jesus state unequivocally that he, the Messiah, is the “one teacher” of the disciples (23:8, 10) .

In view of the high esteem in which Matthew holds Jesus’ activity of teaching, it is ostensibly an anomaly that only a stranger, opponents, and Judas, but never the (true) disciples, address Jesus as “teacher.” We recall that in Mark’s Gospel the disciples do address Jesus as “teacher.” But “teacher” is merely a term of human respect. For this reason, Matthew puts it on the lips of “outsiders” but replaces it with “Lord” when it comes to the disciples or to persons who approach Jesus in faith. “Lord” attributes to Jesus divine authority; it is appropriate to Matthew’s heightened Christology, for as the Messiah Son of God, it is with divine authority that he teaches.

Unquestionably, Mark presents Jesus, in his capacity as teacher, as the authoritative interpreter of the will of God. Still, he does not go out of his way to pit Jesus against Moses. By contrast, Matthew makes it a point to show that Jesus supersedes Moses.24 Two examples demonstrate this. In the first place, Jesus Son of God ascends the mountain, just as Moses once ascended Mount Sinai (Exod. 24), in order to expound the will of God to the Israelite crowds and his disciples (5:1-2). In the course of his teaching, he makes prominent use of the literary device of the antithesis: “You have heard that it was said to the men of old … but I say to you” (5:21-22, 27-28, 31-32, 33-34, 38-39, 43-44).

In so doing, Jesus reveals that it is, in principle, his word that has replaced the word of Moses. Indeed, this supersession of Moses’ word by Jesus’ word is also graphically illustrated at the end of the Gospel: on the mountain in Galilee, the risen Son of God enjoins his disciples to “observe all that I have commanded you” (28:20) . And in the second place, in debates between Jesus and the Israelite leaders over matters of law, Matthew diverges from Mark and accentuates the fact that Jesus speaks the mind not merely of Moses, but of God (cf. 15:4 with Mark 7:10; 19:4 with Mark 10:3; 22:31 with Mark 12:26).

Jesus Son of God, therefore, is in Matthew’s eyes the spokesman of God in a direct and immediate fashion (11:27; 28:18). He makes known the will of God in terms of its original intention (19:4, 8). With absolute sovereignty, he abrogates commands of Moses, such as those on divorce (5:31-32), oaths (5:33-37), and retribution (5:38-42) Or he radicalizes commands of Moses, such as those on murder (5:21-26), adultery (5:27-30), and love of one’s enemy (5:43-48) . Or he repudiates demands for a false observance of commands of Moses, such as is the case with his rulings on the sabbath law (12:1-8, 9-14) and the dietary laws (15:10-20a).

By the same token, the Matthaean Jesus can also come out against the regulations of the Pharisaic “tradition of the elders” (16: 11-12). He castigates, for instance, contemporary practice relative to the so-called vow of Corban (15:5-7), and he judges that “to eat with unwashed hands does not defile a person” (15:20). Or he can turn around and endorse certain of these regulations (cf. 23:2-3), as when he says of the rule concerning the tithing of mint and dill and cummin that these things ought to be done (23:23).

On the basis of these examples, it is not difficult to discern the salvation-historical principle that informs Matthew’s treatment of the law. This principle is that it is in Jesus Son of God that the law, as the expression of the will of God, attains to its “fulfillment” (5:17; 11: 13); it is his word that gives the law its final shape and meaning (22:16; 7:28-29). But if this is true, then it also follows that his sayings are binding on the disciples for all time to come (28:20) and will never pass away (24:35).

Does all of this mean, then, that what the Matthaean Jesus entrusts to his disciples is an elaborate system of casuistry? Certainly not. For what precludes this is the recurring insistence that the deepest intention of the will of God is love (7:12; 9:13; 12:7; 19:19) : love toward God and love toward the neighbor (22:34-40). Thus, doing the will of God or keeping the injunctions of the law is in essence, Matthew maintains, always an exercise in love.

If Mark’s Jesus clashes with the leaders of Israel over his interpretation of the law, the dispute between Matthew’s Jesus and Israel’s leaders is even more acrimonious. There is no chapter in Mark’s Gospel, for example, to compare to that of Matthew 23. In Matthew’s perspective, the nub of the matter is that Israel’s leaders prove themselves to be “hypocrites,” i.e., “they preach, but they do not practice” (23:3, 13, 15, 23, 25, 27, 29). What makes this accusation so onerous is the circumstance that hypocrisy is indicative of “divided allegiance,” of not being “perfect,” or wholehearted in the knowledge and service of God (5:48; Deut. 18:13). Hypocrisy is, in short, “lawlessness” (23:28), which Jesus Son of man will condemn at the final judgment (13:41-43).

Jesus’ Ministry of Healing
The third major facet of Jesus’ public ministry in Israel is that of “healing” (4:23; 9:35; 11:1, 5)•27 Up to a point, Matthew’s approach to the healing ministry of Jesus parallels that of Mark.

Like Mark, Matthew designates the miracles Jesus performs as “powerful acts” (cf. 11:20, 21, 23; 13:54; 14:2). This very term (dynameis) indicates that the divine authority which marks Jesus’ teaching and preaching is likewise present in his deeds (cf. 21:1415 to 21:23). As for “signs and wonders,” Matthew does not associate them with Jesus. On the contrary, only “an evil and adulterous generation seeks for a sign” (12:39; 16:4), and it is the “false prophets” who do “great signs and wonders” (24:24).

Like Mark, Matthew, too, sees in the powerful acts of Jesus the cosmic struggle between the kingdom of God and the kingdom of Satan (12:24-29) . Disease in people and upheaval in nature are symptoms of sin and of bondage to Satan. Hence, through the activity of healing and of exercising dominion over nature, Jesus Son of God is liberating people from the sphere of Satan’s rule and bringing them into the gracious sphere of the rule of God. “But if it is by the Spirit of God that I cast out demons,” Jesus proclaims, “then the kingdom of God has come upon you!” (12:28).

But there is one respect in which Matthew’s portrayal of the healing activity of Jesus differs noticeably from that of Mark. For his part, Mark predicates the verb “to heal” (therapeõ) to Jesus only four times. Matthew, on the other hand, does so some twelve or thirteen times.” Now the root meaning of therapeõ is “to serve,” and “to heal” is secondary to this. Moreover, at 8:16-17 Matthew employs a formula quotation in order to characterize the healing ministry of Jesus as the “fulfillment” of OT prophecy.

Significantly, the OT passage he cites is Isaiah 53:4, a verse of one of the Servant Songs: “He took our sicknesses and bore our diseases” (8:17) . Taken together, these factors explain why it is that Matthew exhibits such fondness for the verb therapeõ: he plays on the double meaning of “to serve” and “to heal” in order to present the “healing activity” of Jesus as the “ministry of service” which the Messiah Son of God carries out on behalf of his people Israel. Jesus, therefore, “heals” the sick among the crowds and so “serves” the people of Israel by bestowing on then the blessings of the end-time rule of God. Once again, therefore, Jesus sovereignly stands forth as the Son who knows and does his Father’s will.

Because Jesus Son of God proffers salvation to Israel through his ministry of healing, his powerful acts, no less than his preaching, summon Israel to repentance and to discipleship (11:20-24). Israel, however, refuses such repentance (11:20). This, in turn, evokes from Jesus the stark word of judgment: “But I tell you that it shall be more tolerable on the day of judgment for the land of Sodom than for you” (1 1 :24; cf. 11:22).

Posted in Jesus, The Gospel of Matthew | Tagged 'kingdom of heaven, dynameis, Jesus and the day of judgment, Jesus' Ministry of Healing, Jesus' Ministry of Teaching, Teaching vs Preaching in Matthew, the word of Moses, therapeõ | Leave a Comment »

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Jesus of Nazareth: The Book by Fr. Richard John Neuhaus

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The Prayer of Jesus: Jesus’ Prayer on the Mount of Olives in the Letter to the Hebrews – Pope Benedict XVI

The Prayer of Jesus: Jesus’ Will and the Will of the Father – Pope Benedict XVI

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The Meaning of Jesus’ Death, Resurrection and Ascension in the Gospel of Luke — Mark Allan Powell

Discipleship in Matthew – Jack Dean Kingsbury

The Ministries of Jesus In Matthew by Jack Dean Kingsbury

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