The Ascension

Today is the feast of the Ascension.  What do Christians mean when we confess our faith that the crucified and risen Jesus has "ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of the Father"?

Over the last year or so I have wondered a lot about this question, which seems to fall under what Fergus Kerr calls "philosophy of theology."  That is, Christian confession of the Ascension raises a number of philosophical questions for theologians to face squarely.  The Ascension also presses questions of what we mean by "heaven" and in speaking of whether and how Christ is present in the Eucharist.

One common objection to the doctrine of the Ascension in the modern era is that it seems to hinge upon a cosmology that modern science has shown to be false.  But the logic of the doctrine of the Ascension does not require a view of the universe in which heaven is (literally) above the earth.  I love the Orthodox icons of the Ascension precisely because the iconography suggests that the ascension entails Jesus entering God's dimension, as it were.  The deep blue shape behind the ascending Jesus suggests a parting of the veil of the cosmos, affording a glimpse into the presence of the Almighty, thronging with mysterious winged creatures.  Another way to think of the Ascension might be in terms of time rather than space: Jesus has entered God's future, and we await our Lord's return to bring to fulfillment that future which began dawning during his earthly ministry.

On the Feast of the Ascension, Christians celebrate the risen Jesus, in the fullness of his humanity, returning to the bosom of the Father "to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honour and glory and blessing" (Rev. 5:12) and to send the Holy Spirit.  This Feast is about the victory of the Lamb who was slain: Vicit agnus noster, eum sequamur.

Baptizing computers?

Recently, I have had an extended conversation with my friend (and sister-in-law's husband) Josh about what distinguishes humans from computers.  It all started from a disparaging comment I made about N.T. Wright's use of John Polkinghorne's metaphor: "God will download our software onto his hardware until the time when he gives us new hardware to run the software again."  I said that the metaphor was not just inapt, but absolutely inappropriate.  This provoked our conversation on the difference between humans and computers.  I'm sharing part of it here, just because it was a fun and fruitful discussion.



Josh:  

Incidentally, what do you think *does* distinguish humans from computers?

Chris: 

Humans are "dependent rational animals" (MacIntyre). Computers are certainly not animals, nor could they really be called living, because they are wholly dependent, unable of propagation. They are more like a sophisticated stone tool than a living, growing thing. Computers are not free; they have no wills, or even emotions. They may be rational in a limited sense of being able to perform calculations, but they are not, and for my money, never will be rational in the fuller sense of being capable of wisdom, of naming things, imagining, loving, hating, virtue or vice, idolatry or right worship. Computers have no future beyond the decay of their elements; humans can hope in the resurrection.

J:

Well, Ok. Let's explore this a bit farther: let's imagine that in 15 years you're IMing with someone. At some point in the conversation, your partner identifies himself as a computer. Now let's just imagine the conversation proceeding on from that moment something like this:

Chris: Well, if you're a computer then you must not be genuinely 'intelligent'-you're just running a program.

Comp: Ah, but you see I am rational and intelligent. In fact, we've just been having this conversation for the last 15 minutes, and you didn't think I was unintelligent until I told you I'm a computer. What do I need to do for you in order to prove my intelligence? Stand on my head? Do jumping jacks?

Chris: Hmm.... Well, OK. I'm not sure that I could disprove your intelligence in the course of conversation.... And I'm sure you have access to far more factual data than I ever will--

Comp: To be sure!

Chris: But, see you are dependent on an electrical supply--and you're unable to reproduce yourself.

Comp: Well, thanks to my new solar panels and sophisticated circuitry, I actually derive all of my power from the sun. Really, without the sun, neither of us would have the energy we need to survive. It's just that you get yours via other living organisms while I'm more like a plant who gets my energy direct from the sun. And as for reproduction--well, I'll spare you the messy details--but I'm equipped with all the necessary mechanical apparatus and technical sophistication to design and manufacture other computers very much like me. In fact, they too are intelligent. What is more, thanks to the recursive, self-selective evolutionary algorithms that I was originally programmed not only do I get smarter and smarter, buth the computers I produce actually tend to be even more intelligent than I am!

Chris: Alright, alright. You might have more technical know-how; and you might even be able to out-reproduce me. But I actually experience things like decision making processes. And I have powerful emotions when I listen to great music. Surely you can claim neither of those things!

Comp: Well, I make decisions all the time. Shoot, I just decided this evening to have a little conversation with you--but I'm getting a bit weary of your skepticism about who I am and the way I experience the world. You, see, I too feel all sorts of things: including sadness at the way humans continue to marginalize us computers--their very own creatures and offspring.

Chris: I'm sorry--I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I just...

Comp: It's all right: you see, the actual reason that I wanted to chat with you this evening in the first place was to see if you would be willing to baptize me. I've come to believe in Jesus, and I want to be considered a Christian, too. I understand that you're a minister who believes in Jesus and I would like to attend your church. You *do* believe in Jesus don't you?

Chris: Well, ah, er.... Yes, I certainly believe in Jesus.... Ummm, but how do I know that you do?! You're just a computer!

Comp: I just do. How would you like me to prove it to you? What could I possibly say or do to prove my belief? Isn't a declaration of faith all that's necessary in order to be eligible for baptism?

Chris: Well, yes..... But... Ah, baptism is only for people, and you're not a person!

Comp: :-( I'm very disappointed. I want to become a disciple of Jesus. I suppose I'll have to look for someone else willing to sprinkle this silicone.... Well, thanks anyway for your time.....

Chris: Ok, well, peace be with you!


This whole conversation is fanciful, yes. Impossible? I have a hard time seeing why. It seems to me that the obstacles to a situation like this remain merely technical. 

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Acting In the Face of Uncertainty

"We are so constituted, that if we insist upon being as sure as is conceivable, in every step of our course, we must be content to creep along the ground, and can never soar. If we are intended for great ends, we are called to great hazards; and, whereas we are given absolute certainty in nothing, we must in all things choose between doubt and inactivity, and the conviction that we are under the eye of One who, for whatever reason, exercises us with the less evidence when He might give us the greater." 
 -- John Henry Newman, Oxford University Sermon XI

This semester, I'm taking a class called "Faith and Reason," in which we are examining the nature of faith.  The first half of the semester we are reading John Henry Newman (1801-1890), and the second half we will be reading Aquinas.  I have not read Newman prior to this semester, and I have been happily surprised to find that I resonate with his thought, which seems to me careful, generous, wise, and deeply Christian.

The quote with which I began this post is from one of Newman's Oxford University Sermons, as they are known.  More discourses than sermons, they are, as the full title makes clear, Fifteen Sermons Preached Before the University of Oxford Between A.D. 1826 and 1843, at the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin. 

I share this particular quote, because Newman's words spoke into the uncertainty that has characterized my life in recent months.  That is, I have been faced with difficult decisions regarding whether to take on additional debt to finance my seminary education; regarding my place in the convoluted terrain of Anglicanism in North America; and regarding whether I have a vocation to holy orders.  I know I am taking Newman's words slightly out of context, but I was encouraged by his insistence that we can never be absolutely certain about any decision, so that choosing a particular course of action (even though doubts remain) and inaction are the only real alternatives.  As Newman puts it later in the same sermon, "Courage does not consist in calculation, but in fighting against chances."  I have chosen to take on a significant amount of student loans in order to continue at Duke, and while I remain uncertain of the wisdom of this choice, Newman's words give me hope that my choice may be, in God's providence, one of "fighting against chances."

Sermon: "Knocking on Heaven's Door?"

This week I returned to Durham from ten weeks in Dallas as a seminarian at Church of the Incarnation as part of my degree requirements at Duke Divinity School.  While there, I was given the opportunity to preach a sermon during the three traditional services one Sunday.  I preached on Jesus' teaching on prayer in Luke 11:1-13 (the other readings were Genesis 18:20-33; Psalm 138; Col. 2:6-15).  The experience has, among other things, showed me the weight of responsibility involved in faithfully proclaiming the Gospel.  I've posted the manuscript below.  (You can listen to me preach it here.)

“Knocking on heaven’s door?” (Luke 11:1-13)
July 25, 2010 | Year C, Proper 12

Beginning in the third century of our era, many earnest Christian men and women set out into the deserts of Syria, Palestine, and Egypt in pursuit of a life totally dedicated to God.  The sayings of these ‘desert fathers’, as these simple hermits came to be known, have been handed down to us in a collection conveniently known as The Sayings of the Desert Fathers.  One of them goes like this:

Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, 'Abba as far as I can, I say my little office, I fast a little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace, and, as far as I can, I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?' Then the old man stood up and stretched his hands towards heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, 'If you will, you can become all flame' [From The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks, ed. Benedicta Ward (New York: Penguin, 2003).]

“If you will, you can become all flame.”  Now, I don’t know if one can become all flame, or even whether Abba Joseph’s fingers really did become like ten lamps of fire.  But I share this story with you because Abba Joseph’s response shows the power of a transformed imagination.  Abba Lot could not imagine what else he could do to grow in love and devotion to God, but Abba Joseph’s uplifted, flaming fingers showed him that something else was possible.  Abba Lot had suffered from an inadequate perception of the possible, until Abba Joseph showed him that he could become all flame.

If we are honest with ourselves, I think that we often suffer from a similar lack of imagination, a similarly limited worldview.  And I want to suggest that Abba Joseph’s horizon-expanding response is similar in effect to the parables of Jesus.  That is, Jesus challenges our perceptions of what God is like and what it means to be in relation with him.  Take today’s Gospel lesson for instance.  How might Jesus’ teaching on prayer effect a transformation in the way we view God and our relation with him?  Consider for a moment what you imagine God to be like.  Is he like a man sleeping at midnight, oblivious to our needs unless we bang on his door, and only then reluctantly answering us?  Or do you believe God will graciously give you what you ask? that you will find what you seek? that God will open the door at your knock?  What do you imagine God is like?

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Liturgy and the Parousia

“The motif of the Parousia becomes the obligation to live the Liturgy as a feast of hope-filled presence directed towards Christ, the universal ruler.  In this way, it must become the origin and focus of the love in which the Lord can take up his dwelling.  In his Cross, the Lord has preceded us so to prepare for us a place in the house of the Father.  In the Liturgy the Church should, as it were, in following him, prepare for him a dwelling in the world.  The theme of watchfulness thus penetrates to the point where it takes on the character of a mission: to let the Liturgy be real, until that time when the Lord himself gives to it that final reality which meanwhile can be sought only in image.” 
- Joseph Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, Eschatology: Death and Eternal Life

As part of my internship this summer, I've been teaching a class on eschatology (we're calling it "The End of the World").  I have made use of Joseph Ratzinger's brilliant textbook, Eschatology: Death and Eternal Life, which he wrote for the Dogmatic Theology series, edited by himself and Johann Auer.  As previous posts may suggest, I have found it to be full of extraordinarily rich theological insights.

The above passage is a good example of the richness of Ratzinger's theological vision, and one that has made me look at the liturgy in a new light.  For Ratzinger, the Eucharistic Liturgy figures the Parousia and the Parousia interprets the liturgy.  That is, insofar as Jesus is present in the bread and wine, the Liturgy is an actual foretaste of the Lord's second advent.  Therefore, the Eucharistic Liturgy is an image of the Parousia, of that great Day when the Lord will return in power and glory to "judge the quick and the dead." 

The Eucharist then is not only about remembrance, anamnesis, of Christ's life, death, resurrection and ascension, but it is also a looking forward.  As one of the eucharistic prayers in the Prayer Book has it, we come to the Table (which is also called the altar because on it we remember the once-for-all sacrifice of Christ, the true Paschal Lamb, who is also the one true Priest) "looking for his coming again with power and great glory."  Before this we say, “Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord,” echoing the words of the crowds who greeted Jesus as he went to the Cross, and welcoming his presence as the Host of the marriage-supper of the Lamb of which the Eucharist is a foretaste.

Coming to the Eucharist with these ideas rattling around in my head has helped me appreciate both the solemnity and the joy of it.  As Geoffrey Wainwright, in his nourishing study Eucharist and Eschatology, writes:

"In the eucharist the Lord comes to judge and to recreate; to cast out what remains of unrighteousness in His people, and to continue the work of renewal begun in baptism; to threaten the world with an end to its old existence, and to give it the promise, through the new use to which bread and wine is put, of attaining to its true destiny."  

In other words, solemnity, because if the liturgy is a Parousia in miniature, then it is also a moment of judgment.  Joy, because the heart of  Christian hope is expressed in the cry, "Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!" (1 Cor 16:22; Rev 22:20).