Tag Archives: Theology

It’s not enough to “just believe in Jesus”

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Understatement of the year: I am not a theologian. So this will not even be an attempt at a theological treatise but merely a narrative account of one aspect of my own faith journey.

Back when I was being a youthful rebellious doofus, I occasionally spouted some half-baked nonsense at my father. One of those silly things was that it supposedly didn’t matter so much what we believed about Jesus, but just that we believed in Him. Apparently the Bible and the early church councils disagreed with me. As my father wryly chuckled about “no new heresies under the sun”, I had to concede that, if I believed in objective truth, I couldn’t just make up my own ideas about Jesus.

If we are truly Christians, what we believe about Jesus Christ is essential.

Fast forward a number of years. I was no longer a youthful rebel, and not quite as much of a doofus. But I was confused about some sermon I’d heard, so I asked my father about it.

“That sounds an awful lot like the heresy of modalism,” my father said. He went on to explain how the early Church had dealt with that heresy (as well as others) by clarifying what Christianity holds to be true about the Trinity. [A quick aside: my Baptist pastor father explained that all of Christianity, with rare exception, affirms at least the first four Ecumenical Councils. Of course there are also many individuals who consider themselves to be Christian but hold doctrines counter to historic Christianity.]

Fast forward more years, all the way to 2020, when I was being catechized by my Byzantine Catholic priest. I was growing a little bit impatient that he kept emphasizing what I viewed as ultra-basic stuff about the Trinity. Suddenly it dawned on me: had I learned nothing in my years as a Christian about the importance of these doctrines? Isn’t this “basic stuff” the very foundation of our faith and practice?

Even the way I form my hand in making the sign of the Cross is a theological lesson and reminder.

One of many things I appreciate about our liturgy is that it is so explicitly Trinitarian. How we pray and worship truly does help form and reinforce our beliefs, which is why I find the depth of meaning in our prayers, symbols, and traditions to be so rich, so beautiful, and so powerful.

In 2020, Byzantine Catholicism was new to me, but the basic historical doctrines of Christianity weren’t. For example, one of my former pastors from yesteryear (a learned Reformed pastor) often emphasized the dual natures of Christ, and taught why it was so important to our faith — to our very salvation — that Jesus Christ is fully God and fully man, and that His divine and human natures cannot be separated. So, when I was learning about Catholicism, the hypostatic union was a familiar concept but, at the same time, it was not one that I’d given much thought.

And then I encountered the word “Theotokos”.

I was only slightly less uncomfortable with the idea of Mary being called the “God-bearer” as I was with her being called the “Mother of God”. Of course I knew that no one was claiming that she was the mother of the Trinity, or that she existed before all else. And I’d always believed that Jesus is God, as well as always believing in the virgin birth. So why was I squirming in my seat? Was I secretly an adoptionist, believing that Jesus did not receive His divine nature until later, perhaps at His baptism? Did the doctrine of the hypostatic union have to mean that Mary bore God in her womb?

One of the smartest people that I know almost gave me an out during a discussion of abortion. She presented a brilliant and Biblical case, from a Jewish perspective, for life beginning with one’s first breath and ending with one’s last. Only, as compelling and thorough as her argument was, I couldn’t agree. [Luke 1:39-44 obviously was more significant to me than to her.]

Years before that, a pro-abortion pastor had refused to say whether the fetus I was carrying was an actual person or not. I didn’t think he was saying anything about me as a mother — I was upset that he dared call into question the humanity of the child in my womb.

So I had to admit that my issue with the concept of the “Theotokos” wasn’t really about Mary after all. It came down to the very basics of Christianity. I wasn’t foolish or arrogant enough to claim that I knew better than the most learned and godly Christians throughout history, so I had no choice but to face what it was that was making me so uncomfortable. Did I really believe that the great, glorious, and almighty God, Creator of the universe, took on human form, not just that of a man but of a child, even of an infant? Did I really believe that He chose to identify so completely with us, with our human condition, that He — our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, fully man and fully God — began His earthly life as humbly as we do?

What can I say? It boggles my puny little mind.

Jesus was human in the womb of Mary. He was also God in the womb of Mary. She didn’t just carry a human being in her womb; she carried the second Person of the Trinity — God incarnate. In other words, I needed to stop squirming about the word “Theotokos”. Either that, or admit that I didn’t really believe what I claimed to believe about Jesus and about the Trinity.

Ah, I ruefully had to admit to myself. This is why my priest keeps going over these “basics”. And Daddy was right — what I believe about Jesus is important!

Interpreting something differently doesn’t make you a liar

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Confession time: I was once so obnoxious in online debates — about theology of all things! — that, a few years later, memories of my ill behavior compelled me to track down and apologize to several people. (And, yes, I know I’ve already confessed this on my blog.)

Why on earth had I been so unpleasant in the first place? I should have known better. After all, my father tried to teach me the art of diplomacy. Even in the case of strong disagreement, he modeled humility and integrity, and those virtues kept him from misrepresenting the beliefs and arguments of others. Those same virtues, and the fact that he was a true gentleman, kept him from viewing someone with a different opinion as an “opponent”, or from denigrating them in any way. Even when I voiced some wackadoodle ideas as a disagreeable teenager and young adult, Daddy responded to my half-baked notions with the utmost charity and respect… far more than I deserved.

In high school, I was excited to discover the names of the rhetorical fallacies that my father had been teaching me about for years. I already knew the term “straw man fallacy”, but now I was learning even more about these faulty ways of thinking. Daddy and I had great fun doing one of my homework assignments together: watching news commentary on TV and identifying the various logical fallacies.

Unfortunately, in the heat of later online debates, almost all of my father’s lessons, as well as his godly example, flew out of my head.

In the years since becoming determined to mend my ways, I’ve had the privilege of interacting — in real life and online — with a number of people who have apparently mastered the art of charitable and respectful disagreement. I’d lost my stomach for heated debate, so this was a welcome contrast to the contentious exchanges of yesteryear. When I repeated a relatively common misunderstanding of another faith, my online acquaintance whose faith we were discussing didn’t retort, “That’s a lie!” or “You are making false statements!” She politely corrected me — and I took her correction to heart. (In case you’re wondering, neither of us converted the other. But at least I understood her religion slightly better, and stopped making the same inadvertently erroneous statements about it.)

When I was discussing a passage of Scripture with someone I know, and we interpreted the passage quite differently, he didn’t shout me down with, “That’s not what that verse means at all! Why are you allowing Satan to deceive you?” Nor did he remind me of his extensive theological education. Instead he explained, quite patiently and charitably I might add, why he believed his interpretation was the correct one. He didn’t take my disagreement as a personal attack. Even if he had, I’m convinced he wouldn’t have abandoned his usual good manners.

It seems as if the more truly knowledgeable someone is, the less they feel the need to cover up what they lack by being strident and argumentative. Those who know their subject well can simply be reasonable, calm, and well-spoken.

But maybe there’s much more to it than that. I’ve been on the receiving end of unpleasantries like “May God rebuke you for your love of deception and deceit” as well as the far more palatable “We will probably never agree, and I know each one of us thinks the other is wrong, but I appreciate our discussions.” I’m not convinced that the vast difference in those two responses is entirely due to education or the lack thereof.

At any rate, I don’t want to wait to be some sort of all-around expert in order to be more like the good examples I’ve cited. Great knowledge is not required in order to become more reasonable, more charitable, more humble, and more kind. By the grace of God, even a college dropout like me can grow in virtue.

Maybe I’m finally starting to learn some of my father’s lessons after all.

An addendum on what does constitute lying:

The most widely accepted definition of lying is the following: “A lie is a statement made by one who does not believe it with the intention that someone else shall be led to believe it” (Isenberg 1973, 248) (cf. “[lying is] making a statement believed to be false, with the intention of getting another to accept it as true” (Primoratz 1984, 54n2)). (https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/lying-definition/)

Who should we allow to influence us? Part 2

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(Read part 1 here.)

Increasingly over the past few years, I’ve been asking myself: what is the point of living a Christian life? What is my purpose?

The Baltimore Catechism answers “Why did God make you?” with these words:

“God made me to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in the next.”

When Jesus was asked what the greatest commandment was, He answered:

“ ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the great and foremost commandment. The second is like it, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments depend the whole Law and the Prophets.” (Matthew 22:37-40)

I’m also reminded of a quote from St. Gregory of Nyssa:

“We must contemplate the beauty of the Father without ceasing and adorn our own souls accordingly.”

There was a time when I thought my understanding of a certain theological system was so important, so extremely important, that it was perfectly justifiable for me to behave like a rude brat in defending it. The sad truth is that I wasn’t defending a theological system — and certainly not Christianity — as much as I was defending myself and my ideas. My anger and argumentativeness was sin, and it was born out of utter selfishness and pride. It had nothing to do with truth, or with God, and it certainly had nothing to do with love.

I didn’t want anyone to treat me the way I was treating them.

At the time, however, I was drawn to other angry people — at least as long as they agreed with me. Then we would rile each other up and assure each other that we were “standing for truth”, that we were “exposing lies and heresies”, and that we were oh so very righteous.

Of course we didn’t convince anyone but ourselves.

Mahatma Gandhi is reported to have said, “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” He could have been talking about me.

So who do I allow to influence my understanding of Christianity today? It is those Christians whose words and deeds demonstrate to me that they know, love, and serve God. It is those whose love for God and for others is obvious and worth emulating. It is those who “contemplate the beauty of the Father” to such an extent that even I can see the beauty that shines forth from their souls.

Given all my faults and sins, I desperately need people like that in my life — people who are continually being transformed more and more into the image of Christ, people who love well, people who already exemplify what I hope to become.

Anything else isn’t really Christianity.

Who should we allow to influence us?

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When I was competing at karate tournaments, and especially when I became a judge, it got so that I could recognize the intermediate and advanced students of certain instructors, even if I’d never seen that particular student before. It wasn’t just how that student performed techniques, it was how they carried themselves, how they wore their uniforms, how they treated fellow competitors, how respectful they were, how well they adhered to tournament etiquette, etc. The best instructors produced the most recognizable students.

At the same time, I remember one particular black belt competitor who was embarrassingly lacking in both technique and effort, and his students gave almost identical lackluster performances.

We can’t pass on what we ourselves lack.

What some quoted to me as a martial arts saying (“The student, when fully taught’ becomes like his master”) was actually Luke 6:40. “A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone who is perfectly trained will be like his teacher.”

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I’m thankful that my first teacher — my beloved father — who was also my pastor from age 5 to adulthood, was a man of great integrity and humility. He was an excellent student and thus an excellent teacher. His life of virtue was one worth emulating.

So he set the bar really high for other pastors and teachers of things religious and theological. Very high indeed…

I was pondering this, and some of my own weaknesses, sins, and failings, after a conversation I had today with a dear friend. We were discussing my recent retreat and some other things, and several teachers — including a few priests — had come up in our conversation. It struck me later: all of them exemplify virtues that I want to emulate.

I am reminded of 1 Corinthians 11:1, where a Paul wrote, “Imitate me, just as I also imitate Christ.” I am in no way qualified to say that to anyone — sometimes I think much of my life should be viewed as a cautionary tale. How thankful I am to have teachers whose lives and character qualities are worth imitating!

As I was pondering these things again today, I was reminded of a self-appointed public teacher from my past who forever turned me off to his particular theological hobbyhorse, because he was so strident, so lacking in charity, and so argumentative. He was the opposite of a gentleman; in fact, he tended to be quite rude and demeaning to anyone who disagreed with him. Someone described him as a “pompous blowhard”. I had actually been intrigued by some of his theological insights when I first encountered them — at least as those insights were expressed by someone else — but I found it almost painful to listen to the teacher himself, and especially to see how he interacted with others.

Obviously we shouldn’t judge truth by whether the person stating it is a gentleman or a jerk. After all, even the rudest person on the planet might not be entirely wrong about everything they say, and gentlemen can be misguided. Back in the working world, I even learned some valuable life lessons from some unpleasant people.

However, it’s a different situation when it comes to faith and morals. How they live out their belief system, how they exemplify Christian virtue, how they treat others — all that is vitally important. I don’t want to imitate someone’s walk with God if I don’t want to imitate them.

Years ago, I used to get in quite heated debates online, to the point that I would forget that those who disagreed with me were created in the image of God and thus deserving of my respect. Stuff happened… and God brought me to a state of repentance (and to a major theological shift). I remember trying to track down some of the people I’d most offended in order to apologize to them. Most were gracious and forgiving, but one person let me know that I had so deeply wounded her that she would never be able to trust me again.

Ouch. I couldn’t blame her.

Contrast my previous attitudes and behavior with the dear, sweet souls who, over my lifetime, have made their faith so attractive to me. I’m especially reminded of specific people God has sent my way over the past few years who have not only exemplified the theological virtues of faith, hope, and love, but also the cardinal virtues of prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance. The fruit of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control) have been obvious in their lives. Because of all that, they are also humble and honest. Those are the sorts of people that I want to listen to, because I want to become more like them. I want to imitate them as they imitate Christ.

(This was adapted from something I previously posted on Facebook.)

Holy Week and Death

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What I thought was exhaustion and jet lag upon returning home from Thailand and Nepal quickly turned into fever, cough, malaise, and weakness. I spent three days in bed, emerging only for trips to bathroom and kitchen. The trips to the kitchen seemed grueling in my weakened and dizzy state; after getting something to drink and some other basic necessity, I’d collapse into a recliner to rest up for the trip back down the hallway and back to bed.

Most of the time, I slept.

Until I got sick, I had had two priorities for that time: to rush to my mother’s side and make up for the time together I’d missed while gone, and to ready our house for a visit from my daughter and her family. Neither was to be.

This was supposed to be an extra special time, something I’ve been eagerly anticipating. Last year, after Pascha, I had determined to make this Holy Week even more of a priority; I’d marked it off on my calendar so as not to inadvertently schedule anything else during that time. Among other things, I was looking forward to joining local parishes in an annual 15 mile Stations of the Cross walk on Good Friday.

As time went on, the significance of this year grew even more — three people I deeply love will be entering the Church during the Easter Vigil at the local Roman Catholic parish, the same one where my daughter and her family had entered the Church.

But my best laid plans were being upended. When it was growing very close to the time that my daughter and family were to begin traveling here, I was still very sick. We agreed that it would be best if they didn’t come. In the meantime, all my efforts were going towards recovering so that I would be well enough to visit my mother and not put her and her entire care home at serious risk.

I spent Palm Sunday alone at home… Not being at church was eerily reminiscent of 2020, during the COVID lockdowns.

On Monday of Holy Week, I was feeling much better and considered donning an N95 mask and visiting my mother. Her nurse, hearing me cough over the phone, urged me to stay home.

On Tuesday of Holy Week, the nurse suggested I come. I quickly got ready and was on my way out to the car when I got the phone call from one of my mother’s caregivers.

My mother was gone.

Somehow I managed to drive. I managed to try to make two phone calls while I was driving — using my silly little dumb phone and praying I wouldn’t crash. One person answered, and somehow I managed to deliver the sad news and drive at the same time and not run off the road and not crash into anyone.

I worked at a hospital in my early 20’s. I watched some people die. I saw dead bodies. Years later, I watched my brother die. More recently, I watched my father die.

But nothing, nothing on earth, could have ever prepared me for walking alone into my mother’s room and encountering her still warm but lifeless body.

I sat vigil at her bedside. I prayed. I did the typical thing we tend to do when our loved ones die and we feel compelled to speak to them as if they are still there. I searched for her Daily Light but both copies of her favorite devotional book had managed to disappear from her room in my absence. I prayed some more.

In between, I had an awful moment of collapsing on the floor in profound grief.

I made a few phone calls. I answered some. It is in moments like these, in the depths of pain and sorrow, when I am always so profoundly awestruck by those people in my life who somehow know how to love me well, who show me Jesus by allowing Him to shine through them. If I were to sum up my “testimony”, my faith journey thus far, it’s that — as I often say these days — “God wooed and pursued me”. And He often used people to do so. Some of those people were God’s hands and feet and voice yesterday, when I needed that tender loving comfort most of all.

My husband arrived just in time so that we could watch them take my mother’s body off to the mortuary.

I lost my beloved Opa shortly before Holy Week of 1977, and celebrating the Resurrection in the midst of grief seemed oh so profoundly glorious. In the years since, and especially now that I celebrate the liturgical calendar more deeply and fully, Holy Week has become much more significant and meaningful — and the Resurrection tremendously more triumphant and joy-filled.

There is no better time, it seems, to be so exhausted, so wracked with grief and loss, and so at the end of oneself than now, this very week.