Tertullian, Voltaire, and the Lectio Difficilior

 Did you find yourself sputtering, as you read yesterday's post, "But -- but -- but what about Tertullian?"  We certainly did ourselves, even as we were typing away. But perhaps we need not have.

Yesterday, we posted about the remark, attributed to Voltaire, that "the one who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities."  The remark, we observed, is a misquotation; Voltaire wrote something a bit subtler, about injustices.  But the maxim is still worth remembering, particularly in a time when over-the-top heretical thinking has seized both political power and the the public name of Christianity.

Yet all the while, as we pontificated about those who make you believe absurdities, we were guiltily thinking of old Quintus Septimius Florens Tertullianus, the first great Latin theologian. Did he not say, as we distinctly remember being taught in an introductory church history course,  "Credo quia absurdum est, I believe because it is absurd?" Is it not, therefore, practically incumbent upon us Christians to accept uncritically an entire body of historic doctrine not despite but because it gives offense to ordinary reason?

Well, no. The first thing is not what he said. Nor, even if Tertullian were an unimpeachable guide to Christian belief, would the second thing be quite what he had intended. Poor Quintus S.F.T. has, it seems, been more misquoted and misrepresented.  And ironically enough, a chief part in the drama has been played by Voltaire himself.

In his treatise De carne Christi (5.4), Tertullian argues against Marcion and the Docetists generally that Christ did indeed possess a natural human body, one which therefore was both born and crucified. In the midst of this argument, he writes:

parce unicae spei totius orbis: quid destruis necessarium dedecus fidei? quodcunque deo indignum est mihi expedit: salvus sum si non confundar de domino meo: Qui me, inquit, confusus fuerit, confundar et ego eius. alias non invenio materias confusionis quae me per contemptum ruboris probent bene impudentem et feliciter stultum. crucifixus est dei filius: non pudet, quia pudendum est. et mortuus est dei filius: prorsus credibile est, quia ineptum est. et sepultus resurrexit: certum est, quia impossibile. sed haec quomodo vera in illo erunt si ipse non fuit verus, si non vere habuit in se quod figeretur quod moreretur quod sepeliretur et resuscitaretur, carnem scilicet hanc sanguine suffusam ossibus substructam nervis intextam venis implexam, quae nasci et mori novit, humanam sine dubio ut natam de
homine? ideoque mortalis haec erit in Christo quia Christus homo et filius hominis. aut cur homo Christus et hominis filius si nihil hominis et nihil ex homine, nisi si aut aliud est homo quam caro, aut aliunde caro hominis quam ex homine, aut aliud est Maria quam homo, aut homo deus Marcionis?

In English:

Spare the one and only hope of the whole world: why tear down the indispensable dishonour of the faith? Whatever is beneath God's dignity is for my advantage. I am saved if I am not ashamed of my Lord. Whosoever is ashamed of me, he says, of him will I also be ashamed. (Mark 8:3) I find no other grounds for shame, such as may prove that in contempt of dishonour I am nobly shameless and advantageously a fool. The Son of God was crucified: I am not ashamed--because it is shameful. The Son of God died: it is immediately credible--because it is silly. He was buried, and rose again: it is certain--because it is impossible. But how can these acts be true in him, if he himself was not true, if he had not truly in himself that which could be crucified, which could die, which could be buried and raised up again--this flesh, in fact, suffused with blood, scaffolded of bones, threaded through with sinews, intertwined with veins, competent to be born and to die, human unquestionably, as born of a human mother? And in Christ this flesh will be mortal precisely because Christ is man, and Son of Man. Else why is Christ called Man, and Son of Man, if he has nothing that is man's, and nothing derived from man?--unless perchance either man is something other than flesh, or man's flesh is derived from somewhere else than from man, or Mary is something other than human, or Marcion's god is a man.

The whole thing is worth reading, if only to recall just what an entertaining stylist Tertullian was. 

But let us note the key words, which are: The Son of God died: it is immediately credible, because it is silly. He was buried and rose again; it is certain, because it is impossible. This is not quite the maxim we were taught, and in context, its meaning seems quite different that we had been led to believe.

In a fine 2017 article in Church History, Peter Harrison sketches the ways that this remark has been changed over the years, and the rhetorical purposes behind those changes.  To summarize, he detects two principal changes: Thomas Browne, in Religio Medici (1643), adds a personal note -- credibile becomes credo; and 124 years later Voltaire (in Le Diner du Comte de Boulanvilliers) makes the still more important change, by rendering ineptum into French as as absurde. Harrison argues that Browne, a convinced if eccentric Protestant, is using language, borrowed from the liturgical creeds, to emphasize the importance of one's personal appropriation of the common faith, and that Voltaire is trying to emphasize the irrationality of faith altogether.  Harrison also shows that, throughout the modern period, this misquoted phrase has been held up frequently as an instance of faith as the willful abandonment of reason, variously contrasting Protestantism to Catholicism, Latin Christianity with Greek, or religion with unbelief.

A key problem is the translation of ineptum. Voltaire's absurde, like Ernest Evans' 1956 silly, quoted above, is lexically feasible. But neither quite hits the mark in context. Ineptus can be used a synonym for absurdus, meaning discordant, out-of-character, and carrying distinct tones of irrationality. But its primary senses according to Lewis & Short, are "unsuitable, impertinent, improper, tasteless," and another dictionary prefers "undignified."

When Tertullian uses the word, his argument centers not on whether Christ's incarnation, birth and death are reasonable, but whether they are dignified -- and his conclusion that they are not. The logic here is not easy for moderns to parse, but it helps to remember how many Patristic arguments are predicated on what is "fitting" for God to do. Tertullian seems argue that those "Christians" who deny the reality of the Lord's body (a form of materialism, and closer than he to what we would call "rationalism") call themselves Christians, but fail to embrace the paradoxical nature of the Gospel. In Christ, God over and over undertakes things which are not only uncharacteristic but undignified, even unworthy, of "God" as conceived by philosophy: to become human, to be born, to be killed -- and yet never ceases to be God.

To be sure, there is a bit of an anti-rational, or anti-rationalistic, argument here, but it falls well short of the common depiction of Tertullian as an advocate of uncritical acceptance of official doctrine. He is, at most, foreshadowing Luther's "theology of the Cross," with its emphasis upon the appearance of God in seemingly unlikely places.

On the contrary, as Harrison shows, Tertullian in this very work and elsewhere is eager to defend the human power of reason as well as to demand causes, reasons, for his own beliefs. His argument about indignity and impossibility may even proceed from Aristotle, who in the Rhetoric (2:23) suggests that reports of highly improbable events are more likely to be trustworthy than those of ordinary ones, because (quoting Harrison) "the only thing that would make a witness believe such a thing is that it had happened."

And in fact -- here we depart from Harrison, who must not be blamed -- Tertullian's claim, that the Incarnation and related events are credible because they do not seem like what one would expect from God, places him in line not with the irrationalist fanatics of the contemporary Christian world, but with their regular opponents, the hardheaded historical-critical Bible scholars. Is it not, after all, a maxim of textual and literary critics that lectio difficilior potior, meaning the more difficult reading of a text is the stronger one? By this they mean that, when an author writes something that seems odd or out of place, later scribes have a natural tendency to amend it to a more readily digestible form; and therefore the scholar, confronting two manuscript traditions, should take the one that seems "wrong" to be correct.

This, then, seems to be Tertullian's argument that Jesus possessed a true body against those who thought he merely gave that appearance: that they are trying to smooth over the difficulty of the authentic narrative, by retelling it in a way that seems more fitting for the "god" in whom they believe; but that in doing so, they lose the precise element which makes the original story convincing, which is that it presents a new and different vision of God.

Absurdities and Atrocities

One hears, not infrequently, a remark to the effect that "one who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities." It came up this very evening, as we were preparing a sermon, and we wanted to ascertain the authentic form of the the phrase.

Turns out to be a loose translation of Voltaire. He admits that there are things a person may believe by faith, and then proposes that a wise person will not "make the sacrifice of reason in the conduct of our lives." At which point, he admits:

Il y a eu des gens qui ont dit autrefois : Vous croyez des choses incompréhensibles, contradictoires, impossibles, parce que nous vous l’avons ordonné ; faites donc des choses injustes parce que nous vous l’ordonnons. Ces gens-là raisonnaient à merveille. 

Certainement qui est en droit de vous rendre absurde est en droit de vous rendre injuste. Si vous n’opposez point aux ordres de croire l’impossible l’intelligence que Dieu a mise dans votre esprit, vous ne devez point opposer aux ordres de malfaire la justice que Dieu a mise dans votre cœur. (Questions sur les Miracles, 11ieme Lettre)

In English, that is something to this effect. 

"There have been people who thought otherwise [saying]: You believe incomprehensible, contradictory, impossible things, because we have commanded you believe them; so do unjust things because we command do you now." These people reason marvelously!

Certainly, whoever has the right to make you act absurdly has the right to make you act unjustly. If you do not oppose the command to believe the impossible with the intelligence God has placed in your mind, then you ought not to oppose the command to do evil with the sense of justice God has placed in your heart.

Walter Olson credits the more familiar phrasing, about absurdities and atrocities, to Norman Lewis Torrey in Les Philosophes (1961). I cannot find it there. In any case, the translation may be loose, but it is not wrong.

How did this figure in our sermon, preached on the Fourth of July in this semi-quincentenary year. Well, we were mixing up a number of images -- Zechariah calling the Judahites "prisoners of hope;" Paul escaping Damascus in a basket; Jesus promising that his "burden" of Tarah interpretation is "lighter" than that imposed upon their disciples by the Pharisees. There may have been something in there from Philippians, as well, about our true commonwealth.

Bit of a stewpot, to be honest. But that's not the point.

I was thinking about the peculiar role of religion in American history, and in America today. In particular, I was thinking about the strange phenomenon that these days calls itself "American Evangelicalism."  The name is, of course, misleading; the people of whom I am thinking are far more deeply invested in law than in gospel, and the law in question is by no means always God's.  In fact, "American Evangelicalis" often seem to use Christian language and imagery to tell an entirely different story, one more like an ethno-nationalist Gnosticism.

But they certainly do impose absurdities upon their followers, don't they? Has there ever been a time in American history when science -- the method and the results alike -- was held in such disrepute? Flat-earthers, anti-vaxxers, and their ilk are having a field day. Never mind the measles outbreak and the soldiers sidelined by flu. In place of observation, experiment, and hypothesis, the order of the day is to proceed based upon appeals to the leader's "gut," or to the undocumented (and unexpressed) will of "the American people." Neither of these is an effective antiseptic.

Those who have begun espousing the absurdities then commit, if not outright atrocities, acts of staggering folly -- Voltaire's choses injustes. These sycophants gut the senior military leadership, shrivel the diplomatic corps, abandon the combination of soft power and military alliances that were linchpins of American influence, and on and on. All the while, they punch downward, hard, often and publicly, at the most vulnerable people they can find -- Haitians, the transgendered, pregnant women, and black voters in the South.

Most surprising is that many of the people doing these things do them in service to a man who has publicly humiliated them, personally, along with their families.  He insults their fathers and their wives, he calls them names in public, and yet they stand by, offering him and endless string of effusive compliments, as he violates the law over and over, sets criminals free in almost-certain exchange for cash, and starts an utterly pointless war with a major strategic adversary, which reveals American weakness and leaves us in a weaker tactical position afterward.

Obviously, these are difficult times for America, and especially for the ideals of the Founders.  But they are especially difficult times for classical Christianity, of the sort represented by creeds and confessions, by ecumenical dialogues and collaboration on works of mercy. The Christianity represented by, say, the World Council of Churches scarcely registers with the politicians, the press or even its own members as a vital force in public affairs. Even Roman Catholicism, barring a scandal, a schism, or a creative misappropriation of its theology by the Vice President, gets shoved to the side in the public square.

In place of anything recognizable as historic Christianity, we get the Prosperity Gospel, the New Apostolic Reformation, and Trump-as-Jesus memes. 

Perhaps I was mistaken, when I allowed that our leaders have not yet committed "atrocities." There are certainly some dead Iranian schoolchildren whose corpses argue against me. And although far less grave, I wonder whether history may not see the setting aside of Christianity and the lifting up of a vile pretender as an atrocity of its own kind.

I Am Baptized, Part 2

Among Luther's many uses of the phrase "I am baptized," one appears to be cited with special frequency. It is from his Table-Talk for 18 February 1542, as recorded by a graduate student named Caspar Heydenreich (TR 5658a). It can be found in the WA Tischreden series, in v. 5 on page 295.  

Luther's Table-Talks are quoted frequently, but should be approached with caution. They are not, after all, the product of a scholar in his study, writing for posterity, nor even of a lecturer or preacher hoping to shape the hearts of his listeners. They are dinner-time chat, extemporized at a boarding-house table, as food is chewed, wine is poured, amid squawking children and a dog pleading for scraps. They were then transcribed by guests, presumably with some reconstruction from memory. Moreover, many of them have been passed on in forms altered for publication by Luther's sometime secretary, John Aurifaber. Although modern scholarship has recovered the underlying manuscript evidence, the altered versions are still in circulation.

On top of that, the Table-Talk are (as conversation at Luther's table surely was) a mixture of German and Latin, which can be a little disorienting for many, and a genuine obstacle for some.

Those caveats duly caveatted, what was Luther talking about on that winter evening almost five centuries ago? 

According to Heydenreich, it was a "discourse on predestination," but that is really only part of it. As was Luther's wont, it seems (at a quick reading) to be a rambling reflection on his own spiritual life, and especially on the transition from dread of divine judgment to assurance of favor.  It is especially touching that he still speaks warmly and repeatedly of his old spiritual mentor, von Staupitz, who had at this point been two decades in the grave.

Here's a snippet of the original:

Alioquin illae cogitationes sunt diabolicae de praedestinatione. Ficht dich die cogitatio an, so sprich: Ego sum filius Del, sum baptizatus, credo in lesum Christum pro me crucifixum, lass mich zu friden, zu Teufel!  Tum illa cogitatio te deseret. Also list man von einer nonnen, quae vexabatur a Diabolo miserabilibus illis cogitationibus; wen er ein spruch gemacht hett und mit seinen feurigen pfeilen kam, so sprach sie nit mer den dise wort: Sum christiana. Das verstund der Teufel wol, und war so vil gesagt: Ego credo in Deum crucifixum, qui ad dextram Patris sedet et mei curam gerit et qui pro me interpellare solet; du leidiger Teufel. las mich zu friden, ille me suo impenetrabili sigillo certum reddidit. 

Honestly, this is a bit beyond our modest translation abilities, but it seems to say something like this:

In any case, these thoughts of predestination are demonic. If a thought bothers you, say: I am a child of God, I am baptized, I believe in Jesus Christ crucified for me, so leave me alone you devil! Then this thought leaves you. 

So we read of a nun whom the Devil tormented miserably with these thoughts. When he had come to her with speech like burning arrows, she said only these words: I am a Christian.  The Devil understood that perfectly well, and no more needed to be said. 

I believe in the Crucified God, who sits at the right hand of the Father and cares for me and who habitually intercedes for me. Leave me alone, you pitiable devil, for he has surely given me his invincible sign.

Note that there is nothing here about chalk or a handkerchief. For that matter, although in context Luther has been speaking of his own experience, he is not here telling a personal anecdote concerning a diabolic visitation during one of his Anfechtungen. Rather, Luther distances the story from himself, by using what appears to be a conventional preacher's topos: "We read about a certain nun," he says. Yet after ending the story -- "no more needed to be said" -- Luther continues, perhaps putting further words into the mouth of his fictional nun, but more likely imagining either himself or his audience in her place, and giving them an alternative protective formula.

If, incidentally, the words "protective formula" sound like something out of Keith Thomas, it seems fitting that it might. Although it is widely held that (as a publisher's blurb for Religion and the Decline of Magic puts it) "the Protestant Reformation attempted to take the magic out of religion," this is a surprisingly debatable point. We once heard a fine lecture by a colleague, an expert on Johannes Kelpius and the Wissahickon Hermits, who observed that well into the 17th century, it was still quite normal for the Protestant clergy, very much including Lutherans, to deal in potions and amulets as part of their pastoral practice.  In a 2019 article for the Science Museum Group Journal, Annie Thwaite gives examples of various amulets, the most interesting of which is a gold coin given to those healed of scrofula by Charles I, to be worn around the neck as protection against further infection. In an engraving, the king is shown healing his subjects, surrounded by approving courtiers -- at least three of whom are clearly Anglican priests.

Perhaps we are overthinking this, but it seems to us that in this particular Table-Talk, Luther is using the language of faith and the sacraments much the way somebody else might have used a magical incantation. He even identifies baptism as an "impenetrable sigil," an invincible sign, given to him by Christ -- not so different from the golden coin given by Charles to his subjects.

This observation in no way accuses Luther of mechanizing faith or religious rituals -- his life's work may be conceived as an extended argument against that implication of ex opere operato. Nor does it identify Luther as somehow "medieval" in contrast to the "early moderns" around him.  It rather reminds us that early modern theology was quite different from the late modernity more familiar to us. Symbols functioned a little differently, we think, and it was as natural to use words (in a curious recursion of Wimsatt’s “verbal icon”) to defend oneself against doubt, fear and deviltry as to use a magic coin against disease.

UPDATE: a few hours after posting this, we learned of a 2011 book by Carolyn Schneider exploring Luther’s repeated use of the story about the nun. We haven’t seen the book (yet), but here’s a review: https://crossings.org/book-review-i-am-a-christian-the-nun-the-devil-and-martin-luther-carolyn-m-schneider/

I Am Baptized, Part 1

 Doing some routine pastoral work on a snowy morning in the Iron City, Father A. stumbled across a form letter written by a predecessor in which Martin Luther is purported to have said Baptisma sum. Obviously, Luther did not say this precisely, since it would have meant either that he was baptism itself personified, or perhaps a baptized female. What he did say, however, is ego sum baptizatus, "I am baptized," and this is something he said often.

But when and in what context did he say this?  We thought it might be enjoyable to track down a few instances now and then, as time allows.  Most of of us have heard stories about Luther mentioning his baptism to ward off the Devil, or writing it in chalk and covering it with a hankie (as he did with the Lord's hoc est corpus meum at Marburg). If a reader can provide citations to either of these, we will be most grateful.

Meanwhile, here is a little something for starters.

In his Lectures on Genesis from the 1540s, Luther discusses 26:15-16, and praises Isaac's patience at a time when it would have been easy to feel forsaken by God, and proposes it as a model for Christians:

In spite of all, we should say "I believe. I have been baptized. I have been absolved. I have God's promise of grace and mercy. I have enough. Whether night, day, tribulation or joy befalls me, I shall nevertheless not forfeit His mercy or lose courage." (LW 5; consulted online, so no page number is available; cf WA 43:469).

This is quite a quotable moment. If you are pretentious and would like to quote it in Latin, come sit by us at the Synod assembly:

...  dicamus tamen: Credo, sum baptisatus, sum absolutus, habeo divinam promissionem gratiae et misericordiae, satis habeo, sive nox, sive dies, sive tribulatio, sive laetitia mihi obversentur: non tamen amittam misericordiam, nec despondebo animum.

Another instance from Luther's 1523/1524 discussion of Genesis, which exists in two forms as recorded by two students, concerns the faith of Noah, in chapter 7.

You see what the Word can do, if it is understood by faith; it protected him for 150 days. This is written to praise faith, because the Scriptures are given in order that faith may be preached. Here there is no need of Noah's works to help. What is the bare word of God? "Make an ark and I will be with you." 

This let us learn, and this is written for us, so that when the hour of death or affliction comes, we will not ask "Where shall we stay?" That to those who say "I am dying," and ["Woe is me,"] may stand firm in the words "I am baptized." [You pray:] "Thus have you spoken, O Christ"; and as much as Death invades, so much more must you hold to the Word.

That is a very weak translation; Latinists are welcome -- nay, implored -- to improve it based on the original:

Vides, quid verbum possit, si fide percipitur, quod servavit 150 dies. Hoc scriptum est pro laude fidei, quia data est scriptura, ut fides praedicetur. Hic nullum opus adiumento Noe. Quid autem nudum verbum dei 'fac arcam, Ego tecum ero', hoc discamus, et nobis scriptum, quando hora venit vel mortis vel afflictionis, ut non quaeramus, ubi manebimus? ut illi dicunt "Ich stirb und weis wie" sed consistendum in verbo 'ego baptizatus sum'. 'Ita dixisti, Christe", et quanto plus invadit mors, tanto plus verbum arripe. 

In the first passage, baptism is connected closely to faith, absolution, grace, mercy and even providence.  It is as if Luther, quite possible speaking off the cuff, simply lists a series of God's gifts. In the second (if we have understood it correctly) Luther uses baptism as a defense against the familiar medieval dread of death. It will surprise nobody familiar with Luther that, in both passages, he connects baptism closely to the Word of God.

The Morning After ... Blues

 As we write, the newsboys are standing on the corners shouting, "Wuxtry! Read all about it! Blue wave swamps billionaires' yacht! Getcha morning paper!"

Which is to say the the November 2025 election appears to be good news for the Democratic Party and correspondingly bad for the Republicans. This appearance is purely arithmetical, in the sense that it is attested by votes counted and estimated. While no doubt encouraging, it is by no means clear -- nor could it be at this preliminary stage -- that the results will actually conduce to strengthening the Democratic Party or weakening the grip of Trumpism on America.

Two of the most heralded victories of the moment, for example, are those of Zohran Mamdani in New York City and Abigail Spanberger in Virginia.  Neither of these is surprising in itself. Mamdani was the Democratic nominee in a city where Democrats enjoy a powerful historic advantage, notwithstanding the Giuliani years. Spanberger was the Democratic nominee in a state where governors must stand down after a single term, and are most often chosen from the party that does not hold the White House. (She was also running against a Black woman in the South.) So neither victory was inherently unpredictable.

The more interesting point, as pundits observed often during the campaign, is that these are two very different varieties of Democrat. New York's mayor-elect is conspicuously young for the job, at 34. Although born in Africa, he was raised in the cushiest and New-Yorkest of confines, among the Upper West Side's academic and artistic elites.  His politics certainly lean left, as reflected by his decade-long affiliation with the Democratic Socialists. He is a Muslim. Also -- and perhaps most interesting to both readers of this blog -- he worked on the unsuccessful 2017 campaign of our friend and seminary classmate, the Rev. Khader El-Yateem.

Spanberger is 12 years older than Mamdani. In matters of faith, she is something called "Protestant Unspecified," which we imagine means as religious as her constituents need her to be in the moment. Born in New Jersey but raised in Virginia, with a background in federal law enforcement and intelligence, she has cut a considerably more conservative pose. After the Dems' 2020 election losses, she famously argued that they had suffered because Republicans were able to accuse them of "socialism," as well as because of the poorly-phrased call to "defund the police." She went so far as to propose that no Democrat should ever use the word "socialist" again.

Clearly, these two Democrats are shaped differently, both by their life experience and by the constituencies they serve. While it is certainly true that America's two principal parties are by nature complex and often unwieldy coalitions, it is also fair to ask how easily these two leaders, or their respective supporters, will be able to collaborate on policy and governance.  This is not a new question; the co-existence of conservative Democrats and liberal Democrats is as old as the party. But in a time when Republicans are so very ascendant, and so very averse to be caught compromising with the other party, it will be impossible for Democrats to make headway except by working closely with each other, even when their convictions and constituencies differ deeply.

Looking for analogies on the other side of the aisle, we recall that the Paleo-Cons and Neo-Cons of old managed reasonably well despite some fundamental differences. Yes, the Tea Party was the bane of John Boehner's life, but he was also able to make common cause with them against the ACA, and even to promote the career of a TP leader.  More recently, though, there appears to be an impassible chasm between the radical Republicans aligned with President Trump and virtually the entirety of the party's old guard.  Even the late Dick Cheney, than whom few Republican leaders could be called more Republican, and whom this blog pilloried with zeal during his vice-presidency, cast his last vote for a Democrat. 

Put plainly, Republicans unwilling to endorse both Trump's extreme policies and his chaotic personal style find themselves as impotent at the moment as Democrats, if not more so. Democrats are feeling good indeed this morning, as well they might -- but their ability to continue feeling good, and above all to govern effectively, may come to depend on their ability to do what the Republicans currently cannot and do not need to: work closely even when they disagree.

Good Sermons, Warm Welcome, and Maybe a Maniple

Legend has it that 70% of the new members at an average American church are there because they were invited by a friend.

For thirty years or more, this factoid has been passed around among the clergy like a joint at a hippie gathering, which is to say that it has been held reverentially, spoken of in hushed but appreciative tones, breathed in and then put aside until it is needed again -- all while, quite possibly, creating mild hallucinations.

The truth is that the supposed study behind this figure is hard to track down, and even if it exists it is very old.  American church life has changed dramatically in the past 50 years, and especially in the last 5.  Moreover, standards of privacy and sociability have also changed.  What was once genial may now seem intrusive -- ask any pastor who still drops in unannounced, or at least the people upon whom that pastor drops in.

The most recent information we can find that might support the old 70%-invited-by-a-friend comes from Pew Research, which is generally pretty creditable (as opposed to, say, Barna).  It also places that number in an important context.

In 2026, Pew released a report called "Choosing a New Church or House of Worship," based on data from a 2014 study.  This wouldn't be so very old, had not COVID intervened, but COVID did intervened, and so the results must be looked at skeptically indeed. Still, it will be a while before anything newer covers the same territory in as much detail.

The overall conclusion of the report may be the least surprising thing ever said on the subject, summed up in a headline:  "Americans look for good sermons, warm welcome."  (The report also ranks "worship style" almost as high as homiletics and how-d'ya-do, so don't forget your maniple, because nothing says style like a ceremonial hand-towel.) 

Location also matters, so choose yours wisely, as do programs for the wee ones.  All of these things -- sermons, welcome, style, location, programs -- seem to be ranked more highly on the list of reasons that worshipers choose a new church than personal connections.  But those connections do play a role.  The report offers this useful chart:

There it is in the second column: 69% of people seeking a new church have talked to members of the congregation.  That is not far at all from our 70% story.  And the numbers also back up an important corollary of the legend -- conversation with lay members appears to be more important than conversation with the clergy.

But where the legend is framed to highlight the urgency of personal invitation, the wording of the study implies that the person seeking a church may be more active, and the church member more passive.  More important still is the addition of "friends and colleagues," a category which is apparently separate from church members.   

Our conclusion is something like this:  The legend is spun to encourage congregants to invite people to church, and to make them feel a little bit guilty if their church isn't growing.  The numbers presented by Pew suggest that in fact a person looking for a place to worship will ask around rather broadly, and compile a sort of "local reputation score" consisting of what impression of a church they get from different sources, including but not limited to its members.  This seems natural.

It should be obvious that, since 2014, the internet has continued to take over every aspect of our lives, including our spiritual affiliations. How many of us live-streamed a decade ago?  How many of us even considered the possibility of what is politely called "virtual communion"?  In that spirit, it seems natural to assume that, were this study to be repeated in 2025, the "looked for information online" category would have eaten up numbers from the others, and probably swallowed the quaint old-fashioned "made a phone call" bones and all.

Anyway, it seems to us that the basics are unlikely to have changed.  A church that hopes to grow should certainly have good preaching, welcome new people with love, worship with zeal, and be located in an accessible place.  A good website doesn't hurt, and neither does a favorable reputation. 

To all these things we add:  Many churches possess all these attributes and do not grow.  Some possess most of them and still shrink. Such are the times in which we live.  Don't beat up on yourself, whether you are a pastor or a lay member.  And don't beat up on each other, either.  Ultimately, it is in God's hands, not ours.

An American(ish) Pope!

 Our deepest condolences to Robert Cardinal Prevost, Archbishop Emeritus of Chiclayo, Peru. Having been elected, he will rule as Leo XIV, and we wish him the very best.

We has considered him out of contention because he is an American, but that merely shows how little we know. His nationality is historic, although its practical significance is hard to guess. We are deeply encouraged by his years of service in Peru, which speaks to a continued papal emphasis on care for the poor. And we are delighted that he is (like Luther) a member of the Augustinian order.

Please keep him in prayer tonight, as his life changes irrevocably.

The Room of Tears

 

This is the Room of Tears.

It is a small chamber to the left of the altar in the Sistine Chapel. Some day quite soon, one man will walk into it, don one or more of the garments in this photo -- not having been tailored, they will not fit properly; it is possible they will be secured with safety pins -- and then be presented to the crowds waiting in Piazza San Pietro. He will be the new pope.

The people in the crowd (and watching on television) will be straining their eyes for some hint of what is to come.  Will he wear the mozzetta, or abjure it?  Will he speak in Italian -- and if so, with what accent? Before he has gone to bed, the city and the world, but most especially the internet, will be alive with hopes and fears, acclamations and derogations, all based on the flimsiest guesswork, and the most trivial research.

You can imagine where this plain little room gets its nickname.  It has long been our custom ot offer condolences to our friends and colleagues elected as mere bishops. The challenges of serving as the Bishop of Rome, Patriarch of the West, and all those other things they are called, are unimaginable.

The Tragedy of Sweden?

 A few Lutherans have expressed mild interest in the potential papacy of Anders Arborius. We are not among them.

Arborius is a well-respected church leader, the first and only Swedish cardinal, formerly chair of the Episcopal Conference of Scandinavia (which we imagine must be a rather small organization.) He is also a convert from Lutheranism to Roman Catholicism.

It is this last fact that excites the mild interest among Lutherans -- "One of us," we cry, out of habit.  Bit of course, he has deliberately chosen not to be one of us, preferring instead not only to join the 1.5% of his countrymen in communion with the Pope, but also to become a Discalced Carmelite, a group with strong ties to the Counter-Reformation. (We do wonder how he manages to go shoeless in those Swedish winters).

In an interview published online, when asked about the unique contributions of Swedish Catholicism, Arborius first denies that there are any, saying in effect that "we're just like other Swedes," and then takes a cheap shot at the church of his childhood:

Because there is no real longing for female priests among Catholics, we can concentrate upon the real [sic] possibilities for women. We have seen the tragedy of the Lutheran Church of Sweden, where there have been female ministers since 1958. Since then, a fierce conflict has raged between those in favor of female ministers and those in opposition.

Disapproving of the ordination of women is not, by itself, remarkable or disappointing in a cardinal; it is pretty much his job description. But the fact is that he wasn't asked about it, or about the majority church in his nation  He decided on his own that those were the things he wanted to talk about. 

On balance, we do not think somebody who considers the Church of Sweden to be a "tragedy" would be a useful ecumenical partner for the LWF. 

On the other hand, we are interested in Robert Cardinal Prevost, Archbishop Emeritus of Chiclayo, Peru.  He will never be pope, goes the familiar logic, because he is an American by birth.  But among his many leadership positions, Prevost served for twelve years as the Prior General of his religious community -- the Order of Saint Augustine.  We do like our Augustinians.

“Who Am I to Judge?”

 Ex officio, of course, he was Antichrist. Nonetheless, we found him quite admirable.  

The late Jorge Mario Bergoglio, who reigned as Pope Francis from 2013 to 2025, has died or, if you prefer, entered the Church Triumphant.  His vita can be sketched out around a series of dates: born and  baptized in 1936, a Jesuit since 1960, ordained in 1969, consecrated bishop in 1992, made Archbishop of Buenos Aires in 1998 and a cardinal in 2001. 

Of course there is far more to it than dates.  He was born as totalitarian governments were rising all over the world, and when he died almost ninety years later, they were rising again. A quick review of Argentina’s history reminds us that Bergoglio’s life and career were shadowed by malign political forces, from the US-approved Rawson coup in his early childhood, through the tumultuous decades of Peronism, and the “Dirty War” of the 1960s and 70s, in which government forces brutalized anyone suspected of leftist sympathies — including some of the Jesuits. (Accusations have been both made and disputed that, as the very young provincial of his order, Bergoglio was at least insufficiently forceful in defending some of his priests from state violence).

Archbishop Bergoglio was by no means a “liberation theologian” of the sort one found in those days, including among Latin American Jesuits like Leonardo Boff and Juan Luis Segundo. He was a more traditional institutionalist figure, busy with building new parishes, reforming diocesan finances, and opposing abortion. But he was also, and clearly, passionate about the church’s work among very poor people, not only symbolically, with Holy Thursday foot-washing ceremonies in jails and slums, but also by doubling the number of priests assigned to villeros, or shantytowns.

As pope, he was clearly the same man.  While the press sometimes tried to portray him as a radical departure from previous popes, such stories often ended by complaining that he really wasn’t. Perhaps Francis looked momentarily shocking when, stepping onto the balcony, he eschewed the ermine stole in favor of a white cassock — but that was mostly because his immediate predecessor had done so much to restore the old-fashioned finery that John Paul II had relegated to the Vatican’s no-doubt-vast wardrobe closets. In fact, much of Francis’ papacy was devoted to finances (continuing the effort to clean the Augean stables reform the Vatican Bank); he was steadfast on abortion; he was really no better than his immediate predecessors at dealing with sexually abusive priests. Women are no closer than before to ordination in the Roman church, and indeed canonically even a bit further away.

But it is said that, on the eve of his election, he was given a hug by Claudio Cardinal Hummes, who whispered, “Don’t forget the poor.” There was little danger. The new Bishop of Rome was as clearly and publicly concerned for the indigent of his diocese as had been the former Archbishop of Buenos Aires. Early on, it was leaked to the press (surely by a public-relations officer) that the new pope slipped out at night in a plain black clerical suit, to provide pastoral care to his flock. The foot-washing continued. More to the point, perhaps, he made clear that he was modeling the behavior he wanted to see from all the clergy.  The shepherd, he said, ought to smell like the sheep. 

So why, if Francis was basically a typical modern pope, albeit dressed more simply than some and a bit more hands-on in his concern for the poor, was he so often perceived, or imagined, to be something more unique, even extreme?  Part of it, no doubt, was the informality of his personal style — which will have come as no surprise to anyone who has spent much time in Latin America, or for that matter the Western Hemisphere.  But another, and likely larger, part, was the resistance he encountered from a particularly intransigent faction of church leaders. Yes, we’re looking at you, Cardinal Burke.

From the moment he shunned that ermine stole, they called him a dictator.  Their argument was, in the beginning, as dumb as “he places himself above tradition in matters of regalia,” a claim that simply sets aside the freedom in such matters enjoyed by all popes, especially recently. (Tyranny is an especially odd charge to bring against the pope who most signally promoted “synodality,” or the relative freedom of regional bishops to make decisions for themselves.) Then, paradoxically,  they called him wish-washy about doctrine, since although he wouldn’t endorse divorce without annulment, he wondered aloud if people who had gone that route might not receive the Eucharist, Likewise, although he would not not ordain women, he made the remarkable move of giving them an official voice in church affairs.  Worst of all, we suspect, was his infamous public failure to judge.

You know the story.  It was July, 2013. On return flight from Brazil, the new pope was talking with reporters, informally (it seems) but on the record.  Sounding out the pontiff, and surely searching for a headline, somebody asked if a “gay lobby” existed within the Vatican. His answer was long and thoughtful.  He said that the question is treated well in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which called to avoid marginalizing gay people, including those with a clerical vocation, but to integrate them into society; that special-interest lobbies themselves (such as those of Freemasons or greedy people) are a significant problem, because “we must all be brothers.”  And, still speaking off the cuff, he said the words that will no doubt form a part of his historical legacy:

If someone is gay, and he searches for the Lord and has good will, who am I to judge?

Hardly an atom bomb, on its face. There have been gay priests as long as there have been priests, and the business of not judging has an honorable heritage, beginning with the Sermon on the Mount. But this thoughtful, Scriptural, Catechism-based phrase brought down upon Francis the wrath, if not of God, then at least of those who considered themselves godly.  Any chance that he might have had in their eyes was over.  His critics were and remain merciless.

To his credit, Francis put up with it well. His skin was fairly thick.  Only after a decade did his patience run out.  In 2023, he removed Joseph Strickland from his post as Bishop of Tyler, Texas — after Strickland refused to step down following the decision of an investigation into his effectiveness. The same year, he removed the stipend and subsidized luxury apartment of Raymond Cardinal Burke. Critics make it sound as though he rendered Burke homeless (he did not); supporters observe that it took Francis a decade to do what, were their situations reversed, Burke would have done in a week.

Well, that particular rivalry is over now. After a grueling illness and the indignity of extending hospitality to JD Vance, Pope Francis survived to see one last Easter Sunday in Rome. From now on, it will always be Easter for him. We give thanks for his life and ministry.

And if you are offended by our opening remark, please take it in the spirit in which we offered it.  As Lutherans, we at the Egg are confessionally committed to the proposition that the papacy is, because of the claims it makes to spiritual superiority over church leaders and the church itself, “the true end-times antichrist,” in Smalcald Articles 2:4:10-12. However, like most Lutherans these days, we regret the medieval phrasing of that article; and like Melanchthon himself, in hs famous signature to it, we can easily admit the potential value of a universal pastor who promotes peace and unity within the church, granted that he rules by human rather than divine right, and above all that he promotes the Gospel of grace and mercy.

It seems to us that, if any pope since the Middle Ages can be said to have approached this ideal of service, it was Francis.  From a Lutheran to a pope, there is no higher praise.

Papabile

 Pope Francis has been in the hospital for a week and a half at this writing.  Ten days are not so many for an old man, even in this era of shortened stays. Nonetheless, when you are the pope, every sneeze is greeted by worldwide murmurs of "conclave." 

Let us say from the outset that we wish Francis nothing but the best. He has been as fine a pope as it is possible to be given the realities of the Smalcald Articles 2:4:10 and their reiteration in the Formula.  We hope that he recovers and is able to serve the church for at least a few more good years, and failing that we wish him a speedy and painless return to his maker.

But one wonders, inevitably, what the future may hold for the world's largest Christian communion, which encompasses roughly half the planet's believers.  Outsiders, especially the press, frequently imagine that popes are like politicians, easily defined by adherence to a platform and described by "right" or "left." Insiders assure us, and we at the Egg firmly believe, that this is by no means the case.  All the conceivable candidates are bound by the same shared commitments and convictions: the same Scriptures, the same historic teachings, the same canon laws. There will be no pro-choice pope, no pope who ordains women priests, just as there will be no pope who despises the poor or encourages international violence.

But there are differences of style and emphasis. John Paul II and Benedict XVI were both "conservatives," as the press would style them, but only one wore red shoes. ( John Paul in fact introduced the same photogenically simple attire for which Francis is sometimes scorned by his opponents.) John Paul and Benedict were both scholars, Francis is not. John Paul and Francis were both far more comfortable mingling with crowds and kissing babies than Benedict ever appeared to be.  Benedict alone seemed to have a real softness for the Tridentine Mass and its advocates; both John Paul and Francis appeared to see them as troublemakers, if not outright enemies. Not one of the the three was a native of Italy, a fact of some historical importance.  It is factors like these, no less than doctrine and surely more than politics, which will influence whichever cardinals vote in the next conclave -- whenever that may be.

Those important things said, perhaps we can relax and play a little bit.  Predictably, the gambling houses have begun to lay odds on who will follow Francis, as well as what regnal name he will take. We have recently seen a story by the Asbury Park Press, which takes its information from something called BetUS. It identifies these potential popes, and gives them odds:

• Luis Antonio Tagle: +300
• Mark Ouellet: +400
• Pietro Parolin: +400
• Francis Arinze: +500
• Peter Turkson: +600
• Peter Erdo: +600
• Willem Eljk: +600

We have no idea who drafted the list, but we suspect it is nonsense. For one thing, Arinze is now 90 years old. Ouellet is 80. Not one in the group was elevated by Francis, although a large majority of the cardinals elector will have been. A couple look slightly nuts. On the other hand, Parolin seems … viable. 

But you know what they say about the man who goes into a conclave papabile, right? He leaves a cardinal.

We Can Give Up Sugar

 From a World War II-era essay by Pearl S. Buck called "Can the Church Lead?":

Here, then, is the spiritual confusion in which Americans now are, and out of which they must somehow be led. We are faced with the necessity of fighting a war for principles in which we say we believe but which actually we do not want to practice. We talk about the American way of life and we go on tolerating and encouraging and demanding Jim Crowism and Oriental exclusion which are the Nazi way of life. We can never get pure energy out of such a conflict. The spark is applied to wet tinder. There will be no flame.

The truth is that we have not yet carried the war into the places where it really hurts.  We can give up sugar, but we cannot give up segregation. We are willing to ration our gasoline but we do not want to insist that colored labor shall have equal rights with white labor. We consent to the heaviest of taxes for military warfare, but we are not ready to treat the Chinese as we treat the British. We are ready, that is, to give up anything material, but nothing else. Unfortunately, democracy cannot be bought with material goods, nor is human equality to be paid for with silver.  Democracy can only be won by the sacrifice of everything that is undemocratic, and human equality can only be had by the will to have it at all costs.

A Very Christian Concept

The War on God has a Catholic front, and it has seen some fighting lately.

The chief battle, of course, comes from crypto-paganism, in the form of what the press calls  President Trump's "transactional" view of relationships, which recognizes no principles except self-interest, and so cannot conceive of altruism or charity as ends in themselves.  This meshes easily with a variety of other ideologies: New Thought, the Prosperity Gospel, even good old Objectivism.  To be clear, the president is not himself an ideologue; he is rather a raging Id, a Hyde with no Jekyll; but he is surrounded by people who have constructed or borrowed ideological structures to justify their own self-interest.

With this in mind, it is interesting to consider our vice-president, JD Vance.  Vance is quite a different figure from Trump.  Rather than privilege, he is a child of relative poverty, whose Horatio-Alger story has been the subject both of a bestseller and a movie.  Where Trump seems to have emerged from his father's brow a fully-formed braggart, liar, swindler and racist, Vance has engaged in a more interesting process of self-creation; his rise from poverty, his education, his profession(s), and even his name are the result of his own deliberate and purposeful choices. 

What interests us in all this is that Vance is an adult convert to Roman Catholicism, having been baptized and confirmed in 2019, at the age of 35.  It would be a terrible injustice to attribute something as personal as a spiritual conversion to expressly political motives, but it should be noted that, rather than being formed intellectually by the church, Vance entered the church fully formed as an intellectual and a politician.  As he said to his friend Rod Dreher, 

My views on public policy and what the optimal state should look like are pretty aligned with Catholic social teaching. That was one of the things that drew me to the Catholic Church. 

This remark is noteworthy because, to an outside observer, it raises the question of how much Vance knew at that point in his life about the details of Catholic social teaching.  Surely he knew about abortion and birth control. Had he yet been catechized concerning, for example, the rights of workers to form and join unions? The preferential option for the poor? Unclear, but he was already helping to lead a party that is sketchy about these things, and many other things spelled out in the documents.

Questions like this became more pointed on 30 January 2025, when Vance, during an interview with Sean Hannity on Fox News, said: 

... as an American leader, but also just as an American citizen, your compassion belongs first to your fellow citizens. It doesn't mean you hate people from outside of your own borders. But there's this old school, and I think it's a very Christian concept by the way, that you love your family, and then you love your neighbor, and then you love your community, and then you love your fellow citizens in your own country, and then after that you can focus and prioritize the rest of the world.
A lot of the far left has completely inverted that. They seem to hate the citizens of their own country and care more about people outside their own borders. That is no way to run a society. 

Many listeners resonated easily with this statement.  It appeals to our sense of what is "natural." It is hard to imagine caring about a far-off stranger the way one does for one's spouse or child.  As church council members never tire of saying, "charity begins at home." Right?

But Vance identified this as "a Christian concept," and one did not need to be an expert theologian to observe that, as such, it struck a sour note  After all, agape, a foundational Christian idea, is understood to be a universal love, one which is not conditioned by relationships of family, tribe, nation or what have you.  Specifically placing "neighbor" between family and community will have drawn a cringe from those reared on the parable of the Good Samaritan.

Actual skilled theologians were quick to observe that, so far as they could tell, Vance had been referring to, and misrepresenting, the ordo amoris. That phrase literally means the "order of love," although it is often glossed in English as "rightly-ordered love," which isn't unfair. One finds it articulated by Augustine in The City of God, 15:22, and refined by Aquinas in the Summa, 2/2/Q26.  (Both, incidentally and somewhat strainedly, cite Songs 2:4, which says in the Vulgate "ordinavit in me caritatem.")

To be clear, Augustine does not say what Vance attributes to him.  For one thing, and we may call this the first flaw, Vance doesn't mention God, whereas Augustine's central point is that God must be loved above all other beings.  This is because lesser things -- art, music, a spouse -- are susceptible to being loved wrongly, because they are loved in preference to to God or to the things God wants.  This is not because art, music or a spouse are bad, but because human beings are sinful. As Augustine puts it, "when a miser loves his gold more than justice, it is not the fault of the gold." Aquinas even argues that we are obliged to love our neighbor (a term he does not define with Vance's narrowness) more than our own body.

So if the first flaw in Vance's attempt at theology is setting God aside, the second is that he replaces God's desires for us with what we may (and Augustine does) call the desires of the flesh.  Because of these flaws, he proposes an order of love that is quite at odds with the one known to the Christian tradition. Vance wants us to love family first, a concept that would have been ridiculous to the generations of Christians who looked to the fable of St Thecla for solace when faith separated them from their families. He wants us to love our nation next, which would have looked suspicious to those same early Christians as they died rather than sacrifice to the emperors. What he does not ask us to love, but Augustine does, is virtue itself, and things virtuously.  

All Christians have a right to think as deeply as they are able about the things of God.  But when Roman Catholic leaders of nations begin to opine in public about theology, they will naturally draw the attention of those to whom theological judgments have been entrusted in their church -- meaning, ultimately, the Pope. And so on 10 February 2025, US bishops received a letter from Pope Francis which referred obliquely to "the crisis in the United States," meaning the Trump Administration's announced program of mass deportations, which it described as problematic from the point of view of Catholic social teaching.  (You remember:  the same Catholic social teaching that Vance was so excited about in 2019).

Francis also addressed, beginning with paragraph 6, Vance's misrepresentation of Catholic doctrine:

6. Christians know very well that it is only by affirming the infinite dignity of all that our own identity as persons and as communities reaches its maturity. Christian love is not a concentric expansion of interests that little by little extend to other persons and groups. In other words: the human person is not a mere individual, relatively expansive, with some philanthropic feelings! The human person is a subject with dignity who, through the constitutive relationship with all, especially with the poorest, can gradually mature in his identity and vocation. The true ordo amoris that must be promoted is that which we discover by meditating constantly on the parable of the “Good Samaritan” (cf. Lk 10:25-37), that is, by meditating on the love that builds a fraternity open to all, without exception.

7. But worrying about personal, community or national identity, apart from these considerations, easily introduces an ideological criterion that distorts social life and imposes the will of the strongest as the criterion of truth.

Yes, we know:  it is written in Vaticanese, so it seems dull or even obscure.  Read closely, however, this is a sharp rebuke.  "Christian love is not a concentric expansion of interests" -- which is just how Vance described it. Instead, the Pope reminds us, each of us Christians has a relationship with all people, and it is through these relationships, especially with the poorest," that we become our true selves.  Talking about our relationships, such as national identity, apart from this universal relationship and option for the poor is to take part in a lie told by the strong to harm the weak.

That's what the Pope's letter actually says, in print, and it is a swayt on the knuckles with the proverbial rule.  Reading between the lines, the message is more like a slap in the face:  Hey, JD -- leave theology to the theologians.

The Sense(lessness) of the House

 In a moment of crisis, when a display of courage and good judgment is called for, the U.S. House of Representatives can usually be counted upon to act like monkey in the zoo, throwing poop at all and sundry.

In witness whereof, we offer H. Res. 59, introduced to that august body by Rep. Josh Brecheen (R-OK-2) and his 20 co-sponsors on 23 January, 2025.  It seeks a resolution declaring the "sense of the House" that Bishop Budde's sermon at the National Prayer Service was "a display of political activism" with a "distorted message."

This is, of course, not merely nonsense but nonsense doomed to fail.  But as a record of these grim times, we offer here the text of the resolution:

Whereas the National Prayer Service is a longstanding tradition in which the United States publicly affirms dependence upon God and prays for the success of our President and Vice President;

Whereas, on January 21, 2025, President Donald J. Trump and Vice President J.D. Vance took part in the National Prayer Service at the National Cathedral in Washington, DC; and

Whereas the Right Reverend Mariann Edgar Budde, the bishop leading the inaugural prayer service, used her position inappropriately, promoting political bias instead of advocating the full counsel of biblical teaching: Now, therefore, be it

Resolved, That—

(1) it is the sense of the House of Representatives that the sermon given at the National Prayer Service on January 21st, 2025, at the National Cathedral was a display of political activism; and

(2) the House of Representatives condemns the Right Reverend Mariann Edgar Budde’s distorted message.

It is a sign of the times that a plea for mercy on behalf of the powerless is construed as either political activism or a distortion of the Christian message, when in fact is very nearly the heart of Christian social ethics.

Disturbing as the misunderstanding of Christianity may be, we find the misunderstanding of Congress's role more disturbing still. While the very existence of a National Prayer Service (and Breakfast, and many other things) raise significant questions about the separation of church and state, it is the attempt of Congress to condemn a preacher's sermon that poses those questions most sharply. 

Are our elected officials now theologians? Are they now, like King James I, going to summon tame court preachers, who tremble before them and flatter them for fear of retribution? In other words, is the Christian faith expected to be an unreflective servant of the civil power, a bit of ceremonial frippery tacked up to impress the rubes and impart a nimbus of piety to impious princelings?

The answer that politicians have always desired, to all those questions, is Yes.  But the answer proposed by the Constitution is a resounding No.

The War Against God

 Among the more curious books to be found in the Egg's reference library is a volume called  The War Against God.  It is a collection of essays by various authors, edited by Carl Carmer and published in 1943. The thesis of the book, if an anthology may be said to have a thesis, is that the Second World War, then being fought, was, among many other things, a deliberate assault on the Christian faith, conceived by Hitler and promoted by his deputies.

Nazi leaders are depicted as neo-pagans and outright haters of Christianity, who show to the faithful a display of like-mindedness so superficial that it might pass inspection only by the most willing suspension of disbelief. Hitler is personally quoted to the effect that "one is either a German or a Christian. You cannot be both," and "Nothing will prevent me from tearing up Christianity root and branch, and annihilating it in Germany." Alfred Rosenberg's dream of a National Reich Church is laid out in thirty damning theses, including this one:

The National Reich Church is immutably fixed in its one objective: to destroy that Christian belief imported into Germany in the unfortunate year 800, whose tenets conflict with both the heart and the mentality of the German.

The book is not a masterpiece. Assembled in the midst of battle, it lacks any rigor -- the tone is uneven, many sources are not cited.  A review by Albert W. Palmer, president of the Chicago Theological Seminary and a noted pacifist, called it, disdainfully, an "arsenal" for the use of those who "believe[d] the war was a great religious crusade," and argued that it set aside the "economic and imperialistic nature of the ... conflict."  He found in it "that lack of discrimination by which partisanship so often tends to overplay its hand," contrasting "moderate" and "noble" essays by Pearl Buck and Martin Niemoller with the "extreme and violent" articles by other authors. The criticisms are fair.  

On the other hand, we do well to remember that while the war was by no means a religious crusade, it was in fact a moral one -- while there were racism and imperial ambition on all sides, one side, and only one, was plainly devoted to conquest and genocide.  The starkness of this distinction is undermined by many of the steps that were needed to prosecute the war, not least an alliance with the demonic Stalin, but the distinction remains valid.

We bring this up because there does seem to be a latter-day Kirchenkampf emerging in these United States. The second Trump administration began by authorizing immigration enforcement agents to enter houses of worship in pursuit of their quarry. In the following weeks, the Episcopal bishop of Washington DC has been called upon by the president to apologize for asking him to show mercy; the network of Lutheran social ministry organizations have been accused of "money laundering" for contracting with the federal government and with USAID; and the US Conference of Catholic Bishops has been accused by the vice-president of caring more about  "their bottom line" than about the needs of the poor or the right administration of justice.

It does not take a genius to see the pattern.  Administration officials recognize that their interest in further marginalizing immigrants, poor people at home an abroad, and LGBTQ+ people (with a special animus toward the "T")  puts them at odds with the organs of traditional Christianity, which have varying degrees of commitment to the well-being of those same communities.  They have long seen conflict with the mainline as an inevitable result of the policies that they pursue.

The traditional churches are naive, but not stupid.  They see this same inherent conflict. Bishop Budde's sermon was predicated on it.  But that sermon, bold in context but mild in content, is an example of the old-fashioned gentility with which mainline church officials are accustomed to proceed -- she pleaded with a leader to show mercy, among the chief Christian virtues, to those over whom he wields power.  It can be called a shot across the bow only if the thing shot is not a cannon ball but a badminton birdie. Bishop Eaton's response to being called a Mafia princess was equally genteel, with a touch of pedantry -- she quoted Scripture and told a familiar historical fable. She might have written it in Greek and made the same impression upon the same audience.

The evident conundrum is that mainline churches, and especially their leaders, are not prepared to engage in ideological battle with belligerent yahoos. They have been trained to speak cautiously, precisely, and respectfully, all the while remembering that they shepherd flocks among whom little internal unity is to be found. On balance, we admire this about them -- especially at the Egg, where our mouth often runs a few meters ahead of our judgment. But we are not sure that such admirable character will serve in the emerging crisis.

Meanwhile, the administration's next move has been to float the idea of a Faith Office, to defend religious liberty, oppose antisemitism and [the much, much more difficult to discern] displays of bias against Christianity and other religions.  The very idea raises the sort of hair-splitting legal problems that make a certain class of lawyers salivate.  While we suppose that the defense of religious liberty is a valid cause for the American government to undertake, it must be stressed that the defense of religion -- as opposed to irreligion in any of its constitutionally-protected forms -- is not.  And the defense of any particular religion -- say, Christianity -- is terrifying.

The anointed head of this office is a curious figure. Paula White-Cain is a televangelist, co-founder and former pastor of Florida institutions called New Destiny Christian Center and Church Without Walls, the latter of which declared bankruptcy soon after her departure.  White-Cain has long been part of Trump's circle, identified as his "spiritual advisor." 

While in theory it should not affect her call to public service, the most important thing for a Christian reader to understand about White-Cain is that she is not a Christian as that term is conventionally defined.  She is a proponent of the Prosperity Gospel, which teaches that God's desire is for the faithful to be rich -- not just in spirit, but in bank account and credit line.  Although it developed within the broadly Christian cultural milieu, and uses the Bible and other Christian symbols, the Prosperity Gospel is in fact a different religion, using the language of one faith to tell the story of another.  In this, it can compare easily with Mormonism or Gnosticism.

In effect, President Trump has followed the original playbook, and appointed a crypto-pagan to head his Reichskirche.  We are amused to note that, while liberals and Constitution-lovers are troubled by the existence of the office, many of the MAGA faithful have expressed dismay over its leader.  Evangelicals are often too quick, in our estimation, to accuse people with whom they disagree of "heresy." In this case, however, the term seems apt. Time will tell how they respond.

What concerns us at the Egg most, however, is the response of Christianity's more sedate traditional wing.  The new War Against God has begun, and we are eager to see whether the angels will fight on the side of those who typically disdain fighting altogether.

In (Faint) Praise of the "Palsied Limb"

 We have been haunted, these past few weeks, by an hymnic earworm, consisting largely of the phrase "and at Cana Wedding-Guest blah blah blah palsied limb and fainting soul." These are not the worst lyrics to have in mind while preaching through the Sundays following the Epiphany, but the mental hodgepodge created by those blah blah blahs almost demands that we return to the source, and think about the lovely song they have muddled in our minds. All the more so since the song, when we sang it in worship lat Sunday, didn't quite match our memory.  Has the earworm turned?

The hymn is Songs of Thankfulness and Praise, by the Rt. Rev. Christopher Wordsworth (1807-1885), late Bishop of Lincoln and, not incidentally, nephew of the poet. Those of us burdened with Evangelical Lutheran Worship may find it there as # 310.  The hymn in question was not written during his episcopate, but years earlier.  Having been booted from the headmastership of Harrow on accusations of high-churchiness and suspicions of Popery, Wordsworth was made a canon of Westminster Abbey and vicar of the brilliantly named parish of Stanford-in-the-Vale cum Goosey.

It was at Goosey that Wordsworth wrote and published The Holy Year; or Hymns for Sundays and Holydays [sic] throughout the year, and for other Occasions in 1863.  The title explains quite nicely what are the contents of the book.  Our hymn is appointed for the Sixth Sunday following Pentecost, and we offer you a transcription of its original text.

1. SONGS of thankfulness and praise, 

Jesu, Lord, to Thee we raise ; 

Manifested by the Star 

To the Sages from afar ; 

Branch of Royal David's stem 

In Thy Birth at Bethlehem. 

Anthems be to Thee addrest, 

God in Man made manifest. 

2.  Manifest at Jordan's stream, 

Prophet, Priest, and King supreme ; 

And at Cana Wedding-Guest 

In Thy Godhead manifest ; 

Manifest in power Divine, 

Changing Water into Wine ; 

Anthems be to Thee addrest, 

God in Man made manifest. 

3.  Manifest in making whole 

Palsied limbs and fainting soul ; 

Manifest in valiant fight, 

Quelling all the Devil's might ; 

Manifest in gracious will, 

Ever bringing good from ill : 

Anthems be to Thee addrest, 

God in Man made manifest 

4. Sun and Moon shall darken’d be, 

Stars shall fall, the heavens shall flee ; 

Christ will then like lightning shine. 

All will see His glorious Sign : 

All will then the Trumpet hear; 

All will see the Judge appear. 

Thou by all wilt be confest, 

God in Man made manifest. 

5. Grant us grace to see Thee, Lord, 

Mirror'd in Thy holy Word; 

May we imitate Thee now, 

And be pure, as pure art Thou ; 

That we like to Thee may be 

At Thy great Epiphany ; 

And may praise Thee, ever blest, 

God in Man made manifest. 

Amen. 

This is quite close to the text found in modern hymnals.  The most obvious difference is Stanza 4, which -- in many decades of singing the hymn -- we had never before encountered. It does not appear in ELW, LBW or SBH, nor in the PECUSA's Hymnal 1940.

Wordsworth himself explains the function of the hymn in a prefatory note.  It is a 

[R]ecapitulation of the successive Manifestations of Christ which have already been presented in the Services of the former weeks ...; and Anticipation of of that future great and glorious Epiphany, at which Christ will be manifested to all, when he will appear again to Judge the World.

That is to say, his intent is to sum of the various manifestations presented by the Gospel readings up to and including the Sixth Sunday.

However, it should be noted that Wordsworth does not touch on certain of the Gospels.  Present are the Appearance to the Magi (Feast of Epiphany);  Wedding at Cana (Second Sunday); healing the leper and the centurion's servant (Third Sunday); "quelling all the Devil's might" refers to the wheat and the tares (Fifth); and the Matthean "Little Apocalypse" on the Sixth Sunday, which was present in Wordsworth's lectionary but is not in ours.  Missing, however, are the Presentation in the Temple (which was read on the Second Sunday in Wordsworth's BCP), and any discernible reference to stilling the storm (Fourth).  

Curiously, the final stanza, about discerning Christ in the words of Scripture, would fit quite nicely with the story of Jesus reading in the Nazareth synagogue, which is read on the fourth Sunday after Epiphany in the RCL, but did not appear among the seasonal readings of the old BCP lectionary.

Apart from the deletion of a stanza, the other changes to this hymn are easy to understand.  "Jesus" for the archaic "Jesu" is scarcely noticeable. "God in Man," while not wrong -- Jesus was indisputably a man -- is neither exhaustive, nor true to the Nicene formula , nor fit for contemporary tastes, and the LBW-era "God in Flesh" is a meet substitution.  Wordsworth himself changed "mirror'd" to "present" in a later revision.

But what about those palsied limbs?  They have been changed, in ELW, to a "weakened body."  The idea is certainly the same, and there's no apparent theological matter at stake. But as a matter of poetry, we think "palsied limb"s is considerably more specific.  

"Palsy," a medical term for partial or complete paralysis -- a weakening, sure enough -- is an old word, coming into English by way of Old French, which got it from the Latins, who (in typical fashion) lifted it from the Greeks.  Those stout Hellenes used a word for "loosening" (para + lyein) to indicate disability or enfeebling, and their use has remained strikingly consistent through the ages.  It's not a bad word, and not so far as we can discern a pejorative one. It is old, familiar, and clinically apt.

As for "body," it is simply less specific than "limb." Like "weaken," it isn't wrongly used here -- but it does help to make the expression a bit more vague.  We think it is an unnecessary and ever so slightly unhelpful change to a fine and carefully-wrought hymn.