Less is More

Mary Hirschfeld, theologian and economist, tells the following parable about two families she calls the Aardvarks and the Warthogs. Both families enjoy music and both make their living as potters. The Aardvarks decide that a grand piano would best enable them to pursue their musical interests. They work hard and each month set aside money toward purchasing the piano. After they buy the piano, they cut back their hours at their pottery shop so they can enjoy the piano. They work enough to cover their needs but no more than that. They become good musicians and invite others into their home to join in the music.

The Warthogs follow the same plan. They too are pleased when they have saved enough to buy a grand piano. “But it occurs to them that it would be even better to supplement the piano with a cello and a violin. That way they could play those lovely trios by Schubert. So they go back to their pottery shop and keep working” (126). They are glad to bring those two instruments into their home, but immediately think how wonderful it would be to branch out musically and play jazz too. “So they earn enough money to get a saxophone, a trumpet, and a bass. Now their house is a bit crowded, and so they decide they need to get a larger house. And so they redouble their efforts at the pottery shop. And on it goes. At the end of the day, the Warthogs never do have much time for music; their hours are mostly spent making more pots” (126).

 Hirschfeld observes that although the Warthogs saw themselves as pursuing music, seeking more income ends up being the real good they pursue. She states that economists categorize things like what the Aardvarks and Warthogs bought as instrumental goods because their purpose is to help us achieve desired ends. Thus economists consider wealth instrumental, a tool. Yet Hirschfeld argues that “instrumental goods can only remain instrumental if they are in service of clearly specified ends” (126). For too many today wealth itself is pursued as if it is the end, not a means to an end.

 I will let the parable function as a parable and let it speak to you rather than listing the meanings and connections that I or Hirschfeld see. I will share just one response her parable led me to think about.

 We could say this is a parable about resisting the lie of consumerism that more wealth and the things it can buy produce a better life. That is an aspect of the parable. But why were the Aardvarks able to resist? It was not just a commitment to resist the lie. Rather they had clarity on what they valued. So too with us, there is value in saying to each other: resist the lies of Mammon and consumerism. Even more important is to develop alternative values to what Mammon tells us we should value.

 What are values you can foster that with growth will make it much easier to ignore the empty call by Mammon to pursue wealth itself as a value?

 How might the Spirit be calling you to begin a conversation about this with others in your family and faith community?

From: Mary Hirschfeld, Aquinas and the Market: Toward a Humane Economy, 2018

The Way of Jesus: 3 : 12 : 120

3 : 12 : 120, Andy Crouch's comments on Jesus and those numbers took me back to college days and a paper I wrote in a ministry course. The paper's prompt was: "What can we learn about discipling others from observing Jesus' leadership training methods?" I had yet to receive much training in biblical interpretation, but even my simple reading of the text yielded valuable insights. They have shaped my approach to ministry over all these decades. I noted that Jesus spoke to crowds, but he did not fill his days preaching to the masses. Instead, he gave special attention to an inner circle of 3, a group of 12, and a bigger circle of about 120. (That was the number of followers gathered on Pentecost.) I observed that Jesus spent time with his disciples. He did not just give lectures to them; he shared life with them. Jesus did tell stories, ask questions, and occasionally lecture, but he taught as much by modeling as by talking. He also gave them opportunities to learn by doing. 

During the years I was involved in youth ministry, I prayed every August, asking  who would be my 3 and my 12 that year. And then I would seek to do what Jesus did. I visited the 3 in their homes and invited them to mine. During the school's lunchtime, I sought to interact with the 12. I had a Bible study, open to all but focused on the 12. I gave the 3 opportunities to lead in the main group activities and encouraged them to each have their group of 3. The roles I later had as a missionary and seminary professor did not lend themselves to the same application of the 3 : 12 : 120 approach. Even so, most years, I still asked God: who are the 3 and the 12 you are calling me to prioritize and take initiative with? I have not done that for a number of years, but I will do so this week. Will you join me and do the same?

Andy Crouch's talk of 3 : 12 : 120 led me to recall these insights, but his reflection went deeper. He acknowledges that cultural transformation requires change at the systemic and institutional levels but argues it is a mistake to leave out the personal and relational. In his book Culture Making, he writes, "The essential insight of 3 : 12 : 120 is that every cultural innovation, no matter how far-reaching its consequences, is based on personal relationships and personal commitment." (243). He argues that the key move is not to get an audience of thousands and make a pitch but to build deep relationships of trust and shared vision with 3. Then gather a group where everyone in the room can still be seen and heard—12. The next circle of 120 is the max for people to know each other and have a personal sense of buy-in. To get a bit more explanation, I invite you to watch this four-minute video by Crouch, or read this blog by David Fitch reflecting on Andy's 3 : 12 : 120 and the church.

 As Crouch states, "The pattern of 3 : 12 : 120 is marvelously good news. Faced with the immense scale and scope of culture . . . we feel overwhelmed, justly concerned about many features of our culture that we will never be able to change. The temptation to withdraw or accommodate, to get away or just go along, is strong" (245). Yet, change is possible. We can all seek out a few others who share our convictions and vision and invest in developing relationships of deep trust. That can set the stage for inviting others to join in transforming work—in your church, your institution, your neighborhood, or beyond.

 It is good news and also a challenge. It challenges us to resist going it alone. It tells us relationships are crucial and that they take work.

 Is there a vision that God is stirring within you? Who might you invite to be part of your 3? Your 12?

Restoring Personhood – In the Early Church and Today

Gaius, mentioned in Paul’s letter to the Romans (16:23), was head of a household—meaning he likely had a large house that included his family and other workers and slaves. Andy Crouch observes that Gaius would have been a client to patrons above him as well as a patron to others with less status and power. Then Crouch makes this statement: "There is one other significant thing about Gaius that we need to grasp . . . He was a person" (15). Well, isn't that obvious? Do we need someone as brilliant as Andy Crouch to tell us that? What makes the statement significant is what Crouch explains next. In the Roman world at that time personhood was a legal category—someone with standing before the law. “Many people in Gaius’s world were, in fact not persons in this sense. Slaves, above all, though they were undeniably human, were treated under the law not as person but as property” (15). That helps us understand why Crouch told us he was a person, but why is Crouch writing about Gaius in a book on technology? (The Life We’re Looking For: Reclaiming Relationship in a Technological World.)

 Just as in Gaius’s day world forces hindered many humans from living as persons, Crouch argues that today technology and Mammon hinder humans from living as persons. Our machines and devices make us machine-like.

 Erastus, the next one mentioned in Romans, was a city official and also a person. The man mentioned before Gaius, Tertius, and the one after Erastus, Quartus, were not persons in Roman society. As Crouch observes, we know Tertius was a nobody partly because of his job—to take down dictation from important people like Gaius and Erastus. He may have been a slave, but even if a hired hand, he was still not considered a person. His name, "third," also points to his lack of status. Sons of slaves did not matter much, so they were often named by the month they were born or their birth order. Even non-slave families sometimes did this—only the first-born son really mattered. Out on the street, Gaius and Erastus are men of rank—persons, and Tertius and Quartus (Fourth) are nobodies—non-persons. But when they all gathered together as Jesus followers, the categories and stratification were left at the door. Slaves and free, scribes and city officials, men and women, all ate together at the same table. They all became persons.

 Crouch leads us to see this in the letter itself. He imagines Paul stopping dictation of his greetings and saying, “’Tertius, you should greet them.’ . . Suddenly the scribe is not just writing; he is speaking—and he has a name. . . Paul sees Tertius. He is Paul's brother, not just a hired hand" (115-16). Borrowing from Madeline L'Engle, we would say, Paul named him. “[T]he circle of brothers and sisters [expands] to include those who do the anonymous work, those who normally take orders, those who arrive without being greeted and depart without being noticed. Those who were named something like ‘number three’. . . But as they arrive and join the feast, every one of them is welcomed in the Lord. . . Because every one of them is a person” (116, 120).

The need for humans to be treated as persons, not things, is just as great or even greater today. There are still categories of people who, in the eyes of some, are less-than-human. Others perform machine-like labor and are often treated like machines. Yet now, even the personhood of those with status, today’s Gaius and Erastus, is lessened by technology and Mammon.

 Let us, the body of Christ, as individuals and communities, be instruments of naming—of restoring personhood to those who have lost or are losing it. Here are some ideas on how to do that.

          Table Fellowship – As in Gaius's time, inviting someone to share a meal communicates acceptance, restores dignity, and fosters human connection.

         Technology Fasts – In an earlier book, The Tech-Wise Family: Everyday Steps for Putting Technology in Its Proper Place, Andy Crouch shares some of his family’s practices, including fasting from their devices, one hour a day, one day a week, one week a year. Share the ideas, read the book with others—practice it together.

        Alternative Activities  – Don’t just take breaks from technology, but with intentionality do things that foster personhood—with friends, family, church community.

          Be Present  – Another area that calls for intentionality. In an age of absence be present to others.

          Give Dignity – Look for ways to increase the dignity of those with a dignity deficit.

         Evangelism – How might technology and Mammon's attack on personhood reframe how you think about and practice inviting others into a relationship with Jesus?

For Further reading –  In addition to the two books by Andy Crouch mentioned above, I recommend the following historical fiction books:

A Week in the Life of Rome  by James L. Papandrea

Lost Letters of Pergamum by Bruce Longenecker

 These narratives will help you feel and understand in greater depth the personhood-denying practices of Roman society and the radicalness of Christians' response.

Jesus: Carpenter or Construction Worker?

Imagine a carpentry shop. What are the images that come to mind? Imagine a crew of builders working on at a construction site. What comes to mind? What comes to mind when you hear the phrase, Jesus was a carpenter? What changes if you think of Jesus working for years on a building crew? A recent article I read by Jordan Monson persuaded me that “builder” or “construction worker” is a better translation than carpenter for the word in Matt. 13:55 and Mark 6:3. Now, instead of just thinking, "oh, those Bible scholars, always digging for details to argue about," I urge you to take a few minutes and join me in reflecting on what difference it might make whether we think of Jesus working at a carpenter’s bench or on a construction crew.

 I will briefly mention some of the main points in Monson's argument and then share some of his thoughts and my own on why it matters.

 “Carpenter” is not technically a wrong translation of tektōn, but the word is broader than that—more the sense of a builder who uses various materials—wood, stone, metal, thatch, plaster, etc. “Carpenter” may have seemed like the most fitting word for Bible translators in 17th-Century England, surrounded by woods and buildings made of wood, but does it make sense in Galilee? There were not many trees around Nazareth; hence little work was done with wood.

Monson, does not, however, just base his argument on building materials available for Jesus the tektōn. He asks the astute question, from where does Jesus draw his examples and metaphors? He often spoke of farming, occasionally of fishing, but not of carpentry—only one mention of wood and sawdust (Matt 7:3). But, Jesus often mentioned stones, foundations, and rocks. That points to him being a mason, working with stones.

Like other builders of the time, Jesus likely did not just work on small projects in his village. He and his father probably traveled to the nearby Sepphoris and worked with others on large building projects that Herod and others built. Jesus, at times, would have worked under the authority of head builders and perhaps had less-skilled laborers under his authority. This work experience shows up in his teaching. Jesus talks about wages, managers, hiring and firing, and building projects.

What difference does it make that instead of spending time cutting boards and hammering nails in a carpentry shop, Jesus, God incarnate, was chiseling, carrying, and laying stones?

It is easier to romanticize Jesus the carpenter meditatively working on a wood project with the sun streaming through the window. Few people plaster walls or build cement-block walls as a hobby, but many love spending time creating something out of wood at a home workbench. Thus it is easier to turn Jesus the carpenter into a more dignified respectable job.

The reality is that tektōn at that time, whatever building materials used, was a lowly position. Monson writes, "Jesus was not elite. His trade was not respected. Early church leaders of an aristocratic bent found Jesus' trade to be embarrassing. They wanted to distance him from it. The first substantive polemic against Christianity attaches the respectability of Jesus precisely on this account. In the second century, the pagan philosopher Celsus disparaged Jesus as 'only a tektōn'" (42-43).

God, through Jesus, did not just practice solidarity with and bring dignity to the marginalized through a few meals during his ministry. He spent years of living, working, and eating with the lowly. Thus, thinking of this word correctly enhances the significance of the incarnation for many who work in low-status jobs. God was quite literally one of them. What is the import for these people that Jesus was a construction worker? How might it challenge higher status people and their practice of viewing people differently based on their jobs?

There are multiple other reasons why the incarnation matters for us. One is that through Jesus’ being a human, God has experienced the joys and sufferings of humans. To move Jesus out of the quiet carpentry shop into the rough and tumble world of a construction crew broadens the sense of what he experienced. Think of conflicts you have had with co-workers, frustrations with a supervisor, drudgery on the job, unfair pay, or being totally drained after a long day. God incarnate likely experienced all this and more. Jesus experienced, as we do, many ways that human sin complicates the work-day world and causes suffering and pain. We pray to a God who does not just know about but has experienced what we go through. I invite you to take some time consciously praying to the God who worked as a stonemason on a building crew.

What are other ways that your thoughts or feelings about Jesus are enriched by thinking of him on a construction crew?

Based on: “The Stonemason the Builders Rejected” by Jordan K. Monson, Christianity Today, Dec, 2021: 40-43.

To further explore the significance of Jesus' humanity and divinity and do an in-depth study of the atonement, consider auditing my Christology class this fall. Write me for more details.

Liberated from Bounded-Church Shame by the Cross

“Is there a way I can sing these lines?” It’s a question I often ask myself when singing songs that refer to the cross. So much of the language and imagery flows from the penal substitutionary theory of atonement and the idea that Jesus’s death appeased God, that God had to punish Jesus to be able to forgive humans. Notice that I looked for a way I could sing. I did not just ask, "can I?" Having written two books that critique penal substitution theory of atonement, you might expect there are lots of lines I don't sing. But generally, I can fill the words with other meanings. I too affirm that Jesus died in our place, died for our sins. I can even interpret a phrase like, "he paid for our sins" in a way that allows me to sing it. Although there are some lines I don't sing, I asked the question Sunday with an expectation that I could sing them—and I did. As the song continued, however, I began to have second thoughts. READ MORE

The songwriter’s words of release through his sin being nailed to the cross had a sense of finality. It made it hard not to picture a western-courtroom God releasing a condemned sinner because the fine has been paid. By now I had moved past the original question and was asking myself other questions. "So, Mark, how about shame? Could you sing a line with that sense of finality, about shame?" I immediately thought of Luke 15. The father in the parable bore the prodigal son's shame in his place. Jesus removed shame from the despised and excluded through eating with them. Then he stood in solidarity with them through telling three parables—and, eventually, through dying on the cross. Yes, I said to myself, “We can think of Jesus taking on our shame with the same sense of completeness.” Then my next question, “Have you experienced this freedom from shame in its fullness, Mark?”

I immediately thought of the shame of being on the wrong side of a bounded group's line. On one hand, my answer was, "Yes, definitely." I have numerous times experienced release from a burden of shame through prayer and remembering Jesus and the cross. Yet, the internal question asker said, "But, the lines drawn by bounded churches still stir up anxiety and shame in your being. You do not have to live with that. You do not have to let them affect you." At that moment, I pictured Jesus bearing all of the shame I have experienced for feeling looked down upon by people on other sides of lines they had drawn—all the shame I have experienced, am experiencing, will experience. I heard the Gospel proclamation: “Mark, you are free; you have the possibility of living in freedom from the shaming effect of those lines.” To borrow imagery of our current reality, I did not feel that I had just taken a pill that would relieve the symptoms of a particular moment of shame, but a vaccine—the possibility of immunity.

Honestly, I feel a bit hesitant to write the above lines, perhaps even a bit of shame. A not-so-kind internal voice says, "You co-authored books on the atonement, co-authored a book on honor-shame, and wrote a book on bounded, fuzzy, and centered churches, and you still had not fully realized this? Had not fully experienced it?” Probably more accurate to say I had, but I needed a reminder. Regardless, let us accentuate the wonderful reality that God’s work through Jesus’ death and resurrection is of such depth and breadth that we can expect to continue to experience its liberating and healing significance in new and profound ways. May those of you who need it experience another layer of freedom from the debilitating shame of bounded group religiosity through Jesus and the cross, as I did this past Sunday.

Centered-Set Church: The Story Behind the Book

If you ask me, “how long were you working on the centered-set church book?” I might respond, “Since January 2018.” That was when I began doing interviews and focus groups with practitioners of the centered approach and then started writing. The book is filled with stories and examples gleaned from that field research. Yet, students’ questions birthed the idea for the book years ago. After I explained the centered approach, students often asked how to apply it in specific situations. There was no resource to offer them. A desire to fill that void and write a book addressing their questions grew within me. For that and other reasons, I dedicated the book to my students. As I state in the dedication, "without you this book would not exist." But as I worked on the book, it dawned on me that I was actually still working on a question that unsettled and captivated me in 1983.

In the fall of 1983, a lecture at the one-semester Oregon Extension study program grabbed my attention, disturbing me deeply yet leaving me wanting more. After four years of ministry and teaching high school in Honduras, I had become a student again. On that memorable day, Doug Frank wove together insights from sociologists Peter Berger and Jacques Ellul in a lecture contrasting religion and Christian revelation. He described religion as something humans construct as a security system that gives us the means to draw lines defining who is in and who is out. Religion also provides us security by giving us the means to please and appease God or the gods. 

None of this would have rattled me if Doug Frank had contrasted other religions with Christianity, but he gave many examples of Christian religiosity—including ones that mirrored my life. If I had heard Frank’s lecture a few years earlier, I imagine I would have reacted defensively or perhaps just dismissed it all. But after four years of ministry in Honduras I was worn down from working to stay on the right side of the lines I and others had drawn and burdened by all the to-do’s I had piled on myself. Doug Frank’s words unsettled me but rang true.

Frank was not, however, anti-Christian. He did not dismiss the gospel of Jesus Christ. Rather, following Ellul, he said that Christians had a propensity to turn Christian revelation into a religion. Frank’s lecture, like Christian revelation itself, not only exposed and confronted religion, but also pointed to the possibility of liberation from religion. In one sense he called into question everything that I had dedicated my life to, and at the same time he excited me with unimagined possibilities for my life. I left the lecture shaken but convinced, and asking, “How about the church? How can we have a non-religious church?” This question consumed me. I had never been so engaged by a topic for an academic paper. I read Ellul and Berger and had numerous conversations with Doug Frank, and wrote the paper. One paper was not enough. In different ways, the question was one of the strands of my MA thesis, my PhD dissertation, and my first book, Religious No More. I did not know it in 1999, the year that book was published, but I was still not done.

In 2001, after a church service, my friend Larry Dunn approached me and said, “Mark, I read your book Religious No More. Have you read Paul Hiebert’s work on bounded and centered sets?” When I replied that I had not, Larry countered, “You should.” He knew he did not need to say more. Larry knew that, once I read Hiebert’s article, I would see connections to my own work. Indeed, Hiebert’s diagrams and definitions captured me immediately, clearly communicating something for which I had been seeking language. 

I have been using Hiebert’s diagrams and concepts ever since—principally in my ethics course, but in many other settings too. As I wrote on the dedication page, students’ “challenging questions pressed me to refine and clarify my explanations of bounded, fuzzy, and centered sets.”  If I have been working on the question behind the book since 1983, I would say I have been working on the explanations of Hiebert’s categories, the first three chapters of the book, for twenty years. So, how long did I work on the centered-set church book?” Since 2018? Since 2001? Since 1983? In different ways, all are accurate. I do not know what the future will bring, but I think I am done—ready to turn in to Doug Frank the truly final version of my response to the question I asked leaving his lecture in 1983. The work on the book is done. The work of introducing people to the centered approach through the book and videos has just begun. Please join me, and let others know about these resources. Please share this link https://www.centeredsetchurch.com/

The middle paragraphs of this blog are adapted from Centered-Set Church, InterVarsity Press, 2021.