Received: 22 March 2020
Accepted: 23 March 2020
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12549
EDITORIALS
Whether one may Flee from digital worship: Reflections
on sacramental ministry in a public health crisis
1 P R E L I M I NA RY
CON S I D E R AT I O N S
1.1 Musings on Luther’s letter “Whether
One May Flee…”
As I sit in California, currently under a “stay at home”
order to help stop the spread of the COVID-19 pandemic,
I have been reflecting on worship, the role of the Church in
providing healthcare, and our sacramental life. Colleagues
have asked for my thoughts on liturgy in the midst of a public
health crisis, so I have decided to put things on paper so
that others may be included in the conversation. Many have
already published resources on moving worship into the
online environment, but a large percentage of those resources
have approached it from a practical perspective rather than a
theological or historical one.
The title of my essay is a riff on Luther’s 1527 open letter “Whether One May Flee from a Deadly Plague,” which
has made a resurgence during this health crisis. The letter has
always been a favorite of mine: I assigned it during the four
years I taught Introduction to Lutheranism, and it served as a
conversation partner in my dissertation on liturgical rites of
healing. Quotes from the letter have circulated around Facebook, especially as Luther (near the end of the letter) provides
very practical advice during a plague. The main point of the
letter is that pastors and city officials are to work together to
physically and spiritually care for those affected by disease,
and those who are not bound by such responsibility should be
free to leave without burdening the conscience.
But before we use Luther’s letter as our Urtext for the
church’s response during COVID-19, we must remember that
it seems unthinkable for Luther (at least in the letter itself) that
people would not be able to attend worship during a plague.
Our situation is different, with local, state, and federal governments providing recommendations and orders to stay home
and not gather in groups. Our understanding of science is also
different, being on this side of the scientific revolution with a
better grasp of how germs spread. Luther’s science is not our
science, so that must be considered when reading his specific
recommendations on liturgical practices during health crises.
On the other hand, the letter reminds us that the church must
work alongside civil authorities in preventing a plague from
spreading, which means that congregations must follow the
Dialog. 2020;59:49–77.
orders not to gather. Attempting to spiritualize this pandemic
as being the will of God–either as punishment or an opportunity to repent--is dangerous.
The theological and historical concerns that I raise below
are as I interpret our Lutheran traditions, drawing on Luther
and the Book of Concord. The practical suggestions that I offer
that differ from our customary practices are understood to be
in extremis—in an emergency like we are facing today. As
Luther reminds his readers at the beginning of the letter, all
Christians must “come to their own decision and conclusion”
(Luther, 1968, p. 119).
1.2 What is worship? “Deep Meaning and
Purpose”
1.2.1 Gottesdienst (dialogical with divine
initiative)
One thing that must be addressed before reflecting on
particular issue is to define worship from a theological
perspective or, to use John Witvliet’s (2006) modes of
liturgical discourse, in terms of “deep meaning and purpose.”
For Lutherans the primary theological understanding of
worship is as a dialogue between God and humans, or as
Luther says in his Torgau sermon, “where our dear [God]
may speak to us through [the] holy Word and we respond
to [God] through prayer and praise” (Luther, 1959, p. 333;
see also Luther, 2000, p. 397.84). Distinct from some other
Christian traditions, Lutheran worship is primarily about
God coming to us through the means of grace, which are
concrete and external ways that God make Godself known
in the worship event. These are primarily preaching, the
sacraments, absolution, and other liturgical practices.
At the same time, Lutheran worship also has a participatory response included in it. This is the second half of
Luther’s Torgau definition. Active participation (“full, active,
conscious,” as would be articulated four centuries later at
the Second Vatican Council) is the other half of the dialogue
between God and humans. Participation is a diverse thing,
just as Christ was incarnated into a diverse human reality.
The response is the response by the entire congregation, not
just that of worship leaders or a select few. I think this should
give us pause when we look at livestreaming (rather than web
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49
EDITORIALS
50
conferencing), as that calls into question the participatory
ability of digital worship.
1.2.2
Is worship required?
Unlike some theological traditions, Lutherans are under
no obligation to go to worship. Yet, this question actually misses the point if we attend to our definition of
worship—it is through worship that we know who God
is and how God operates in the world. It contains external forms so that God’s Word may exert its power more
publicly (Luther, 2000, p. 399.94). In fact, Luther (2000,
p. 398.85) believes worship is so important that we should
have it daily, but understands that Sunday as the chief day of
the week is handed down from ancient times.
1.3
Theological and practical claims
1.3.1 False dichotomy because God is always
“mediated”
In her book @Worship: Liturgical Practices in Digital
Worlds, liturgical theologian Teresa Berger (2018, p. 16) cautions us from too quickly succumbing to the false dichotomy
of “real” and “virtual.” Such distinction can equate “virtual” with “non-real,” which automatically privileges faceto-face relationships and practices over technology mediated.
God primarily operates through means (neighbor, preaching,
sacraments); thus, technologically mediated communication
can certainly be the medium of God’s own communication.
Another theological concept that helps bridge the gap
between the so-called “virtual” and “real” is one that was
used during the Reformation to describe Christ’s presence
in the sacrament. Luther argued that, because of the Ascension, Christ had the attribute of ubiquity, meaning that he
is available where he promised to be. For Luther and his
disagreements with the Reformed, this meant that Christ is
truly present as the elements of the Lord’s Supper on every
altar. This same logic can be used in the digital environment:
Christ has promised to be present among gatherings of
Christians and in the midst of those who suffer (the theology
of the cross). If such is true, then Christ can be present
online that transcends time and geography, just like Christ’s
presence in the sacrament. Theologian Deanna Thompson
(2016; 2020, 26 March) follows this argument, claiming that
virutal community is real community, mediating the Body of
Christ.
1.3.2
Online community is real community
One of the arguments that I heard in my previous work of helping faculty teach online is the assumption that online coursework and whole-person formation contradict one another,
since the online environment is all about the mind. In my experience of teaching online, I know this is not true. Berger (2018,
p. 19) affirms this by stating that the online environment definitely does have a physical effect on users.
The types of relationships that can occur online can be
described as “low stakes,” meaning that they are “not associated with any cost, friction or risk” (Simanowski, 2018, p. 9).
Does such a “low threshold” (Berger, 2018, p. 36) for commitment allow one to flee from any sort of responsibility in
the relationship, or does it allow for the freedom of openness
without the increased possibility for negative consequences?
Constructing intentional community, as what (or should)
already exist in our regular congregations, differs from the low
stakes approach that one could see in Facebook. In our current
situation, the online environment is operating parallel to the
communities that would occur in person if the health crisis did
not exist. Thus, such relationships are actually “high stakes”
as this moment is temporary with the assumption that these
relationships will continue outside technology.
1.3.3
Social versus physical distancing
The phrase that health officers are using is “social distancing,” the clinical term that encourages people to stay out of
public spaces or larger gatherings. While limiting contact and
large groups is an important step in reducing the pandemic
peak, the term creates another set of problems. It is physical
distancing that can reduce the spread of germs, but we must
continue social encounters in this crisis even while limiting
physical encounters. Social networking and web conferencing
technology, something I have been using since Spring Break
to teach the remainder of the semester, can foster and assist us
in maintaining our neighborliness in the midst of COVID-19.
Maintaining both physical and social distancing can lead to
isolation, which can make the health situation (especially
mental health) worse.
1.3.4
Livestreaming versus web conferencing
In some of the discourse I have seen online in the last weeks, I
have noticed a discrepancy in terminology. When it comes to
using video-based technology to broadcast online, two terms
usually appear: livestream and web conference. Although both
of these practices use webcams and microphones, their level
of interactivity is quite different.
The livestreaming approach is unidirectional, which is how
one currently watches television and YouTube. The broadcaster creates the material, and those who watch consume
the material. Participation at best is passive and could be
analogous to a pre-Reformation understanding of the mass.
The main role of the worshiper is to watch at the important
moments, while simultaneously engaging in their own devotional practices.
Livestreaming (and admittedly web conferencing if the feature is enabled) allows for recording, meaning those unable to
participate at the scheduled time could join in when they are
EDITORIALS
able, but this can increase the individualism present in contemporary society today. Also, taking seriously the role of the
Holy Spirit means that it would be nearly impossible to replicate the live action in a recording (Spadaro, 2014, p. 79).
The web conferencing approach is bidirectional and multidirectional. It allows for both proclamation and response
through the same online tool, which is not the case with
livestreaming. The “congregation” is part of the interactivity
just as the worship leaders. This better simulates the dialogical
nature of Lutheran worship that I defined earlier.
2
S UNDAY WOR SH I P
2.1 Weekly proclamation of the gospel with
Service of the Word
In his letter, Luther (1968, p. 134) encouraged his readers to
continue to participate in the weekly proclamation of the Word
through the sermon. He understands that central to Christian
life is the preaching and practice of God’s Word (Luther, 2000,
p 398.90). Historically, the Service of the Word has been
the primary Sunday liturgy for Lutherans. Some may wish to
dispute this because our confessional documents and Luther
himself assume a weekly celebration of the sacrament (see
Melanchthon, 2000, p. 258.1; Luther, 2000, p. 472.49). But
we know that this was the ideal, and various circumstances
usually prevented or hampered attaining this ideal: a shortage
of pastors in early American efforts, laity still feeling unworthy to receive, the assumption that frequent reception would
diminish the sacrament’s specialness.
The trend toward restoring weekly celebration of the Lord’s
Supper came with the early work done alongside the ecumenical liturgical renewal movement of the mid-twentiethcentury.1 And still, among many Lutheran congregations,
weekly communion is not yet the practiced norm, although
it is assumed in the newest worship books. When visiting my
family in Minnesota, the congregation where we worship still
celebrates the sacrament twice a month.
This attempt to restoring weekly sacramental celebrations
has in some places turned into an overcorrection, with the
assumption that every time the congregation gathers, or even
a subset of the congregation gathers, the liturgy is deficient
if the sacrament is absent. This practice has led to a phenomenon that looks more like votive masses than regular worship, in which the Eucharistic liturgy appears to be for particular intentions (“votums”) rather than the means of grace. The
language around these votive (and sometimes private) masses
becomes about mutual union and friendship, professing the
faith we share, which is contrary to our understanding of the
sacrament (Melanchthon, 2000, p. 270.68).
These votive-like celebrations often separate the proclamation of the Word from the sacrament, such that the sacramen-
51
tal elements become the primary action rather than maintaining the historic order and balance (see Evangelical Lutheran
Church in America, 1997, p. 38). One problem identified by
those who advocate for perpetual fasting during this pandemic
is that the sacrament must be celebrated within the assembly,
as articulated in the Use of the Means of Grace, principle 39
(Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, 1997, p. 44). Yet,
this neglects the fact that the online environment is an assembly gathered for worship, while not raising objections to sacramental celebrations outside the assembly (e.g., church council
meetings, retreats, etc.).
The best advice would be to fast from the sacrament as long
as possible, even in the midst of desiring it.2 The season of
Lent provides a scheduled opportunity to do so, as we prepare
ourselves for the annual celebration of Christ’s death and resurrection (Lange, 2020, March 24). As many congregations
are already doing, these services of the word can easily take
place in the online environment, especially through the communal nature of web conferencing. But the current health crisis may run many months; it already is running into Eastertide
and after. This requires other solutions (see below).
2.2 Daily Prayer offices more “monastic”
than “cathedral”
Because of the centrality of the proclamation of the Word,
Lutheran congregations have not replaced the Sunday liturgy
with Daily Prayer; this was the custom in many Anglican
parishes pre-1979 Prayer Book. Daily Prayer in its ideal form
is daily worship that does not occur on Sundays, as the readings assigned are primarily from the other parts of Scripture.
The three main offices—Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer,
Night Prayer—focus the gospel on the invariable canticles
from Luke’s Gospel, rather than the reading of a gospel lectionary text.
The Daily Prayer offices are also better suited for smaller
gatherings rather than the presence of the entire worshipping
congregation. This may make the most sense in the online
environment, as the web conferencing technology works best
with smaller groups, with these rites particularly suited as
domestic (at home) rituals rather than in the worship space of
the congregation. The music that accompanies Daily Prayer,
especially the historic orders with the assigned chants, can
be done with little-to-no accompaniment, and can easily
be spread among many people (both rostered and lay) for
leadership.
3
LORD’S SUPPER
It is with the celebration of the Lord’s Supper (Holy Communion, Eucharist) where we encounter the most difficulty
in this public health crisis. Even many advocates for digitally
52
mediated worship stop short of agreeing on “online communion.” The main argument is that “the Christian faith is
deeply incarnational, and that means wedded to physicality
and matter. … [O]ffering communion online short-circuits the
communal, embodied nature of the Eucharist” (Berger, 2018,
p. 84).
These critiques are important, as they lift up one of the
many layers of meaning for the sacrament, namely, its physicality and incarnational nature. This physicality of the means
of grace connect with our own physicality to remind us that
our human/bodily nature is a God-given gift. The external
nature of the sacraments provides the needed certainty to
which our faith can cling/grasp (Luther, 2000, p. 461.37).
When the sacramental elements are not possible in any way,
the Words of Institution themselves serve the role of comfort
and healing. The 1540 Brandenburg Church Order notes that
lay people can use the Words of Institution without administering the elements (they could not do that) so that the sick
could “feed on the Word” (Rittgers, 2012, p. 171). This is a
natural extension from Luther’s claim that the sole source of
comfort for Christians is the Word (Rittgers, 2012, p. 103).
The proclamation of the gospel, aural and edible, is in service
of consolation (Treu, 1986, p. 18).
3.1 Extension of “Special Circumstances”:
delivery, drive-thru, small-group celebrations
The Church’s ministry to the sick has usually included bringing communion to those who are unable to attend Sunday
worship. This tradition dates to the second-century writings
of Justin Martyr in his description of Christianity to Roman
officials. In narrating an outline for the Sunday liturgy, he
describes the role of the deacons as the ones who bring the
Lord’s Supper to those who are absent (Chapters 65 and 67).
The deacons, since they did not have the role to “consecrate”
the sacrament (Justin assigns that to the “president of the
assembly”), would have brought the already-consecrated elements as an extension of the assembly’s Sunday worship.
This practice has continued to the present day and is seen
in the current Lutheran tradition with LBW’s “Distribution
of Holy Communion to Those in Special Circumstances” and
ELW’s “Sending of Holy Communion.” I think the LBW’s
title better lifts up the issues we face today—we are in “special circumstances” that require us to rethink our customary
practices. And this reevaluation makes it necessary that we
be creative, especially since our congregations are all dealing
with different restrictions and situations.
Extending our practices of “special circumstances” would
be the ideal solution for distributing communion during these
times. In contexts that are not in a quarantine-like state where
visits are still allowed, a minister of communion would bring
the sacrament to individuals or small groups in their homes or
other arranged places. The caveat is that in many places, the
EDITORIALS
assembly is not gathering on Sunday mornings, so how would
the extended distribution be extended from something that is
not happening? If allowed under the civil orders, ministers of
communion would gather with the pastor for a full Eucharistic
liturgy (including the proclamation of the gospel), receive the
sacraments themselves, and then carry them to those who are
not allowed to be present. Preaching, which importantly connects to the distribution of the sacrament, could be recorded
so that it could be played in the remote locations when the
sacrament is distributed. It would be important that the minister gives the communion to the other person (and vice versa)
so that the communal nature of communion continues.
3.2 Distribution of communion when no
gatherings allowed
The more difficult context is when gatherings in general are
disbanded by order of civil officials. One might argue that
churches could exempt themselves from such a situation (e.g.,
two kingdoms), but Luther (1968, p. 131) reminds us in his
letter that part of the responsibility for both the body and soul
means doing what it takes not to spread infection; in fact, it is
considered sinful to not avoid places and persons in the case
of possible infection.
Yet, there are possibilities even here. While maintaining
physical distancing, it would be possible to deliver the sacrament to households, like permitted for food delivery. Even
though the sacrament is not mere bread and wine as served
at the table, Luther (2000, pp. 469.23-24, 474.68) still calls it
food (and medicine) for both the body and soul, nourishing us
in a different mode than regular table food.
Again, pastors and ministers of communion would need
to find a way to maintain the intimate connection between
the proclamation of the gospel and the sacrament, so that
we do not privilege one over the other. As suggested above,
preaching could happen remotely through digital means
and people would be able to receive communion. It is the
distribution and reception—the “for you”—that is the central
action of the sacrament, so ideally it would be someone
else who distributes communion (Luther, 2000, p. 469.21;
Formula of Concord, 2000, p. 602.54). As Thomas Schattuer
(2014, p. 209) notes, the Lutheran mass “culminated in the
reception of the sacrament.” This could occur among family
members in a household, roommates in other situations, medical professionals and patients in a healthcare facility, and
so on.
3.3 Online Communion with elements when
distribution not allowed
This is the most difficult part of the discussion on digital worship in a health crisis. I have read essays on both sides of the
argument, and most seem to be talking past one another. The
EDITORIALS
ideal response is, as I have stated above, to fast from receiving
the sacrament. In the Small Catechism, Luther notes that the
benefits of the sacrament are “forgiveness of sins, life and salvation,” which makes it different from baptism (and the necessity of that for salvation). Yet, in the Large Catechism, Luther
(2000, p. 469.24) provides additional benefits: comfort, new
strength, and refreshment. The sacrament also “a pure, wholesome, soothing medicine that aids you and gives life in both
soul and body” (Luther, 2000, p. 474.68). So while the Lord’s
Supper is not salvifically necessary, it certainly could be considered pastorally necessary.
Before musing on what Online Communion may look
like, I want to offer three caveats. The first is that the
sacrament remains unimpaired even if we handle or use it
unworthily (Luther, 2000, p. 467.5; Formula of Concord,
2000, p. 597.24). This is not to excuse bad sacramental practice or to justify doing whatever we want with the Lord’s Supper. Rather, it does provide some comfort as we attempt to
adjust to an unthinkable situation in a public health crisis.
The second is that no one should deter someone from
receiving the sacrament (Luther, 2000, p. 473.62). Especially
in times of pastoral necessity, the Lord’s Supper should be
received. Luther (1968, p. 134) saw this as a requirement for
pastors to minister to the sick and dying. It is part of the full
work of ministry in the midst of a health crisis: preaching,
teaching, exhorting, consoling, visiting, and administering the
sacrament (Luther, 1968, p. 136). But, when visits are not
allowed, the last two in this list of work must be rethought
using the tools we have in our time.
The third is that we should not doubt that Christ the Word
can certainly accomplish what he promises (Formula of Concord, 2000, p. 601.47). This simple argument was central to
Luther’s disagreements with Zwingli at Marburg—if Jesus
promises (as he states in the Words of Institution) to truly be
present, then we should not doubt those words or attempt to
construe them to mean something else.
So, is it possible to have Online Communion? I hesitate to
answer in the definitive, but I provide here some theological
rationale for doing so in extremis. By Online Communion I
mean having worshippers gather in community through web
conferencing with their own bread and cup as originating from
their pantries. The two main objections that are raised by this
are: (1) the Lord’s Supper requires contact, and (2) it is akin
to self-communion.
The first objection should not be taken lightly, as generations of Christians have gathered physically to participate
as the ecclesial Body of Christ in the sacramental Body of
Christ. Distribution is important in Lutheran theology, which
regularly happens from person-to-person (see Luther, 2000,
p. 470.34-35). Unfortunately, in many dire situations, that is
not possible and can be even dangerous; recall Luther’s exhortation that ministers are also responsible for not spreading
infection (Luther, 1968, p. 131).
53
An even stronger objection related to contact is that the
sacramental event must happen in-person, which would preclude the sacraments happening remotely. Prior to the technological revolution, such remote sacramental event would be
unthinkable and thus would not have come up in the theological discourse, certainly not during the Reformation. To me
this is a question of “use” and “action,” the two words that the
Concordists identify as best expressing Luther’s sacramental
theology in his “Confession concerning Christ’s Supper.” The
right use of the sacrament is reception and faith (Schattauer,
2014, p. 209).
The sacrament cannot be present separate from its intended
use (Formula of Concord, 2000, p. 595.15). This is the closest the Lutheran tradition comes to defining the “how” of the
sacrament, as that was not the important question in debating
the Lord’s Supper (the “who,” “what,” and “why” were primary). The Concordists delineate what is included in such use
and action:
1. take bread and cup
2. consecrate it (shorthand for the Words of Institution [Formula of Concord, 2000, pp. 597.23, 600.40, 607.79]3 )
3. distribute it
4. receive it, and then
5. eat and drink it (Formula of Concord, 2000, pp. 600.75,
607.84).
In the regular celebration of the Lord’s Supper, it is the presiding minister who completes steps one through three, and
then the recipient of the sacrament completes steps four and
five. Yet, the Concordists do not appear to say anything about
the necessity of the presiding minister doing one and three,
only two—speaking (or singing) the Words of Institution—
because of having the proper “ministry or office” (Formula of
Concord, 2000, p. 607.77).
Christ’s body and blood is truly present as the sacramental bread and wine in its use and action, which I
would argue can extend over digital means in the midst
of the online community. The Concordists insist on the
language of use and action to prevent misuse of the
sacrament through Eucharistic adoration/reservation and
Corpus Christi processions (Formula of Concord, 2000,
p. 611–612.108). Any adoration of Christ occurs when the
community gathers for sacramental worship, not as adoration
of the sacrament itself.
The distribution extra nos prevents self-communion, which
is second objection. I find it peculiar that such objection
is raised in regard to online communion, when generations
of Lutheran pastors have communed themselves during the
Eucharistic liturgy (rather than having an assisting minister
commune them) without much objection. In fact, the Use of
EDITORIALS
54
the Means of Grace, application 46A, permits such practice
(Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, 1997, p. 50).
The role of the presiding minister in all of this is to proclaim the Words of Institution, just like the preacher proclaims
the gospel—both of these are understood as “showing forth”
Christ (Melanchthon, 2000, p. 272.80).4 The presiding minister is not acting in persona Christi as a show or example
of Christ’s action at the Last Supper (Melanchthon, 2000, p.
271.72). Rather, the presiding minister is to proclaim Christ
through the audible and edible Word (aural and sacramental)
because Christ is the Word. In his liturgical reforms, Luther
underscores these ritually by requiring the Words of Institution to be spoken publicly and the eliminating the manual
acts with the elements (Schattauer, 2014, pp. 211, 216). Such
reforms cause the Eucharistic liturgy to focus on “Christ’s
entire life and the meaning of that life for human salvation,”
rather than on reenacting a particular moment in Christ’s life
(Wandel, 2006, p. 100).
ENDNOTES
1
Hence the statement in The Use of the Means of Grace, principle 35
(Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, 1997, p. 39).
2 In
Large Catechism, Luther (2000, 472.49) argues that those who do
not desire the sacrament actually despise it.
3 This
is what Luther means by connecting the elements with the Word
(Luther, 2000, pp. 468.10, 469.30).
4 Although
the Apology does seem to assume the presiding minister is
the one who distributes, this does not necessarily align with today’s
practice as articulated in The Use of the Means of Grace, principle 41
(Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, 1997, p. 46).
O RC I D
Kyle Kenneth Schiefelbein-Guerrero
https://orcid.org/0000-0001-9285-6161
Kyle Kenneth Schiefelbein-Guerrero
United Lutheran Seminary
4
CONC LU SI ON S
When this essay is published online, most people will still be
under “stay at home” or quarantine orders, and that may also
be the case once this essay is published in hardcopy. While
community continues to happen through online means, Christians will be unable to gather in worship spaces for Easter—
the culmination of the liturgical year—in order to protect the
vulnerable among us. This new life proclaimed in the death
and resurrection of Christ is a constant reminder that all Christians are called to care for the neighbor in both their physical
and spiritual life.
During this time of being ‘alone together,’ I have been
reflecting on the Lectionary, especially the Gospels for the
second and third Sundays of Easter. Like Thomas, who missed
the first appearance of resurrected Jesus in the locked room,
we may doubt Christ’s true presence unless we see and experience what has always happened in the past. Yet, Christ still
comes to us, even when we do not experience church as in previous days. Like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, we
may not understand these events that have taken place, where
our Easter expectations have been disrupted by things outside
out control. Yet, Christ still comes to us, even when we cannot
gather physically to break bread as we have in previous days.
Pastors, deacons and all Christians are responsible for the
well-being of all people during this time, which may also
include adjusting sacramental practice in extremis. The debate
over online or virtual communion is not new, but the current
health crisis has brought it to the foreground, and the ending
of the COVID-19 pandemic will not stop the debate. As we
continue to figure out how to be church in the 21st -century,
we will need to attend to the many layers of meaning inherent
in our practices.
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Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress.
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Wenger, (Eds.), Book of concord: The confessions of the evangelical
Lutheran church. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. (Original work published 1577 CE.)
Lange, D. (2020, March 24). Digital worship and sacramental life
in a time of pandemic. Lutheran World Federation, https://www.
lutheranworld.org/blog/digital-worship-and-sacramental-life-timepandemic.
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Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. (Original work published 1544 CE.)
Luther, M. (1968). Whether one may flee from a deadly plague. In G.
K. Wiencke (Ed.), Luther’s works: Devotional writings II (Vol. 43).
Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. (Original work published 1527 CE.)
Luther, M. (2000). Large catechism. In R. Kolb & T. J. Wenger (Eds.),
Book of concord: The confessions of the evangelical Lutheran church.
Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. (Original work published 1529 CE.)
Martyr, J. (n.d.). First apology. (Original work published ca. 150 CE.)
Melanchthon, P. (2000). Apology of the Augsburg Confession. In R.
Kolb & T. J. Wenger (Eds.), Book of concord: The confessions of the
evangelical Lutheran church. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. (Original
work published 1531 CE.)
Rittgers, R. K. (2012). The reformation of suffering: Pastoral theology
and lay piety in late medieval and early modern Germany. Oxford:
Oxford University.
Schattauer, T. (2014). From sacrifice to sacrament: Eucharistic practice
in the Lutheran Reformation. In L. Wandel (Ed.), A companion to the
eucharist in the Reformation. Leiden: Brill.
Simanowski, R. (2018). Facebook society: Losing ourselves in sharing
ourselves, S. H. Gillespie (Trans.). New York: Columbia University.
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Spadaro, A. (2014). Cybertheology: Thinking Christianity in the era of
the internet, M. Way (Trans.). New York: Fordham University.
Thompson, D. (2016). The virtual body of Christ in a suffering world.
Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press.
Thompson, D. (2020, 26 March). Christ is really present virtually: A proposal for virtual communion. St. Olaf College Lutheran Center for
Faith, Values, and Community, https://wp.stolaf.edu/lutherancenter/
2020/03/christ-is-really-present-virtually-a-proposal-for-virtualcommunion/.
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Treu, M. (1986). Die Beudeutung der consolatio für Luthers Seelsorge.
Lutherjahrbuch, 53, 7–25.
Wandel, L. (2006). The eucharist in the Reformation: Incarnation and
liturgy. Cambridge: Cambridge University.
Witvliet, J. (2006). Teaching worship as a Christian practice: Musings
on practical theology and pedagogy in seminaries and churchrelated colleagues. Reformed journal. https://reformedjournal.
com/teaching-worship-as-a-christian-practice-musing-on-practicaltheology-and-pedagogy-in-seminaries-and-church-related-colleges/.
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12555
Should Christians practice “Virtual Communion” in time of a
plague?
Perhaps surprising to liturgical Christians, but surely surprising to the public at large, if they cared, is that during this
Coronavirus-Covid-19 pandemic a parochial debate also has
gone viral; well, viral within our subculture. This debate concerns whether Holy Communion is legitimate when done “virtually” over the internet. This debate is serious. Sometime
it has been viscerally reactive, claiming that some pastors
just want to do their “own thing” or even that such centering
on the Eucharist implies fetishism. I am grateful to observe
instead that the conversation has become more civil as the
involuntary fasting from The Lord’s Supper extends into many
weeks. More often now “both” sides recognize that they argue
from common conviction; that we dearly cherish (rather than
fetishize) the Eucharist. Still, I fear that a higher love yet has
been missing from much of the conversation.
I would prefer not to join the public conversation insofar
as the conversation already seems premised on privileging
doctrine over human wholeness. I do not like these terms on
which the debate is set: “Pro or Con, Care for Holy Things
is more important than Care for Human Lives.” It is a hidden
premise with a faulty disjunction. It forgets that Lutheran doctrine has always carried within itself the quality of a quatenus,
that we hold and must hold certain things doctrinally high
insofar as they convey the promise of the gospel and that
the gospel itself holds highest God’s loving intention for the
wholeness of human being, what the Gospel of John thematizes as Abundant Life.
So I join with a different premise. God’s intention that the
gospel be proclaimed in word and act to bless human beings
with wholeness of life now and forever is the point. This
requires that we are freed from self-preoccupation with ourselves so to serve others in the same love with which God
embraces us all. Luther, of course, as in his treatise on why
Christians should not flee in a time of plague, reminds us
that self-care is required for other-care. That treatise defined
in stark relief the ultimacy of the office of ministry’s call to
loosen and break the bonds of despair and anxiety as zealously as we can as loving service in itself and as reinforcing God’s algorithmic formula in our temporal terms for the
health/salvation (salus) of all; you know, “God’s work, Our
hands.”
So much for prolegomena. But what about the weighty doctrinal loci that we also sincerely do hold dear (me included, if
that is not clear to some) and bear on the presenting question?
These include justification, the church, the sacraments, and
the office of the ministry. These are the first and primary steps
in the Augsburg Confession and, indeed, display a particular
logic or trajectory we sometimes fail to see. Further inputs
for our thinking include some basic anthropology and some
beyond-basic metaphysics. Many on both sides have written
fine constructive theology written on the matter in more general and popular terms. I will explore these Lutheran premises
with an eye for those whose questions are more dogmatically
impelled. I will conclude with a coda in praise of the mystical
Body of Christ, our appreciation of which is regrettably understated, if at all extant. No mere editorial (however longish)
such as this can explore fully these loci. But I hope I can add
some nuance to a mutually respectful dissensus.
I have long sloganized that the vocation of the church is “the
objectification of justification.” Human beings are fickle folk.
Emotional dis-ease routinely subsumes rational equanimity.
Anxiety is a chronic condition. When stressors of many kinds
set us off, we can be locked into moral and spiritual trauma.
All the dis-ease (and diss-ease) is caused in some way by sin,
ours or another’s. PTSD, moral injury, and spiritual trauma
are contemporary names for the manifestation of the ancient
56
general category of sin. Depression and despair collude. One’s
whole physical and emotional and moral being is inhabited
by these demons and only an-other can evict them. In other
words, we are captive to our subjectivity and only an objective
other can save us. Concomitantly, only an-other carrying AnOther’s word in-with-under other objects objectively brings
the saving grace Word spoken and acted to us.
The primal human need for a good word from outside oneself sets the initial logical ordering of the Augsburg Confession (CA). It makes sense, of course, for the first article
to be about God. We start with the Ultimate, however abstract
the concept may be. Then there is history, that is, sin and
alienation. With Article II, in other words, the topic is more
empirical, concrete, “objective.” Not to belabor the point, but
the Confession gets ever more “objective.” Jesus is our real
and accessible rescue from alienation (III). Justification is the
Lutheran grammar to speak that (IV). The Church (V), then,
is the historical and empirically objective “paying forward”
of justification as the very Body of Christ that evokes the life
of New Obedience (VI) and “is” Church only as and when
it proclaims the Word and administers the Sacraments (VII).
The trajectory in this ordering underscores that any rescue of
humanity from its alienation from God and self must come
from a historical palpable “Other.”
Oswald Bayer (a Lutheran’s Lutheran) states the same. The
Augsburg Confession and the Smalcald Articles insist that
justifying faith “comes in the promise of the gospel and the
alien righteousness (iustitia aliena) of Christ that comes with
it only in this manner must always receive proper emphasis.” The gospel is never one’s private possession. In other
words, subjectivity cannot have the day (Martin Luther’s Theology, A Contemporary Interpretation, 2008, p. 252). External markers constitute the sacramental event. In the Lord’s
Supper those are (a) “the social and concurrently naturalcultural moment” of shared eating and drinking; (b) the actualization of a “definitive communal relationship between God
and humanity” taking place within a physical assembly; (c)
convened by and “through the performative Word that has
been addressed” to the assembly through bread and wine; (d)
the whole action of which is empowered by the presence of
the resurrected crucified Jesus (Bayer, pp. 252–253). Then
the perhaps surprising remark: the public external character of
this Word event and the private freedom of the individual “are
correlates and empower and support one another.” Religion is
surely not a private affair. But neither is it a form of heteronomy. Alien righteousness must assume priority, but neither is
it coercive. (Bayer, 253). Hold high the objective otherness—
the alien–work of God. Yet do not dismiss the integrity of the
communicant’s trust and desire. Do it all with and within the
objectivity of what is physical.
There are two points in this fine summary that bear especially on our subject. The first concerns the relationship of
physicality, communication, and location. As much as we
EDITORIALS
emphasize the priority of the objectified grace of God in the
elements of water, bread, and wine, it is puzzling to suppose
nevertheless that the finite object that conveys grace (finitum
capax infiniti) is bounded. Bounded by what? Well, it has been
said forcefully in this debate on “virtual” communion that it is
only legitimate when one assembly gathers around one loaf.
That assembly must be physical and gathered in one place.
But other scenarios that challenge that point are very familiar to us. Suppose that the assembly is physically present, but
is numbered in the thousands or even tens of thousands, as
with churchwide assemblies and youth gatherings. There, of
course, no one questions the subjectivity of adolescents gathered around and given the body and blood in the forms of hundreds of loaves and hundreds of cups. One loaf and one cup
are lifted up at the center table and thousands of morsels and
sips are consumed by de facto house churches without walls
around the stadium, even behind walls and in other rooms by
“overflow crowds.” Also, the distant eyes in the last row of
the upper deck would not even be able to see the loaf and
cup lifted were it not for the jumbo-tron screens hanging high
over the arena. Communication happens in multiple modes,
most personally at distances of less than six feet. After that,
from ear-aids to massive amplifiers, blue-toothed bridges, and
towers and satellites convey the same grace in and with sound
and light waves; the same intended original intimacy of God’s
voice in human voice to human ears still says “for you.”
Why start and stop with one loaf and one very local assembly? Of course we prefer that. In our subjectivity we prefer that. We respond more readily to the very familiar, to
what has become intimate and intuitive. But infinity does
not stop at walls; the real incarnate and divine Christ shows
up in Emmaus, closed upper rooms, to Roman military converts, under the floorboards with WWII American prisoners
in the Philippines (true story), and shares his incarnate divinity (communicatio idiomatum); wherever Christ pleases. Does
the power of God, which for fickle human consciousness necessarily begins at the physical, end with the physical? Well,
yes, actually, but for comfort’s sake Christ does so even over
great distances, metaphorically concomitant with entangled
quantum particles. As Bayer avers, the sacramental action
begins with the physical but addresses (and redresses) subjectivity. The sacrament cannot begin with subjectivity. But
enfleshed grace means to go to and through subjectivity so to
move and change the receiver the more into Christ. Remember (re-member), Christ counters Zwingli’s astral-projection
direction and, as promised always, comes to us.
The point of counter-precedents to the norm of one loaf in
local assemblies in real time is very clear. What we already
do already proves agreeable exceptions to the norm. We have
already practiced—enthusiastically so!—virtual communion.
And—of course!—we have always found ways to commune
those who are sight and hearing impaired. We do not insist on
an “ableist” assembly. The objective character of the Eucharist
EDITORIALS
is never purely so. It cannot be, because communication is not
like that. Thank goodness, still, the accent on the “other” is
still more than on the receiver. New mass communication software platforms do not change that accent. If we argue that they
do, we reveal our bondage to an Aristotelian metaphysical
stipulation of Eucharistic conditions that fog our memory that
Christ’s promises hold wherever he wants to, including the
space/time relative and quantum qualities of postmodernity.
Perhaps the real error in this debate is not that we lack real
communication and presence to each other when communion
happens over longer distances, but that we have attached
the word “virtual” to it. Modalities have changed because
metaphysical understandings have changed. We are not
talking about donning headsets and entering into an alternate
reality, as if being church is like going to the “Feelies”
predicted by Orwell. We are talking about a real objectified
message of forgiveness and liberation and re-union into a
holy and incarnated comm-union that is just as real as the
most localized assembly of two or three people in one space.
Since the stone was moved, we have always said this; we have
always prayed this. Our communion at the table happens with
the saints and angels of all time and space. “With angels and
archangels” we lift and consume bread and cup. Might we not
be at that blinking point of awakened insight now of actually
converging our metaphysics and communion practices with
the mystical poetry we have sung for millennia? Let us
just say it. The Eucharist has always been “virtual” and the
Communion of Saints has been our infinitum capax finiti.
We physical and fickle folk are embraced by a boundless
communion that graces and feeds our return to the holy and
beloved community.
Indeed, we physical and folk are incarnated with Christ no
matter the visible or invisible walls. “Virtual” in this frame
does not mean fake. Nor does it mean “spiritualist.” The subjectivity of human perception does not and is commanded not
to place bounds on the precise objects with and through which
God gets to us. “Virtual” here at least connotes the extension
and incarnation of Christ’s physical body and blood beyond
artificial boundaries of time and space, as the Risen Christ
first did with walls of stucco and wood. The ubiquitous Christ
will be the incarnate Christ and vice versa.
One other predicate of “objectification” requires attention,
at least for now. It is the function of the Eucharistic presider,
and so bears on the Office of Ministry. The Reformers were
clear that all the baptized are of the priesthood of all believers, and that the baptized are thus also servants in the spiritual
estate, not only temporal. But CA V is not thereby collapsed
with CA XIV. It is for the sake of good order that the pastoral
office is distinct from the service of all the baptized. What
all can do by virtue of their baptism cannot be done by all
at the same time. The result would be chaos. So LW 44:128:
“because we are all priests of equal standing, no one must push
himself forward and take it upon himself, without our consent
57
and election, to do that for which we all have equal authority. For no one dare take upon himself what is common to all
without the authority and consent of community. And so it
is that a pastor is one who is rightly called (rite vocatus) by
his/her community of faith. The call and the command make
one a pastor of the divine word (LW13:65). This call comes
from the faith community and is for the good order of the faith
community (1 Corinthians 14:40).
There are vital presuppositions in the Lutheran understanding of the pastoral office. “Vital,” remember, has both to
do with being “central” and being “life-giving” (vita). We
have reviewed already the necessity that the Gospel comes
from outside the receiver’s subjectivity. Someone, an-other,
a selected and called one, must proclaim the Gospel in its
purity and see to it that the Sacraments are ministered rightly.
That someone, the pastor, attends not only to the proclamation and the giving. He or she attends to the subjectivity of
the receivers too. Pastors know their people. Knowing their
people implies a reciprocal relationship of trust between pastor and people. The shaping of sermons and—I submit—the
contextual understanding and framing of a sacramental occasion requires such mutual trust. The communicator of alien
righteousness, in other words, is herself not at all alien to the
receiver. Good order does not imply that the pastor “does it
all,” however. Pastoral “control” of a whole parish life, including the manner of its sacramental worship, does not belong
to this conception of ministry. One wonders whether a pastor
does not exhibit a privileged clericalism when the self-control
volume level goes past 11, as if one held a personal sense of
ontological difference between the pastoral office and the rest
of the baptized priesthood. The life of a congregation managed by such a relationship may happen on time, concordant
with a stiff lip of upper Reine Lehre. But that is not necessarily
good order. Good order resonates in a faith community when
people are known for what they can do well for each other,
including tasks of prayer and Lay Eucharistic Ministry, even
lay preaching, and maybe even on rare occasion when lay sisters and brothers commune each other under the express permission and direction of the pastor. Characterizing all of such
a congregation’s life is a living trust, a deep and respectful
loving relationship that shapes the worship community and
precedes its gathering.
This is why “online communion” can be understood to be
as real as a more “concrete” local assembly. The figure on the
video monitor is known and trusted. The gospel proclaimed
and the Word acted in the Words of Institution, to be sure,
are effective no matter the trust level (otherwise there is that
Donatism matter). But the Christian community already in
relationship and rightly ordered completes the circuity however dispersed in space and time the already palpably related
assembly is.
Let me be clear. It is always “better than good order” to
commune together as one particular assembly within the
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58
shining affinity and infinity of all the saints and angels. That
is the normative good for our subjectivities. But in a time
of exigency when a fast from the Eucharist is involuntary,
it is not pastorally caring after a surfeit of heteronomously
imposed fasting days to tell the flock to “remember what
you ate” as if that is the same as the call to “remember your
baptism.” We need the manna. God means us to have food
for the journey in the wilderness. And when the counsel in
such days says that prayer and meditation and listening to
the Word is “just as effective anyway,” does that logic not
undercut the very reasons the same counselors once argued
for regular celebration of Holy Communion? Does it not in
itself betray a favored “spiritualism,” if not even a closeted
Gnosticism? Yes, God comes to us in many ways, and can be
seen to do so in many places, but only after Christ is revealed
to us in the indissoluble nexus of Word and Sacrament (So
wrote Luther when writing on the pun of “crystal,” Christall,
Christ-in all). There comes the time in an exigency when
God’s people, threatened deeply in our subjectivity during
just such times, gotta eat. Ignatius of Antioch’s apt synonym,
“the medicine of immortality,” is meant from faith for faith in
such days.
Much more could and should be said, but is not necessary
here. The evangelical effect of “virtual” communication
(though not yet virtual communion) has been so very consequential and beautiful in the life of the congregation I am
called to serve. Great stories can and will be told. “Virtual
communion” is a responsible step in in extremis times for the
encouragement and continued formation of the faithful individually and together. I do not mean this as “normative,” as if
this should regularly replace the side-by-side body language
of the local worship assembly. I intend this argument as the
exception that proves the rule. It is an interim measure that in
and by the Holy Spirit’s power will console and move from
“inside-out” God’s people further in the way of trust and
loving service to this dis-eased world. And when the Spirit
brings us as a local assembly more palpably back together
around the font and table, we will be the more grateful that
we were re-membered as Christ’s body even as we were too
long apart.
Duane Howard Larson
University of Houston
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12545
1
“The voice of one crying out in the wilderness”
There is something strange going on in our weather system.
For the past 2 months our island, located in the northern
part of the Atlantic, has been literally closed down more than
dozen times. This means that there have been no flights, international or domestic, roads have been closed down (either
in parts of the country, or the whole country), schools have
been closed, and electricity has been out in certain areas, for
hours up to days, all because of the weather. This is a huge
concern to all of us who live here in Iceland, and even as I
write this, we are in the midst of one of these events. There is
really nothing “normal” about it, and questions about its relationship to a changing climate are compelling. But it is too
soon to draw any conclusions. Patterns have to have time to
develop. At the same time, our glaciers are melting, right in
front of our eyes, because of increase in temperature, which
also are warming up the sea around the island, causing big
changes, and real threats, to our fishing practices, as some fish
species are leaving, seeking cooler waters elsewhere, while
new arrive. It takes time for the fish industry to adapt, and the
uncertainty is challenging for people, especially in the small
fishing towns around the country, to say nothing of our whole
economy.2
Like everywhere else, Icelanders have been slow to wake
up to the seriousness of a warming climate, but gradually
people are realizing that this means that life cannot go on like
usual any longer. The Swedish teenage girl, Greta Thunberg,
who started school strike for the climate in August of 2018,
has made a huge impact in our country and elsewhere, by
directing people’s attention to the alarming reports scientists
have been writing for years about the serious impact of global
warming. Because of Greta, young people in Iceland are
starting their own school strike for the climate, and by doing
that they have put much needed pressure on our government
to act according to their commitment to the Paris Agreement,
from December 2015.
It has been breathtaking to watch what has happened since
the Greta Thunberg school strike for the climate started, less
than 2 years ago, outside of the Swedish parliament. Greta
was only fifteen years old, and this was her own initiative.
Her parents supported her, although reluctantly to begin with,
because they worried about her health and how the publicity
would affect her. Her aim was to remind Swedish politicians of
the climate crisis and their responsibility to react to the crises,
three weeks before the Fall election 2018. After the election
EDITORIALS
Greta decided she would continue her strike until the day the
Swedish government had fulfilled their promises to meet the
conditions of the agreement reached in Paris, and reiterated
at other climate conferences. So her strike goes on, but she is
certainly no longer by herself.3
What started as a one-person act, has gradually developed
into a world-wide movement, which, it is safe to say, has made
greater impact than any other climate initiative. By speaking
in clear terms, and making radical decisions, like not to fly,
Greta has managed, at her young age, to bring people all over
the world, out to the streets, demanding responsible actions
from those in charge, as well as individuals, who are contributing to the climate crisis by their daily behavior. There
is something about her either/or rhetoric that makes people
pay attention. She herself has said that the reason why she
tends to see things as black and white is because she has
Asperger’s syndrome. She also has told the story of her childhood, and how she became severely depressed after hearing
about climate change at early age and realizing that people
were not doing anything about it. After suffering for years
from eating disorders and selective mutism, she was able to
overcome her life-threatening condition, and start to eat and
talk again, by speaking up and actively fighting for responsible reaction to the climate crisis. It is clear that for Greta this
is about life and death, and that is the message she wants to
convey.
During the past year and a half, Greta has been invited to
speak at numerous rallies, as well as exclusive meetings such
as the European Parliament, Houses of Parliament in London,
the Unites States Congress, and the United Nations. True to
her black and white worldview, Greta insists that we have to
stop our emission of greenhouse gases; “either we do that or
we don’t,” has been her repeated message.4 There is something profoundly prophetic about her “clear text” rhetoric. It is
not simply about actions but also about a change of heart, and
mind. Speaking to the European Economic and Social Committee in Brussels, in February 2019, Greta challenged her
audience to do their homework, because “once you have done
your homework,” she insisted, “you realize that we need new
politics, we need new economics where everything is based
on a rapidly declining and extremely limited remaining carbon
budget.” But, to Greta, “that is not enough.” What is needed
is “a whole new way of thinking.” Instead of political systems
based on competition,
we need to cooperate and work together and
to share the resources of the planet in a fair
way. We need to start living within the planetary
boundaries, focus on equity and take few steps
back for the sake of all living species. We need
to protect the biosphere, the air, the oceans, the
soil, the forests.5
59
For Greta there is no compromise, “no lukewarm, and neither
cold nor hot” way of thinking (Rev. 3.16), you are either for
or against, either willing to save the planet, and our future, or
not. The burning house is a compelling metaphor, painted in
strong colors. “Our house is on fire. I am here to say, our house
is on fire,” Greta said in her address to the World Economic
Forum in Davos in January 2019. She concluded her speech
with this powerful, no beating-around-the-bush message:
We must change almost everything in our current
societies.
The bigger your carbon footprint – the bigger
your moral duty.
The bigger your platform – the bigger your
responsibility.
Adults keep saying: ‘We owe it to the young people to give them hope.’
But I don’t want your hope.
I don’t want you to be hopeful.
I want you to panic.
I want you to feel the fear I feel every day.
And then I want you to act.
I want you to act as you would in a crisis.
I want you to act as if our house is on fire.
Because it is.6
There is something not right, when our kids and teenagers
are missing out of school in order to protest and fight for the
future of our planet, our common home, and the future of all
of us who live here now, as well as future generations. There is
something strange going on, and the young people are getting
it. Once again civil disobedience is proving to be an important
tool against unjust systems, which are protecting the few, and
not caring for the rest. This is what climate justice is all about.
It reminds us that those who have contributed the least to the
climate crisis are suffering the most; the poor, women, and
children in the Global South. Those of us who belong to the
privileged part of the world, need to start thinking globally;
we need to look at the bigger picture. We cannot continue to
think just about us, and our economy. Greta Thunberg argues
what it all boils down to is the choice between money and
the environment. There are multiple ways we can respond
responsibly to the current crisis we are faced with, not only
highly technical, and financially costly solutions. A book
called Drawdown: The most comprehensive plan ever proposed to reverse global warming (2017), lists, for example,
education of girls as the sixth most important solution, and
family planning as number seven, right after refrigeration,
wind turbines, reduced food-waste, plant-rich diet and
tropical forests; and before solar farms, and rooftop solar.7
There is no surprise that people, who are paying close attention to the discourse about the climate crises, are worrying
EDITORIALS
60
about the future. Eco-anxiety is a growing concern, especially
among the youth. Melting glaciers, higher temperatures, and
severe storms are among the signs of climate change that are
raising the awareness, and even anxiety, of the people in Iceland. It is important that people realize that something can still
be done. Greta Thunberg has warned all of us that talk about
hope can indeed keep us away from actions. At the UN Climate Change Conference, in Katowice in Poland in December
2018, Greta gave a powerful talk, in front of world leaders, climate scientists, and other participants. She concluded her talk
with those words:
Until you start focusing on what needs to be done
rather than what is politically possible, there‘s
no hope. We cannot solve a crises without treating it as a crisis. We need to keep the fossil fuels
in the ground and we need to focus on equity.
And if solutions within this system are so impossible to find then maybe we should change the
system itself?
We have not come here to beg world leaders to
care. You have ignored us in the past and you
will ignore us again. You‘ve run out of excuses
and we‘re running out of time. We‘ve come here
to let you know that change is coming whether
you like it or not.
The real power belongs to the people.8
A prophetic voice; a challenging, encouraging, and compelling voice. But will she be able to move us into action?
Only time will tell.
ENDNOTES
1
Mark 1.3.
2 Pierra-Louis,
K. (2019, November 29). Warming waters, moving fish: How climate change is reshaping Iceland. The New
York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2019/11/29/
climate/climate-change-ocean-fish-iceland.html
3 Greta’s
mother, Malena Ernman, together with the rest of the family,
has told their story in a fascinating book titled Our house is on fire:
Scenes of a family and a planet in crisis. New York: Penguin Books,
2020.
4 Thunberg,
G. (2019). No one is too small to make a difference (p. 21).
New York: Penguin Books.
5 Thunberg
(2019, pp. 36–37).
6 Thunberg
(2019, p. 24).
7 Hawken,
P. (Ed.). (2017). Drawdown: The most comprehensive plan
ever proposed to reverse global warming (p. 221). New York: Penguin
Books.
8 Thunberg
(2019, p. 16).
Arnfríður Guðmundsdóttir
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12546
Trauma, eco-spirituality, and transformation in Frozen 2: Guides
for the Church and climate change
I recently became captivated by the film Frozen 2. I was
in Florida for a psychotherapy professional training and one
night decided to take myself on a date. Nothing fancy; I was
intentionally looking for something not too thought provoking
or activating—just dinner and a movie. Little did I anticipate
how Disney’s new animated film would capture my imagination, heart, and theological intrigue. While there is enough
material in my thoughts and consciousness to fill out a book
(keep your eyes out for one in the future—the proposal is
already in the works), I wanted to share a few reflections on
how Disney’s Frozen 2 can provide a lens for trauma, transformation, and the essential call for our faith communities to step
more fully into an eco-spirituality as a means of fully incarnated repair. Warning: spoilers ahead!
First things first. “Trauma,” as I am using it, refers to
any experience that overwhelms our capacity to respond
to the challenges in our environment and results in either
an over constriction or an over expansion. Trauma is less
about the event or experience itself and more about the
ways in which it impacts us as individuals, communities,
or global ecology. When faced with a significant threat that
overwhelms our capacity for resiliency, we are at risk of
developing symptoms of traumatic response. In its simplest
form, traumatic responses cause us to be smaller or less
than we truly are in an effort to protect ourselves from further wounding. We either shrink to escape further blows
or we build and reside behind walls to project a larger
image.
EDITORIALS
Trauma and transformation are the beating heart of Frozen
2. As Olaf wisely queries, “Did you know that an enchanted
forest is a place of transformation?” Just as trauma entrenches
us in protective patters; transformation calls from the beyond,
into the unknown, and into the promise of authentic flow.
Transformation often requires us to enter into liminal places,
the spaces betwixt and between, where our familiar habits
are tested. These spaces, either geographically or relationally,
disrupt our habits of constriction or fleeing protection and
generate opportunities and wiggle room for the new. They
require courage and offer hope for connection, fullness, and
completion.
The heartbeat pulsing through the film begins in the opening scene in which Elsa and Anna play with snow toys. Anna
explores the narrative that love, in this instance between a distressed damsel and a “fancy” prince, will save the day. Elsa,
meanwhile, weaves a story of trapped fairies and “the fairy
princess who breaks the spell and saves everyone.” Their play
prompts their father to tell a story of a real enchanted forest
and how he became king. His story paints a picture of colonialism and subsequent acts of violence that rend the connection among the elemental spirits, the Northuldra people (based
on the Sami people) from Arendelle, and begins a cascade that
separates Anna from Elsa, and their family from their community. While initially told from the perspective of King Agnarr,
the driving quest of the film is to discover the truth, brave
the trauma of the truth, and make amends or reparation thus
breaking the spell.
At the center of the tale is Elsa’s quest to follow the lure
of the voice that calls to her into the unknown and toward
the source that holds memory and truth. Along the way Elsa
must show her power to befriend the elemental spirits and witness the pieces of truth they hold. From the wind, she sees
her parents as children and meets the Northuldra people. The
fire spirit shows her that she is not alone in hearing the call.
The water spirit challenges her to recognize the limits of her
power and to depend on another to go the distance. The earth
giants, through the prompting of Anna, break the wall that
is the origin and symbol of violence and mistrust. It is only
through the befriending and partnership with the elemental
spirits that Elsa finds her way home to who she fully is and
Anna steps into her power. The origins of trauma and separation in Frozen 2 are located in the deceptive “gift” to build
the dam and stop the flow of water and connection thus weakening the elemental spirits and leading to violence. Transformation occurs by venturing into the unknown, befriending the
elemental spirits and indigenous communities, courageously
61
witnessing the source violence of trauma, and taking concrete
actions to break the spell and restore resiliency and vitality.
So, what wisdom can the church glean from Frozen 2? First,
in the midst of our ecological global crisis, we must find the
courage to venture into the unknown. What are more sustainable practices? How do we speak with confidence about the
limits of our solidified patterns and hope of restored connection? Second, we need to find the fortitude to witness
the ways in which we have enacted violence against one
another, the Earth, and non-human beings and the conviction
to change, dismantle the dams we have built to enhance our
power while limiting the magic of the natural world, and make
reparations.
Humanity’s chronic history of violence has profound implications for planetary health and eco-diversity. As we move
forward in this critical period of ecological viability, who will
we show ourselves to be? Will we extend our awareness of
the creation narrative in Genesis 2 and live into a renewed
confession that YHWH created the Earth and all of her creatures and they are good? As the fires in California and, more
acutely, Australia, have made clear, the loss of animal life as a
consequence of our unchecked impact on climate is devastating. Will we protect the children of the Earth from our unfettered goblin of destruction or will we break the spell and save
everyone?
As communities of faith, we have an opportunity to mend
the traumatic wounds of colonial violence, humbly seek forgiveness and understanding for our histories of collective violence toward indigenous peoples, and offer reparations (in
whatever form is appropriate) to our intra- and interspecies
siblings. We must find the courage to befriend those who
frighten us in their efforts to protect themselves from our
histories of violence and to join with them to heal the traumas
that threaten to freeze and drown. Transformation is formed
through the courage to venture into the unknown, the willingness to listen, witness, and befriend, the moral fortitude
to break down the walls that were erected in fear, and connect ever more fully to the elemental spirits of the planet and,
through those connections, to who we are meant to be. We
are the ones we have been waiting for. Can we fully step into
our power and show our self who is made in the image of the
Divine?
Jennifer Baldwin
Grounding Flight Wellness Center
EDITORIALS
62
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12553
Treehood: A memoir
From the redwood forests and the cedars of Lebanon to the
Tree of Good and Evil in the Garden of Eden, far back
into the groundswells of the archaic human imagination, the
experience of “treehood” (Paul Tillich) has claimed human
hearts and minds all around this good Earth for countless
generations.1 I myself, in my own mundane way, have been
captivated by existential encounters with trees, real or imagined, ever since I can remember.
But much as I have self-consciously and enthusiastically
lived with, thought about, and contemplated trees my whole
life, I have never explored that experience itself. I want to
make a start at doing that here, with the hope that this might
prompt others, particularly members of American Christian
communities, to go and do likewise, in fresh ways.2
also of German descent, had a top position in the Buffalo parks
department in the late nineteenth century. That uncle oversaw the implementation of a plan to plant what turned out to
be many thousands of sweepingly gracious elm trees, along
both sides of many of the city’s parkways. In those days, long
before the onset of Dutch elm disease, Buffalo was Elm City
without the name.
That history behind him, my father often found times
to take his mind off his busy professional life—he was a
dentist—by planting and caring for trees all around our sizeable property. And he often enlisted me to work with him,
which was always a joy for me. Those were some of the times
when I truly felt close to him and when, I believe, he truly felt
close to me.
6
5
Muir, T hore au, B ar th
Trees an d M y Fami ly
The first tree I ever fell in love with was a Lombard Poplar. I
grew up in an exurban setting, near Buffalo, New York. One
side of the family land was lined with these tall, cylindershaped trees, which had already grown to full height, perhaps
60 feet tall, when I was a child. Usually without my parents
knowing, I would on occasion climb up one of those trees as
high as I dared. The branches were fragile, but, for a slim 11year-old, that climb was safe, or so I thought back then. On
those ascents, I often imagined myself to be a kind of heroic
adventurer. I would station myself maybe 40 feet above the
ground for a spell, as I surveyed our house below and the fields
beyond, and felt the wind bending the tree and brushing my
face. It was a boy’s dream. For those moments, I lived ecstatically, in another world, thanks to that poplar tree.
In retrospect, I can imagine that those tree-climbing adventures must have had an important psychological function for
me. I was an unhappy child at times, a condition that I only
began to understand some years later when I was in therapy
during my college years. High up in one of those trees, I suppose that I was able to leave those familial tensions behind, if
only for a short time.
In therapy, I came to understand that, among other family
dynamics, I had had a conflicted relationship with my father.
He was a kind and caring man, but I began to realize that
he was also distant at some deeper level. Enter the world of
trees. Perhaps thanks to his German heritage—Germans typically cherished their parks, perhaps more than other ethnic
groups—my father loved trees. One of his uncles, who was
Adventurous joy with those poplar-climbings and warm personal bonding with those tree-plantings and that tree-care with
my father—those were some of the deeper experiences of my
younger years which I came to cherish as I grew into adulthood. Also, during my high school years, my family had the
means to travel to many of the nation’s great national parks
during extended summer vacations. Under my father’s tutelage on those trips, I came to affectionately know many trees,
the majestic redwoods of California, for example, or the effervescent quaking aspens of Utah.
During the years of my doctoral studies, I found a way to
read every volume of the collected works of John Muir, even
though those works were obviously not immediately germane
for my chosen field of academic research, twentieth century
German theology. John Muir then led me to the much more
famous Henry David Thoreau. I think, in retrospect, that I read
Muir first, and thoroughly, because he was so deeply imbued
with Calvin’s theology, whether he fully understood that or
not, and since, by that time, I had immersed myself in Calvin’s
thought, along with Luther’s, both of whom, I came to believe
and then subsequently to argue, were dedicated champions of
the goodness of creation and the glories and the mysteries of
the natural world, in particular.3
I read Muir and Thoreau, ironically perhaps, at the same
time that I was working on my doctoral dissertation on
the great Karl Barth’s—highly problematical—theology of
nature.4 Barth’s theology as a whole, seminal indeed as it
was, never helped me to understand, much less to affirm,
my longstanding love for trees. Muir’s and then Thoreau’s
EDITORIALS
encounters with trees did. The result was a theological proposal, on my part, for a new way to understand my love—or
anyone’s love—for trees.
7
I-Thou , I -Ens
Barth had adopted what was, at the time, a more or less conventional theological way to understand human relationships
with other creatures, a theme developed by many thinkers in
his era, but which was most often associated with the name
of the Jewish philosopher, Martin Buber, and his book, I and
Thou.5 Buber contrasted an I-Thou relation, which he thought
of in intimate, personalistic terms, with an I-It relation, which
he defined as an objectifying relationship between a person
and a thing. So, when someone says to his or her partner,
authentically, “I love you,” that is an I-Thou relationship.
When he or she picks up a hammer and hits a nail, that is
an I-It relationship.
Buber and others—among them, Barth—who gave this
way of thinking currency, were eager to protect and then
to celebrate the authenticity of genuine human relationships and to reject any kind of objectifying relationships
between humans and other humans. Humans should always
be regarded as ends-in-themselves, according to this way
of thinking, and should never be treated as objects to be
manipulated.
What, then, about my relationship with trees? The I-Thou,
I-It way of thinking does not account for my love of trees.
Trees are not persons. You cannot communicate with a tree
the way you can communicate with your spouse, as a Thou.
Are all trees, therefore, in truth mere objects? Was that Lombard Poplar which I adored when I was 11 years old merely an
object I used, like a ladder, to climb up into the sky? Or was
it, in truth, a creature in its own right, worthy of my respect,
even adulation? Wasn’t it the case that I not only clung to
that tree, forty feet above ground, for safety’s sake, but also to
embrace it? That tree, for me, back then was no mere object.
It was something else. But what? Buber recognized this problem in an appendix to the second edition of I and Thou. He
even imagined a relationship to a tree that is somehow akin
to an I-Thou relationship, but he self-consciously chose not to
try to think that through. I decided that I myself would give it
a try.
In my first scholarly article, I argued that a revision of
Buber’s thought was required. Hence my title: “I-Thou, IIt, and I-Ens.”6 I wanted to be able to talk about the trees
that I loved as ends-in-themselves, no longer as mere objects.
In that article, to illustrate I-Ens relationships, I drew attention not only to the praxis of thinkers like Thoreau and
Muir with regard to nature, but also to Luther’s and Calvin’s
visions of earthly creatures. Both Reformers, like Thoreau and
Muir, portrayed those creatures in non-objectifying terms and
63
indeed celebrated those creatures as ends in themselves, as, in
some sense, charged with the mystery of God. Luther saw miracles in nature everywhere and stood in awe of them. Calvin
considered the whole of nature to be a theater of Divine glory
and celebrated that glory enthusiastically.
In ensuing publications, I employed the constructs of IThou, I-It, and I-Ens as a kind of silent interpretive key
to open up the whole sweep of classical Christian theology in a new way. I argued that – notwithstanding Lynn
White Jr.’s then widely hailed critique of the Christian tradition as ecologically bankrupt, alleging that Christians have
almost always treated nature as a mere object, something to
be manipulated—we can trace a major Christian tradition that
richly affirmed the natural world in its own right. That way of
thinking I could have called the Ens-tradition. In retrospect, I
think that my reflections about Buber’s way of thinking and
my historical investigations were existentially dependent on
my early encounters with treehood.
Likewise for my conversion to environmental activism,
along the way. That happened, emphatically, after I first began
to work my way through books like Rachel Carson’s Silent
Spring and Stewart Udall’s The Quiet Crisis in the early
1960s.7 It was natural, as it were, for me in those days, and
subsequently, not only to love trees in their own right, but also
to do all that I could do to protect them, along with the whole
world of God’s earthly creatures.
8
Hunts Corner
But my life with trees by no means came to expression just
in youthful encounters or in mid-life scholarly writings or
even in longstanding commitments to environmental or ecojustice activism.8 I also have been blessed throughout my life
by rich encounters with a range of particular trees. This story
has unfolded in several locations, but I want to mention only
one here, the old farmhouse at Hunts Corner, in southwestern
Maine, which has been a home away from home for me and
my family for more than forty years.
At Hunts Corner, notwithstanding the human incursions
here and there and the ominous pipeline in particular, I
have developed cordial relationships over the years with
many of the trees on our land, I-Ens relationships as I think
about them. I have learned to call many of those trees by
name and sometimes greet them, when no other humans are
around.
Our plot was in all likelihood a farmland 150 years ago.
The west side of our land is marked by one of those famous
stone walls that defined the farm fields in historic New
England. The oldest trees tend to be near that wall or to be
growing from an adjacent, steep and stony incline, which
never could have been farmed. One mother oak, in particular,
has fascinated me ever since I first noticed it. It is enormous.
EDITORIALS
64
I cannot put my arms even half way around its mammoth
base. The poor tree has been hammered and seared over its
long lifetime by the elements. The top of its central trunk was
apparently sheared off, perhaps decades ago. But the tree has
lived on. Near that mother oak grow a number of smaller,
but nevertheless sizeable descendants. I once walked through
that area with a neighbor and he eagerly explained to me that
I could make a lot of money if I were to have those oaks cut
down for commercial sale.
Grand old towering mother white pines also grow in that
area and elsewhere on our land. My brother, Gary, and I once
cut down one of those giants after it had died, this, for safety
reasons. I did not want it to fall on anyone, particularly on my
grandchildren, who sometimes had ventured out near that tree,
at the edge of the forest.
Treehood should not be romanticized. A tearful older father
once told me, in a long, quiet conversation, how he had lost
his daughter to a tree, in the prime of her life. This was the
story that onlookers reported. His daughter and her two toddlers had been picnicking in a park. On their way home, she
was watching them run on playfully ahead of her. At one point,
she saw a large tree falling down on to the children. She ran
desperately to push them out of the way, which she did. But
she herself was killed. That story was in my mind, as were my
own grandchildren, all the time my brother and I were working to take down that immense, but dead pine tree at the edge
of our forest. Huge it was. Gary and I barely had the strength
together to roll pieces from that tree’s trunk into the woods to
their final resting places.
9
The M aple and the Church
Early on in my family’s tenure at Hunts Corner, I began to
carve out paths in the back forest, where that mother oak
and a number of the great white pines live and where American beeches are now moving in. Closer to our house, I have
planted a variety of individual trees over the years or occasionally cut away competitors, in order to allow some extant
trees to flourish.
Perhaps the most striking of all the tree planting that Laurel
and I have done over the years was the operation that she and
I once performed on what was, for us at the time, a nameless
sapling. It was March, early on in our experience with the
world of rural Maine. What we did was sheer, youthful folly.
Laurel had decided at that time, that, come the next spring,
we would turn over a plot just back of our house, where she
would begin to create a perennial garden. But there stood that
large sapling right in the middle of that space! Without much
thought, we decided that we would try to move that tree, right
then.
The ground was frozen, of course. I had to use an ax to cut
out the ball of the roots. Once cut free, we could barely drag
that ball out of its earthen socket. Now what? We decided to
roll it maybe forty yards to the western side of our land. There,
using the ax again, and a pick-ax, I hollowed out a cavity for
that big, frozen root ball. Finally, we were able to slide that
sapling and the mass of its frozen roots into that hole.
It was only then that it dawned on us that we had planted
that tree close to the church next door, a pristine, white,
wooden building, which easily could have appeared on
some New England calendar cover. But that was that. Never
mind that sapling. The church building appeared to be as
picturesque as ever. We hurried on into the house to warm
ourselves by the Franklin Stove. Little did we know back then
that that nameless sapling, more than 40 years later, would
magically turn into a graceful and fulsome red maple whose
sumptuous branches would then completely cover our vista
of the whole church building! That iconic structure is gone
from our angle of vision for much of the year. There may be
a parable hidden in this ironic tale, but, if so, I have yet to
discover what it is.
10
D e ath from L ife
Sadly, the sugar maple I planted at the front of our property
many years ago recently died. It was painful for me to observe
that large and lovely tree die over the course of several seasons
and then to witness it standing there, barren, a skeleton, all by
itself.
True, stories like these sometimes have a blessed ending,
according to one of the central themes of the Christian faith,
from death comes life. Over the many years that we have lived
at Hunts Corner, mostly from the early spring through the late
fall, we have used our old iron stove in the kitchen steadily,
sometimes even on cool summer nights. And we obtain fuel
for those fires almost always from standing dead-wood, which
we cut down at various places on our land and then drag in,
cut up, split, and stack. That was to be the story of that dead
sugar maple. We would give thanks for it one more time, so
I thought, as it would later warm both our kitchen and our
hearts.
But that dead sugar maple’s transition to firewood was not
as smooth as I had anticipated. That project turned out to be
an adventure.
For many years, my brother and I have helped each other
with forest and other chores at our respective rural homes, his
in western Connecticut. He learned to love trees the same way
I did, working with our father on the grounds of our exurban
Buffalo home. After various childhood and adolescent skirmishes, some of them harsh, Gary and I have remained close
over the years and have grown even closer in these our golden
years, especially by assisting each other outdoors either in
Connecticut or Maine, for days at a time.
EDITORIALS
That towering dead sugar maple had to be cut so that it
would fall away from the street, not on to the street, where
it might block or even hit some speeding car that was passing
by. With some anxiety, I admit, I nevertheless trusted Gary to
cut that tree just so that it would fall precisely where it was
supposed to. I had witnessed Gary “place” (his term) falling
trees in just the right locations many times.
When this tree began to undulate, however, it did not immediately fall away from the street as Gary had cut it to fall. The
tree just stood there trembling, not falling in any direction!
What was going to happen? With some sense of urgency (!)
and with a long rope tying him to that oh-so-perilously oscillating tree, as it was readying itself to fall in one direction or
another, Gary dashed to a spot far away from the street and
then pulled on the rope, again and again, until the tree finally
fell toward him (it crashed down a few feet to his left!) and
not on to some unsuspecting car that might have been speeding up or down our road. Quite a feat for one who was at that
time about to turn eighty! As I am constantly aware, trees are
not always our friends. But thankfully, in this case, Gary was
able to coax that tree in a friendly direction, narrowly escaping
injuring himself or anyone else.
11
65
have been fascinated with them in our time have believed. No,
their spirituality of nature was consistently an eschatological
celebration of the Cross and Resurrection. For the great Celtic
saints, the love of the seas and the earth and its creatures and
the love of Jesus Christ, crucified and risen from the dead, is
the same love, now and forever.
Hence I was overjoyed when I found and then was able to
buy that cement Celtic Cross at Home Depot for $14.98. I
eagerly carried it off to implant it in the earth next to the purple beech in our Hidden Garden. I wanted to announce that
someone believes—or that someone, whose ashes are interred
there, once did believe—that that tree, marked by that Cross,
is—or was—for that believer the lignum vitae. I cannot imagine the story I am telling here ending otherwise, for I now
realize that my world, from the days of my childhood on,
always has been, is, and, I hope, always will be, the world of
treehood.
ENDNOTES
1
The general cultural literature on trees—living with them, celebrating
them, understanding them in all eras—is enormous in English alone,
and shows signs of continuing to grow exponentially. Perhaps the best
known and most accessible book in this vast literature, well worth
reading, is: Wohlleben, P. (2016). The hidden life of trees: What they
feel, how they communicate—Discoveries from a secret world, Trans.
J. Billinghurst. Vancouver/Berkeley: Greystone Books. For a brief but
instructive review of trees as a cultural construct in the modern West,
see Pollan, M. (1998). Second nature: A gardener’s education. London:
Bloomsbury, 171–182.
2
Treehood, rightly construed, has a justice dimension. Think of the
remarkable work of Nobel Laureate Wangari Maathai (d. 2011), who
started the Green Belt Movement in Kenya, which has planted more
than 30 million trees in Africa, in order to fight erosion, to create firewood, to give work to poor women, and, generally, to reestablish the
health of the whole earthly biotic community. Wangari’s work presupposed that trees have their own standing, that trees, essentially, are not
first and foremost objects for capitalist exploitation, whether directly,
through commercial development, or indirectly, through the destructions wrought by impoverished peoples. Nor, in Wangari’s perspective,
were trees essentially a means for the wealthy temporarily to escape
from the contradictions of modern industrial society, under the rubric
of “ecotourism.”
M y Tre e o f L i fe
I have saved for last what is for me the best news about treehood.
Some years ago, Laurel and I purchased a then ten-foot tall
purple beech sapling, and planted it in our Hidden Garden.
Long before, we had come to adore the gigantic hundred-yearold purple beeches we had encountered in Mt. Auburn Cemetery, near our Massachusetts home. In this finite world, those
great trees are, for me, the best natural symbols of eternal life
that I can imagine. Laurel and I have decided to have our ashes
interred at the base of our own purple beech, which now rises
high above us in the Hidden Garden.
I have affixed a foot-high Celtic Cross—made of cement—
at the base of our purple beech, which one day will not only
mark the place of our buried ashes, but will also announce the
truth, for those who have ears to hear, that has claimed my
own soul self-consciously since the first days of my theological study to these my octogenarian years, predicated on a reading of Colossians 1:15ff.: The crucified and risen Lord is the
Cosmic Christ, both now and forever—“…[A]ll things have
been created through him and for him. He himself is before
all things, and in him all things hold together” (Col.1:16f.
NRSV).
I saw that cosmic Christology in the figures and designs on
the historic Celtic crosses that I encountered during a trip to
Ireland with Laurel in 1996, along with throngs of other spiritual seekers.9 I concluded then that the classical Celtic saints
were by no means essentially nature mystics, as many who
3 See
my historical study, Santmire, H. P. (1985). The travail of nature:
The ambiguous ecological promise of Christian theology. Minneapolis,
MN: Fortress.
4 Santmire,
H. P. (1966). Creation and nature: A study of the doctrine
of nature with special attention to Karl Barth’s doctrine of creation
(Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Harvard University, Cambridge,
MA; summarized in Santmire, The travail of nature, Ch. 8.
5 Buber,
M. (1958). I and thou, Trans. R. Smith (2nd ed.). New York:
Charles Scribner’s Sons.
6 Santmire,
260–273.
H. P. (1968). I-thou, I-it, I-ens. Journal of Religion, XLVII,
EDITORIALS
66
7
Carson, R. (1962). Silent spring. New York: Houghton & Mifflin; Udall, S. (1963). The quiet crisis. New York: Rinehardt &
Winston.
8
Regarding my own theological trajectory, see my theological autobiography, Ecology, justice, liturgy. In D. R. Nelson, J. M. Moritz, &
T. Peters (Eds.), Theologians in their own words. Minneapolis, MN:
Fortress, 2013, Ch. 18.
9
For an account of my engagement with Celtic spirituality, see Santmire,
H. P. (2000). Nature reborn: The ecological and cosmic promise of
Christian theology. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress.
H. Paul Santmire
Watertown, Massachusetts
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12556
Archbishop Antje Jackelén and Patriarch Bartholomew
on the climate crisis
A few months ago, one of the leading lights of
the Christian world visited Sweden: the ecumenical patriarch Bartholomew I of Constantinople,
head of the second-largest church community in
the world: the Eastern Orthodox churches. His
constant work for the well-being of the creation,
the environment, and the climate has resulted in
him being known as the green patriarch. About
10 years ago, he was among Time Magazine’s
list of the world’s 100 most influential people.
He has always insisted that ecological issues are
basically also existential and spiritual issues,
which is an insight that the western world has
been slow to accept.
Patriarch Bartholomew visited the Greek Orthodox Metropolitanate of Sweden and all Scandinavia. He also spoke at the Church of Sweden’s
General Synod. Here, he writes together with
Archbishop Antje Jackelén.
The church is a global network. It has a presence around
the world that is almost unsurpassed by any other organization
or movement. The church has contact with other religions at
all levels, and cooperates with a wide range of humanitarian
organizations. It is in dialogue with world leaders, not least
via the UN system. The church has a presence in many places
around the world that are not readily accessible. During crises
and disasters, the church is often there before they happen,
while they are happening, and long after the immediate relief
work has been phased out. This is an obligation in an era in
which the world must learn to live with the climate crisis and
its consequences.
We know that those people who have contributed least to
global warming are often those most severely affected by climate change. We know that social challenges such as poverty,
migration, and the global health situation are directly linked to
environmental and climate issues. There is a need for climate
justice. The issue is how we humans interact with the natural environment, of which we are a part. We therefore have to
take action based on what feels most meaningful in our lives.
We must therefore talk about the sacrifices that we can make
together, so that our children and the children of others can
have a future.
The climate crisis is exacerbated by lifestyles that make
greed seem like a virtue. Resolving it will be difficult for
as long as people and nature are viewed only from the
perspective of economics and technology. Only when we
actually distinguish between our needs and our desires can
we achieve fair and just climate goals. When will we learn to
say, “Enough is enough!”?
What we think about and feel about nature really matters.
Is it a mechanism that simply keeps on rolling? An unlimited
source of raw materials? Our recreation area? Our enemy? A
place of endless harmony and balance? A system involving a
constant battle for survival? How we relate to nature as creation reveals how we relate to the very basis of existence—
which we call God.
The churches in the east and the west have developed somewhat differing points of focus with regard to humankind and
creation. Put in simple terms, western tradition has developed a deep trust in rationality and science. This has contributed to a demystifying of nature and humankind’s role in
creation. Its secrets were dissolved in measurability. Humans
came to understand themselves to be rulers of nature, rather
than stewards who are responsible for and have to care for
something that they do not actually own. The emphasis was
put on humankind’s function.
Theologians in the east have talked more about nature as a
mystery that cannot be fully described, not even with the most
excellent measuring instruments available in the world of science. Nature meets us and shows itself to us, but never fully.
As humans, we are part of this mystery. Each human being is
EDITORIALS
itself a miniature cosmos, a microcosm. Here, the relationship
is at the forefront. The western view has a tendency to see too
little concreteness, and something romantic, in this approach.
But the fact is that a full understanding of our role as human
beings requires both perspectives: function and relationship,
doing and being.
It is a characteristic of being human that we can have an indepth understanding of ourselves based on the relationships
in which we are involved: to ourselves, to each other, to the
entire creation, and to the ground of being itself. We can also
gain a deep understanding of our mission as human beings,
our function: why are we actually here?
As we face the climate crisis, we need to focus on rational
action inspired by the best science available, while also
needing to have an existential understanding of how and why
we feel and act as we do. Destroying biodiversity; wrecking
forests and wetlands; poisoning water, soil, and air—all these
are violations of our mission as human beings. Theology
calls it a sin. This sin arises from our inability to see the
earth as our home, a sacrament of community. Our natural
environment unites all the people on earth with every living
thing, in a way that transcends any differences in faiths and
convictions that may exist between us humans. Experiencing
the beauty of nature means a lot to us. But we are also created
for another type of beauty: that people have quality of life,
live in harmony with nature, meet in peace and help each
other.
If we want to have an ecologically, socially, economically,
and spiritually sustainable approach to the world—which we
must have—individual or commercial solutions will never be
sufficient. This is why spiritual maturity is now required. Such
maturity means being able to see the difference between what
I want and what the world needs. It can understand that the
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climate crisis is rooted in human greed and selfishness. It can
elevate us above fear, greed, and fundamentally unhealthy ties.
If we want technological development, fair and just economic systems, ecological balance, and social cohesion to
work together to create a sustainable future on our earth, we
also need a conversion, a new state of mind. A renewal of our
humanity (in the dual sense of the word). It is not sufficient
for us to only address the symptoms if we really want healing
and wholeness.
Like Pope Francis, we are of the opinion that we are in
urgent need of a humanism that is able to bring together different areas of knowledge, including economics, to form a
more integrated and integrating vision. Science, politics, business, culture, and religion—everything that is an expression
of humankind’s dignity—need to work together to put our
earthly home on a more stable footing. Real stature among
leaders and rulers of various kinds becomes apparent when
we in difficult times can maintain high moral principles and
focus on the long-term common good. In these days, the
bishops of the Church of Sweden will be issuing a bishops’
letter about the climate that highlights these issues in more
detail.
The climate deadline is coming ever closer. Indecision and
negligence are the language of death. We must choose life.
Give the earth the opportunity to heal, so that it can continue
to provide for us and so that people can live in a world characterized by fairness, justice, and freedom.
Antje Jackelén, Archbishop of the Church of Sweden
Bartholomew I, Archbishop of Constantinople, and Ecumenical Patriarch
Archbishop Antje Jackelén
Church of Sweden
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12557
Thoughts while sheltering …
In the midst of a crisis it is easy to make statements that later
seem unnecessarily alarmist. I do not think I am the kind of
person who normally sounds alarmist (but who really who
thinks that they are alarmist?), but it is hard to imagine that
COVID-19 will not remake our lives in ways we never could
have envisioned a few months ago. It is hard to imagine that
our lives—collectively and individually—will not be forever
changed.
Some thoughts:
1. I do not generally read God’s wrath and judgement into
current events and I am not prepared to do that now.
That said, I find myself wondering if COVID-19 will not
change our lives in a manner similar to the Tower of Babel
(Genesis 11). This story is, among other things, an account
of how a united humanity became divided. I wonder if
COVID-19 will not threaten to (further?) divide us.
2. Others have written and commented about the relationship
between COVID-19 and climate change. Many of these
EDITORIALS
68
people are much more knowledgeable and smarter than
me. I plan to listen even harder to them. For much of my
adult life, I have attempted to walk with a light environmental footprint (e.g., I have walked or rode a bicycle to
work for over 25 years). In the past year, my wife and I
have doubled down on such practices and we walk with an
even lighter environmental footprint. I have a feeling that
others might be joining me in the future.
3. I wonder if COVID-19 will not accelerate the already fast
pace of secularization in western societies. The church—
fairly or not—has been associated with the status quo and
thereby irrelevance by many people (especially younger
people). With “physical distancing” forcing worshipping
communities to meet virtually and disembodied, can they
matter? What is life together if it is virtual and disembodied? I am not a Luddite who wants to destroy technological tools. I am, after all, writing this because of the miracle of modern computer technology. However I think that
social media and virtual life supplements, not supplants,
embodied life.
4. I wonder if COVID-19 might not reverse—or at least stem
the tide of—the pattern of secularization and irrelevancy
of the church. The church mattered in the early Middle
Ages because of its commitment to caring for the sick
and vulnerable. I am thinking, for example, of Gregory the
Great who while he was pope used the wealth of the church
to feed the hungry and care for the poor. Is COVID-19 such
a moment for the church?
5. I think about hospitals and monasteries in the Middle
Ages. They were beacons and refuges for Christians fleeing plague and pestilence. Hospitals and monasteries were
beacons and refuges for Christians to care for others who
were fleeing plague and pestilence. These hospitals and
monasteries were outposts of civilization in wildernesses
of savagery and barbarianism. Does the church need to
reclaim that part of its history and heritage and make it
more central to its mission and identity?
6. I think also of the Babylonian Exile. Israel had to rethink
what it meant to be faithful when it had no temple for people to worship in and bring their offerings to. What will it
mean for us in the 21st century if we cannot gather together
in the ways we have always gathered?
I finish here with only six thoughts. God worked for 6 days
and then rested. I will rest also with these six thoughts and
observe a kind of Sabbath. I will be thinking on God and the
ways of God and who we are called to be. My seventh thought
is a Sabbath thought. It is a thought, such as it is, of worship,
prayer, and contemplation.
David C. Ratke
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12558
The corona crisis unmasks prevailing social ideologies
The current Covid19 pandemic shows that dominant
ideologies of our age—from individualism to social
constructivism—fall short in meeting reality by disregarding
the wider ecological community in which we are situated.
Human beings, for sure, play an increasing role in cultivating,
shaping, and also destroying our shared world. Maybe the
corona virus experience teaches us to recover the importance
of human communities as well as our place in ecological
communities? It seems that neither individualism nor social
constructivism stand the test of reality.
If there is anything the Corona crisis teaches us, it is that our
lives are interconnected. There is no human being who only
inhabits his or her own little world, and who is in charge. We
are part of a great human community—for good and evil. We
infect each other, yes, but we also live off each other’s infectious smiles. What would our lives be like without close eye
contact and bodily expressions of welcome? Community is
the first and most important part of our lives, and during quar-
antine we experience how much we miss the normal social
interaction with each other. In the meantime, we are thrown
back on ourselves, or the very closest ones.
1 2 L I B E R A L I S M : VA LU E O R
IDEOLOGY ?
There resides some truth in every ideology, otherwise it could
not attract our attention, and be infectious. Liberalism is the
view that every citizen should have as much freedom to live
as possible. Most of us agree on this value across the political spectrum from left to right. Yet the fact is that we are the
blacksmiths not only of our own happiness, but also of our
misfortune. The misery is that we cannot know in advance.
But more than that, we also share the misfortune of others.
Self-restraint is necessary precisely because it is a primary
fact that my desire for freedom and movement can put others
in bondage and immobility.
EDITORIALS
13 E X I ST E N T I A L I S M : A N
ANTI-IDEOLOGY BECOMING T HE
IDEOLOGY OF INDIVIDUALISM
Since the 1950s, existentialism has been a very widespread
ideology. It still is under the guise of being against all
ideology. Since Jean-Paul Sartre, existentialism has argued
that you are what you do. It is your free decisions that give you
the essence and character of your particular humanity. Existentialism is a humanism, as Sartre called his 1946-program.
True it is that we live every day with small choices about
where to go, but the idea that we are “decision-makers” all the
day is an extremely forced view. Fortunately, most of us do as
we usually do, and if we do not, others would not be able to
count on us. A human being who constantly decides pro or con
would be an incalculable human being, a constantly ticking
bomb under enduring relationships. An existentialism without the “humanism of the other person” (Levinas) is a monster
beyond the possibility of attunement and self-correction.
The ideology of existentialism lies in its individualism. Fortunately, however, we live in communities where we, as resonating beings, constantly tune in to each other. Hopefully,
we also live the greater part of our lives in a pre-conscious
stream of experience that precedes our small and large decisions. Otherwise, we would quickly become sleepless persons, incarcerated in a hyperactive consciousness, and eventually we would become insane. In short: It is not very often
my decisions that determine who I am. Rather, it is the sum
of the resonance-and-dissonance experiences of my life that
determines who I am and what I do. The community exists
before the conscious self-awareness of the Ego.
14 T H E SK I N -A N D - H A I R V I E W O F
H U M A N BOD I E S
Alongside the over-spiritualized view of existentialism, we
find another ideology, which sees a human being as the exclusive owner of a physiological body, curved in around itself.
We could call it the skin-and-hair ideology. Bodies, however, do not only include skin and hair, bones, and internal
organs, for we live as socially and ecologically extended bodies. What we can learn from biology is that our bodies are
in constant exchange between one’s own body and everyone
else’s. Humans are “holobionts,” an organismic space for a
variety of lifeforms.
In discussing the nature–nurture problem, the controversy
has been about how much genes (nature) determine us, and
how much our society (nurture). But inside our body we do not
only carry our specific human genome, but also a wider microbiome, made up of all the viruses, bacteria, and fungi that have
entered our body from the outside into our nose, throat, ears,
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and not least gut—through food consumption, fluids, and the
inhalation of air. Overall, we should be grateful for the world
of microbiota, for most microorganisms are symbiotic. Without bacteria and viruses, we would curl up on the floor with
abdominal pain, and we could never be able to “make decisions.” Overall, we need to be good friends with our bacteria and viruses. Only a few are as harmful as Covid-19, and
here we naturally have to go into counter-procedures such as
cleansing, preventing, and quarantining. As far the medical
science goes, we do not have a cure at present. Hence, the respirators will be running until the corona infection is over.
1 5 THE I DEOLOGY OF SOCIAL
CON ST RU C T I V I S M
Let me now address what I see as the most widespread ideology in our time, at least in the academy: social constructivism.
This ideology has spread from sociology to psychology, politics and pedagogy, and social constructivism has ended up
being a quasi-orthodox consensus ideology within the humanities and substantial parts of theology as well. This movement’s first epicenter was the book The Social Construction of
Reality, written by sociologists Thomas Luckman and Peter L.
Berger in 1966, followed up by Berger’s The Sacred Canopy in
1967, focusing on the religious construction of reality. Being
a circumspective scholar, Berger soon after realized the weaknesses of social constructivism but by then the ideology had
already infected wider parts of the social sciences. Its thesis
was, and henceforth is, that human societies construct reality
through language perception and the maneuvers of rhetoric,
political, and social engineering, and that human societies do
so under only a minimal resistance from pre-linguistic reality,
including nature.
Again, there is an aspect of truth in this idea. The ways in
which we use language and discursively define the boundaries
of society do indeed have impact on the public perception
of reality. For example, the political responses to the Corona
crisis show the considerable impact of our political constructions of reality. State leaders are the ones who have capacity
to define states of emergency, and in an exceptional situation
governments act as quasi-sovereign powers that determine the
social reality for the general population. It cannot be different,
but political decisions differ from country to country. Do we
proceed as in South Korea and Taiwan (with large screenings
of the population and subsequent quarantines)? Do we do as
in Denmark (with an early and strict lockdown but initially
without many Corona tests)? Or, do we choose like Sweden
(avoid strong coercion but appeal to the population)? By comparison, the overarching federal strategy in the United States
still (March 29, 2020) seems oscillating.
EDITORIALS
70
16 NATURE TESTS THE POLITICS,
P O L I T I CA L M E A S U R E S L I M P
BEHIND
being there with others and being there for others, not least for
us who are gasping for fresh air.
This being the case, social constructivism does not sit well
with a common sense realism: it is the de facto spread of
the Covid-19 infection, and the subsequent fatalities, that will
determine whether our political measures have worked or not.
In an infectious world, politics combines wait-and-see attitude
with post hoc maneuvers. Even the most powerful politicians
cannot talk away Covid-19. Either you have it or you do not
have it. Either you infect others or you do not. Either you will
see an exponential spread or you will see a flat rising curve.
Thus, it is the spread of infections that tests politics, not the
other way around. Social and political constructs are not capable of defining reality. It seems that even the most clumpydumpy politicians are beginning to understand the reality test,
after having tried to downplay Covid-19 rhetorically. Accordingly, what we need in the academy is a thorough revision
of the prevailing ideologies of our age: individualism, social
constructionism, discourse theory, etc.
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17
GOD DOES NOT SELF-ISOLATE
We need a biocultural and ecological paradigm shift within
the social and human sciences, including theology. Otherwise
we see people of faith as individual faith decision-makers, and
we overburden one another with overheated appeals to letting
God come to our mind, as if we could conceptually enframe
God. Yet if God at all Is, God is prior to our consciousness
and our self-aware pious decisions. If God is, God is present to
the child, and present to us when we are using our full energy
and attention in solving a problem, when we are falling asleep,
when we are aging and entering into states of dementia and no
longer in conscious contact with God. The faith of any individual (each in his or her individual manner) is rather about
tuning into a deeper reality—a reality which is already there,
as the prime and pervasive source of resonance, present in a
divine personal form beyond my own little personhood. Faith
is about plugging in, of moving into the prior reality of the
divine self-communication, in words as well as beyond words.
Similarly, revising the assumptions of the skin-and-hair
ideology, Jesus is not a bygone entity, a “composite entity” of
(a) a divine entity, (b) a skin-and-hair body, and (c) a particular
lonely soul, as some analytical theologians redescribe Chalcedonian Christology in a so-called “compositional Christology.” But God was not incarnate in a man cave, but conjoined
the shared flesh of humanity, shared also with non-human
creatures beyond the skin of Jesus. By becoming incarnate in
Jesus and in his extended body (also called the reign of God),
God is no less present in the compressed respirator tents than
in the open sunlight and fresh air. God is radically being there,
I N TO T H E CO M M U N I T Y
Now back to us who hope to survive and go on. What kind
of a reality do we hope to wake up to after the corona crisis?
I guess we are waking up to a deeper sense of how much we
miss one another, after we have had to separate ourselves from
each other. We are missing the abillity to look each other in the
eyes (not mediated through a screen), missing to give hands
and hugs. We are missing the deep meaning of having skin.
I hope that we may rediscover that our community is prior to
me as individual, and that the interests of others precede my
considerations of myself.
It seems to be obvious that the Corona crisis has unmasked
the castles in the air that we have erected in our ruling ideologies, not least within the academy. Individualism and social
constructivism—both presuppose a remoteness of human
existence from the world of which we are part. Both tend to
see individuals and communities as isolated islands, who are
ceaselessly at work in imposing a human order into a presumably blank world slate. Yet nature is not a blank slate, but is
full of multiple life and regenerative powers. Moreover, nature
is not just “out there” but also “in here.” We carry nature
deep within ourselves, and our entire existence and well-being
depends on it.
This should not come as a surprise to theologians who
speak of God as the benevolent creator of all that is, on the
fields and work life, in our houses, and in ourselves. We need
to be more than humanists in order to be truly humane. We
can no longer pretend not to be deeply connected to circuits
larger than ourselves, for we are at once symbolic creatures,
living in cultures, and symbiotic creatures that benefit from
the rich world of viruses, bacteria, and fungi. At the same
time, however, we are also vulnerable beings. This has always
been the case but in a global world, this has become even
clearer because we travel as much as we do, and live as close
to each other as we do in the big cities.
Covid-19 does something about us before we do anything
about it. Every moment, awake or asleep, our immune system
trains in capturing the viruses and bacteria that make us
sick. Let us hope that the self-generative powers of nature,
endowed by God the creator, will be strong enough to handle
the Covid-19 in most of us, until we some day can find a
vaccine. In the meantime, let us look forward to being able to
return to our beloved communities.
“Into the community” could conveniently become the new
mantra after the corona era.
Niels Henrik Gregersen
University of Copenhagen
EDITORIAL
71
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12559
The COVID Cross
Pandemic. It is not a word that falls easily from the lips.
In a highly scientific and technological society it may strike
one as a bid odd, like something from a more primitive past.
That is the power of nature and a sobering reminder that
while we have come to control many things in it, nature still
can transcend our power and understanding, even with fatal
results. This pandemic has reminded us all too clearly how
limited human power is. It also brings into clear focus how
thin and vulnerable human society is when the whole world
can be turned upside down in a matter of weeks. In such a
world being ravaged by an “invisible enemy,” where is one
to turn? The fact that one cannot see it or easily trace it
places in the heart a fear and anxiety not unfamiliar from
the Middle Ages. The existential experience is the same. We
are left with a feeling of vulnerability against an unknown
power greater than ourselves and for which we as yet do not
have any strong defenses. Evolutionary biology crashes into
human society. To “shelter in place” and “social distance” are
pretty basic but limited responses, ones not unfamiliar from
centuries ago. We have been driven back to the most elemental of human responses, isolation. Where, then, is God
in the midst of pandemic? Here incarnation meets the deepest of human needs, affirming God’s identification with and
understanding of our suffering and anxiety on the COVID
Cross.
When there is no obvious ultimate cause or reason, perhaps
the only possible source is God. But, if God, then why would
a good God do such a thing? For divisive theological dualists
the next step is natural, God must be mad at us for something
we have done and is punishing us. Since it cannot be our fault,
the search is then on for a scapegoat, whether it be ‘gays’ with
the AIDS crisis, New Orleans’ perceived licentiousness for
hurricane Katrina, or America’s secularism for 9/11. For some
today the source must be China, the LGBTQ community, or
environmentalists. It is theodicy at its most brutal, and it must
be challenged. A free creation and human greed combine to
make an international disaster, not divine intervention. It is
here that the cross confronts the COVID-19 virus, not with
platitudes or panaceas, with naming and blaming, but with
the affirmation that God is with us.
The first century world of Jesus was a time of disease and
death such that much of Jesus’ ministry was spent in healing from disease and disabilities. It was not unfamiliar to him.
Such is the nature of enfleshment. If one takes enfleshment
with all biological seriousness, as Niels Gregersen does in his
concept of “deep incarnation,” (see The Cross of Christ in an
Evolutionary World), we can understand that God identifies
with human suffering at the most basic of biological levels.
The suffering of the COVID virus is not foreign to God and
therefore we are not left alone within it. It means that God
is with us in all the biological suffering of an evolutionary
world. While the source of the virus is not definitively confirmed, currently it is believed to have originated in bats (as
a number of other coronaviruses have), which perhaps bit a
pangolin (a sort of plated anteater), which, as an endangered
species, was illegally captured and sold at an illegal wild animal market in Wuhan, China. The source of the pandemic?
Human greed. To paraphrase Winston Churchill, “Never have
so few done such harm to so many.” Theologically we would
call this a result of human sin. It requires human capacity to
take something biologically derived and place it on the world
market. Had the pangolin been left alone, perhaps this would
not have happened.
At such a time of anxiety and isolation, there is a deep longing for hope, meaning, and perhaps forgiveness. To understand the enfleshment of God as deep incarnation, connecting throughout all biological creation, means that no creature,
including the human, is truly separated from God, especially
those who are dying alone from the virus. If God is truly
present to us at the most intimate levels of our existence, then
so too is the divine promise. This takes Immanuel, “God with
us,” to a whole new level and connects the present suffering
from the COVID-19 virus to the cross of Christ. It affirms that
even if our cognitive faculties or awareness are not functioning
well (or at all) that God is still with us. It is not our awareness
of God that makes God’s grace effective in our lives but God’s
awareness of us! That is the ground of our hope, not our own
reason or strength, even as we pray that a medical solution
may soon be found.
As Creator to creation one might metaphorically say
that God is “entangled” (non-local, relational holism) with
creation, ourselves included, at the foundational levels of
material existence analogous to entangled subatomic particles
(see Simmons, The Entangled Trinity: Quantum Physics and
Theology). Deep incarnation is a way of thinking Christologically about the redemptive entanglement of the Creator
with the whole of creation, giving us hope and release from
fear and anxiety as this is carried up into and transformed
by God. This foundational relationality then grounds divine
presence in a suffering world and provides a connectivity for
accompaniment and hope in the midst of decline and loss. It
is the COVID Cross. Such accompaniment is also expressed
EDITORIAL
72
through the medical professionals and others who are working
tirelessly, and with some personal risk, to help everyone survive throughout the world. This too is an expression of God’s
care and love within an entangled creation. Transcending
one’s self-interest for the sake of the ill other can certainly be
understood as a gift of the Spirit. Pandemic reminds us that
we too are part of that same entangled creation and that we
are also our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers for we are all in
this together. Perhaps this may be one of the most hopeful
outcomes from such a horrible pandemic.
Ernest Simmons
Concordia College
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12560
Belief in the age of coronavirus: Dread, science and mystery
There is the existential angst that comes with self-quarantine
and the awareness of why it is necessary—we call it “plague
dread.” And then there are the various levels of explanation,
the micro-meanings, you might say. And then there is the
mystery—the big meaning, macro-meaning.
Each of us will fill in the dread with the facts of our own life.
I am approaching age 90, with at least three of what the media
call “underlying conditions”—more than enough empirical
ground for me to dread the coronavirus.
Almost hourly, we hear precise scientific descriptions of
the virus. These descriptions are crucial, because they enable
competent people—physicians, nurses, and researchers—to
treat the disease and even prevent its spread.
The scientific theory of evolution helps me understand our
situation. The coronavirus is an example of an evolutionary process wrapped within larger evolutionary processes.
The behavior of the virus follows Darwinian expectations.
All of the processes that take place within our bodies—from
the nano and molecular levels to the cells—follow the same
evoIutionary pattern.
These evolutionary processes within us are fundamentally
ambiguous in that they bring us life and they also bring us
death. Leonard Hummel and Gayle Woloschak describe this
ambiguity in their fine 2017 book, Chance Necessity, Love:
An Evolutionary Theology of Cancer (Cascade Books).
This presents us with a dilemma—we are grateful for the
life-giving work of our internal body processes, and we dread
the deadly work of those processes. Like cancer, the presence
of coronavirus is fully “natural.” Nature within us is “naturally” ambiguous. Further, these micro-evolutionary processes take place within a much larger story of evolution with
several chapters: the evolution of life, which began millions of
years ago, within the larger 4 billion year-long story of planet
Earth’s evolution, within the still larger story of cosmic evolution, 12 billion years in the telling.
Our response to COVID-19 is to resist the flow of evolution
and redirect it. That is what our practice of medicine is about,
the attempt to redirect evolutionary processes in our favor. The
long processes of evolution bend because of our efforts. This
reminds me how infinitesimally small we are, and yet how
amazingly gifted we are. Evolution has brought us life and
also the skill to reorder evolution itself.
Nevertheless, despite our efforts, even when they are successful, the struggle with evolution takes its toll—and that
means injury and death. In my caseevolution in my mother’s
womb caused me to be born with spina bifida, which, though
moderate in severity, has radically impacted the last 10 years
of my life.
Even as I write, I am aware of the Mystery (note the capital
“M”) that wraps around us. We—and these incomprehensible
processes of evolution—float in a sea of Mystery. Why is it
that our existence is woven on this vast and complex loom of
evolution? Why has God chosen this particular way of bringing us into life and sustaining us?
Many thinkers down the millennia have pondered this
“Why?”—and they have given us no satisfying final answers.
We can probe Mystery, but we cannot resolve it like a puzzle.
The book of Job speaks to me at this point. When Job raised
the question and demanded God’s response, the voice from
the whirlwind spoke to him: Your mind is too small and weak
to comprehend the height and depths of Mystery—you simply
must accept it and trust it.
The Existentialist Albert Camus acknowledged the Mystery, and he believed it is indifferent to human hopes and longings; we cry out for answers for our lives, but in return we hear
only silence—he called it ultimate absurdity—Absurdity with
a capital “A.” His novel The Plague is the story of life during
a plague. The plague was indifferent to human existence, the
epitome of Absurdity.
Others have called the Mystery Enemy, malevolent, intending to destroy us, if it can.
Christian faith calls the Mystery Friend, Redeemer, Suffering God. Much like the message of Job—death at the
hands of the Mystery is real; our attempts to understand it
EDITORIAL
are futile; but the same Mystery is our Redeemer. We can
trust it.
After all, evolution is a process—faith believes the process
is going somewhere, and that “somewhere” is in the life of
God. The life of God is love, which is why in the midst of
plague we find love, caring for others.
Medically, for most people our current plague will not have
serious consequences. Psychologically and economically, it
will damage most people, at least to some degree. A small
percentage of people will die. All of us will be borne along
the same evolutionary process into our future. And for all of
us, that future will be God’s gift to us.
73
Think of the image of a train. Some of us will get off the
train at this station, everyone will get off sooner or later, at
different stops. Every station’s name will be the same, “God’s
Destination—Love.”
(c) Phil Hefner 23 March 2020
Phil Hefner
Professor Emeritus of Systematic Theology, Lutheran School
of Theology at Chicago
philnevahefner@gmail.com
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12561
Grief and new creation: Theopoetics for a pandemic
To imagine that my words may speak to you well by the time
they reach you seems like magical thinking. No one seems to
know exactly where we are. Our slow and then sudden awareness of the impacts of coronavirus left us in an existentially
halted, almost eschatological space: we were caught in a world
incredibly arrested and incredibly new at the same time. We’re
deeply aware of old tensions of injustice and vulnerability
pulling taut, and simultaneously many of us feel the grit of the
irreducible relationality of our bodies and planet anew. We’ve
picked up familiar embodied routines in vital work and mundane practices, and yet now many of the familiar kin that once
nourished us with convivial learning, signs of peace, earthly
delights, bread and wine are learning to do so again with virtual creativity or picking up pieces.
If we are honest with each other, there have been many
world-ending plagues before—many apocalypses “now and
then,” as Catherine Keller says. Native peoples know well the
injustices and radical loss of histories of settler violence and
plague; so too do LGBTIQ folks know the ways that homophobia shaped responses to HIV/AIDS crises. Even theologians from Julian of Norwich to Martin Luther knew the risks
of bodied life together. We are “mutually bound” in moments
like this one, Luther himself wrote in his now much-cited 1527
letter, “Whether One May Flee from a Deadly Plague.” These
moments of crisis won’t be the last, as much as we aim to
prevent loss. Earthly creatures are vulnerable and resilient,
enfleshed with possibilities both tragic and felicitous.
If the old kingdom of our everydayness met its match in the
new kingdom of the present, the coming future that cultivates
such anxiety in so much of our theological and ethical communities already only intensifies with unknowns. As life began
to shift in Ireland, I was waist-deep in a sabbatical research-
ing the complex emotional, affective, and felt responses to
the climate crises of our time. From eco-anxiety to environmental despair to climate grief, the present and anticipated
losses aggregate and will continue to do so. The affective
and emotional energies that mutually bind us in the midst of
our planetary crises—including that of pandemic—are just as
much part of the crises and ethical responses as the scientific
approaches we desperately need.
In an interview with the Harvard Business Review, expert
on grieving David Kessler (known especially for his work
with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross), reflected that what the pandemic
brings with it is “a number of different griefs.” We (in all of
the manifold diversity that term names) are grieving our imagined present, a sense of normalcy, our planet, our loved ones,
our work, our relationships, our habits of interactions in the
world, and more. More particularly, Kessler argues that something called “anticipatory grief” is in the air. “Anticipatory
grief,” he says, “is that feeling we get about what the future
holds when we’re uncertain.”1 In unhealthy ways, anticipatory grief morphs into shifting anxieties and end of the world
imaginaries. In richer ways, it acknowledges that our lives
undergo transformation into the future and that we must find
ways to re-story the present, cultivate resilience, imagine and
take action for better future societies. Honoring grief is an
active process that we undertake together in moments like
these. And sometimes that process means we do the long, hard
work of actively grieving our loved ones and gentle hopes for
our future as they really do change forever.
Outside of pastoral care, affect, emotions or feeling
rarely get much consideration in systematic or constructive
theology. Theology, in its rational and patriarchal guises, so
often belittles affective archives as beneath the intellectual
EDITORIALS
74
purity of doctrinal thinking. Yet, theology at its richest and
most compelling is felt, is inscribed emotional depth—not
as cheap sentimentality or sensationalism, but as imaginative
wondering, grieving, transforming, pacing in awe and praise
in the middle of the night, lamenting loss in the middle of the
day, and crying in terror or joy. Even the driest of systematic
theology sometimes can’t escape tears when it anticipates our
own angst and anticipations. When we do, we human animals
make theology and theopoetics with everything we’ve got. We
unleash our manifold imaginations to handle newness, especially in times of immense cultural grief. I want my theology
to learn how to grieve better, especially in a time of pandemic.
Most researchers into climate grief will tell you that learning how to grieve a present moment opens up the possibilities
of our relational connection. These psychologists, literary
theorists, scholars of environmental humanities, and poets
ask society to move beyond feelings of ethical individuality
(e.g., if only I made “greener” choices) to ethical collectivity
(e.g., if only we organized for structural transformation
to a better world). Grieving means we are thinking about
relationality, shared worlds, and communal possibilities
human and more-than-human. Deep calls to deep, and the
pathos of shared imagination can cultivate attentiveness to
those who need care. That connectivity of spirit may lead to
collectively questioning and lamenting power structures or
unjust relationships in the world. Questioning may lead to
refiguring expectations to ask what the next possible course
of action might be. That’s just one possible route.
Along that route, the most curious feature of the literature of environmental despair is a persistent emphasis on
the importance of play for times of transformation and
collective grief. The vitality of playfulness may seem counterintuitive when everything is so dour. Think, however, of
the creativity emergent in our moment: churches playing
with virtual connection, people taking up sourdough starters
and knitting, movie nights with strangers over Twitter,
students coloring rainbows for their windows to encourage,
reenergized hikes and reimagined forms of community,
families performing skits and songs.
Play is how we grow, open our minds to what is next,
and learn to create with what materials we have. Even in
moments of dire need, new creation can begin to emerge to
help us connect and feel our way out in new imaginative and
physical planetary landscapes. Playing and creating joy in the
wasteland, making possibilities in the midst of the ruins of
dashed hopes is just another name for theology. It seems like
a good model for Divine creativity: divinity that grieves and
transforms in response to our common life; divinity that cocreates out of playfulness with an unfolding creation still called
“good.”
ENDNOTE
1 Berinato,
S. (2020, March 23). That discomfort you’re feeling is grief, Harvard Business Review. Retrieved from
https://hbr.org/2020/03/that-discomfort-youre-feeling-is-grief
Jacob J. Erickson
Trinity College Dublin
philnevahefner@gmail.com
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12571
Two things can be true at once: Surviving Covid-19
How are you doing?
If you ask me that question, I have two very different
answers, both of which are true. The first one is that I am
fine, and I have much to be thankful for: my health is good,
and so is the health of my family; I have a safe home and plenty
of food; I have a job and discretionary income to buy hiking
poles when I decided that hiking is my new Covid-19 passion;
and am able to get outside for long runs and long walks.
The second one is, I am not doing great. I miss my routine,
and I am anxious and disoriented. I feel like I am not very
useful right now, and that is extremely painful. I miss my students in particular, and my colleagues and friends as well—I
miss being with them in person, and I am sick of Zoom. I am
still grieving the loss of Holy Week and Easter services, and I
wonder what church is going to look like when we can finally
gather again. And, I am missing being able to travel and see
friends and family.
As I said, both of these things are true.
I share this because I wonder if you are having some of the
same feelings, and if you are, I want to encourage you that it is
OK. On the one hand, it is important to acknowledge and give
thanks for your blessings; on the other hand, it is important
to acknowledge your feelings of frustration and anxiety. It is
important to both support and nourish others when we can,
and also have a good cry and even a little tantrum when we
need to—do not go crazy however; presumably there are oth-
EDITORIAL
ers in your house who might be startled by your screaming.
We are in uncharted territory, all adjusting to a new normal
that seems to continually take from us, and we need to give
ourselves permission to take time to recalibrate.
But even in the midst of it all, we do not lose hope. Even if
we cannot see it, because the end of the tunnel still seems so
far away, there is light there waiting for us. We will get through
this, and we will find ourselves on the other side. We will be
together once more, and my hope is that we will treasure the
daily rhythm of our lives—and the people we share it with—
all the more for their absence.
75
In the meantime, care for yourselves as best you can, and
care for others. Accept mediocrity in some things—now is not
the time for perfection. Do not lose heart. Persevere. Breathe.
Love.
And when in doubt, love some more.
Kristin Johnston Largen
United Lutheran Seminary
philnevahefner@gmail.com
DOI: 10.1111/dial.12569
Global Christianity and theological education: Introduction
to “Dialogue in Dialog”
The papers published in this issue’s “Dialogue in Dialog”
were initially presented in two successive Luther Colloquies
held by United Lutheran Seminary in 2018 and 2019. The
essays by Madipoane Masenya and Elieshi Ayo Mungure
were written for a 2018 Colloquy on “Theology and Exegesis in African Contexts,” along with the essay by Andrea
Ng’weshemi that appeared in the Spring issue of Dialog.1 The
essays by Timothy Wengert, Kristopher Norris, and David
Brondos were written for a 2019 Colloquy on “Theological
Education in the Lutheran Tradition”.2 The purpose of United
Lutheran Seminary’s Luther Colloquy is to explore the legacy
of Luther and the Lutheran Reformation for modern, global,
and ecumenical Christianity.
Readers may be interested in the logic behind and the connection between these particular topics. The topics are intimately connected—on the one hand, because the future shape
of the church in Africa will be determined partly by the accessibility of theological education and the appropriateness of
curricula and methods to African contexts. The contributions by Masenya, Mungure, and Ng’weshemi richly demonstrate this point. In turn, the vitality of the church in America
may depend on our continued willingness to hear voices that
remind us of our connectedness to the global church and our
embeddedness in a global society—by our willingness to hear
voices that remove the blinders we inherit simply by being
born into a particular context and by accepting its structures
and self-justifications as given and just. Faith in the Gospel
gives us eyes to see the world anew, to see God present and
active and redeeming even where chaos and death seem to
abound. But faith comes from hearing, and we in North America need to open ourselves to the power of hearing Christians
from contexts other than our own and to living in mutual
care for one another. Theological education plays no small
part in inculcating and practicing these habits of hearing and
caring.
As I remarked at the beginning of the 2018 Colloquy, many
of the Luther biographies that rolled off the presses to mark
the supposed 500th Anniversary of the Reformation spoke of
the unintended consequences and even the failure of Luther’s
efforts.3 In this telling, Luther aspired to reform the universal church, but he ended up the leader of a particular church;
and the ensuing competition between particular churches and
the political authorities aligned with them produced primarily
oppression and warfare, before giving way to skepticism and,
after a long and weary journey, the separation of church and
state that we prize and the pervasive unbelief that we in the
church lament.
There is much to unpack in this grand narrative stretching
“from Luther to unbelief”—and this is not the place. But I
will say two things. First, judged by Luther’s own standards,
the Reformation is not a failure as long as the church lives, the
church gathered by the Holy Spirit through Word and sacrament, the church sent into the world to proclaim and serve.
Luther knew full well that the church is constantly assailed by
the false worship of gods less than God. He may not have been
so unable to comprehend our world as we sometimes assume!
The church today is and can be a force to repudiate the worship of lesser gods and to offer in their place the fullness of
God’s life and meaning.
The second thing to be said is that the story of a straight
line from Luther to secularization is a story of the Northern, Western world—a story that readily occludes from
view anyone but ourselves. It is a story that is somewhat
defensible as an exercise in European and North American
self-understanding; it is indefensible as a story that assumes
the only meaningful chapter in the story of Reformation
76
Christianity unfolds between Wittenberg and Gettysburg,
between Scandinavia and Minnesota.
The well-documented shifts in global Christian population
(including in the Lutheran communion) need not be reviewed
here. Suffice to say: the majority of Christians now reside outside of North America and Europe, and in due time, the largest
body of Lutherans will probably be found in sub-Saharan
Africa. There is no question that appropriate remembrance
of the Reformation in the church should recognize that our
past, present, and future are global. That global context, in
turn, becomes the context for theological education no matter
where it occurs.
In my introduction to the 2019 Colloquy on Theological
education, I made these remarks: we live in a moment when
theological education—in the seminary context, at least—
faces massive challenges. On the one hand, there is declining
enrollment; on the other hand, the rising costs of doing business, including high property costs for older schools with residential campuses. There is also the challenge of serving new
populations of seminary students: many students now come
to seminary as second-, third-, or fourth-career students, as
mature adults with significant obligations to family and community. Whether first or later career, students come as parttime students, as commuter students, as distance-learning students. How are their needs to be met, so that they can meet
the needs of Christians? And if the church is to proclaim the
Gospel in every place of need, how do we train students for
those contexts?
One thing is for certain, when graduates leave seminary—
they will find a church that needs them. In fact, they will
find a church that many times more of them. This fact
reminds us that it is not only theological education in the
seminary that must be discussed; it is not only the education of pastors that needs to be discussed; the question
is: how can church leaders of diverse vocations—pastors,
deacons, and others—take their education, go forth, and
educate through word and deed as part of their broader
vocation?
In moments of challenge, we are always in danger of finding ourselves in a reactive state. Monumental decisions are
suddenly demanded, and one simply does the best one can
with faith, acting on principle but on the basis of limited
information and limited prior reflection. The resulting action
is inevitably constrained both by practical limitations—what
else can we do?—and by intellectual constraints—what else
can we imagine? What can we imagine if we have not had the
time to reflect and study?
It is urgent that we use the time we now have to study and
imagine, that we think about the purposes of theological education and the ways that theological education must respond
to changing contexts—a changing church, a changing world—
on the basis of our enduring commitments, above all, our commitment to serve Christ’s church.
EDITORIAL
As I planned this colloquy, I did not invite speakers to
weigh in on any particular set of current proposals for seminary education. In order to evaluate this or that current proposal, in order to imagine alternatives faithful to the mission
of the church, we need to bring to bear the insights of our
tradition, of theology and history, and of our global church
body. I thus invited speakers to address changes and innovation in theological education that occurred in moments of
great pressure and even crisis—the Reformation itself, the rise
of Nazi Germany—and in the complicated history of Christian expansion around the globe. Such investigations give us
insight into how those who came before us responded to the
call of theological education in concrete, difficult circumstances. We can learn much from the thoughts and actions
of those who have gone before us, from their successes and
their failures: Christianity does not invent itself ex nihilo
with every new generation; rather we carry into the future a
vibrant, living, diverse tradition, grounded in the greatest gift
handed down to us, the heart and sum of our tradition, the
Gospel.
Theological education is not a task for the seminary alone;
it is a core task of the entire church. While the term today
often refers to seminary education, what we do at seminary is
educate educators. We educate those who must educate others not only about basic doctrinal teachings but also about
the depths of Christian theological reflection and insight into
scripture. We educate those who must teach others not only
about doctrine and theology, but also about how we might
worship, live, and work together as the church. Shaped by
seminary, church leaders in turn shape flocks and publics that
will go forth and witness to the Gospel (i.e., teach others
about the Gospel), including through the faithful exercise of
vocation.
Theological education is a broad venture, and among the
sixteenth century confessions, Lutherans were uniquely concerned with the education of the rural peasantry—no other
confession in the sixteenth century produced so much literary
material that was aimed at rural and small church ministry, at
the “simplest” of pastors. This is a tradition that we ought to
be proud of; it is a tradition that we carry forward not only
in our concern for rural and small church ministry, but fundamentally in our concern that theological education is for all
Christian peoples in all contexts.
Today, we look toward a future marked by big challenges
and consequential decisions, and as we survey this future and
seek to chart our way through it, we are standing on ground
that has already shifted. This leads me to the final point I wish
to make:
As fallen human beings in a fallen world, we frequently
respond to change with trepidation; an uncertain future stirs
anxiety. Much of the movement that has occurred in theological education in recent decades, however, ought to give us
cause for hope: we now have women as well as men engaged
EDITORIAL
in theological study and proclaiming the Gospel; our understanding of the Gospel is now enriched by diverse voices; we
have long been a global church, we are now better aware of
and better prepared to listen to witnesses from other parts of
the world. Diverse and global perspectives on scripture and
theology and the life of the church challenge us and enrich
us in our own contexts. The Gospel is a magnificent thing to
behold, and church is stronger for seeing its truth and work
from different perspectives. Tradition is not a zero-sum thing,
as if adding a new voice drowns out the old—indeed, new
voices can help us see better the depths of what Martin Luther
and so many others wanted to teach us. The richer our field
of study, the better we are prepared to do God’s work in the
world.
In conclusion, I want to underline one further groundshift that I have already mentioned: many seminarians, many
church leaders in training, are now second-, third-, fourthcareer students. Many, whether first or later career, take
on the challenge of higher theological study in diverse life
circumstances. Their willingness to undertake this work is a
gift of God. They bring—all students bring—a great diversity of experiences, insights, talents, and vocational skills that
strengthen the ministry of the church—that help the church to
proclaim the Gospel effectively to more people in more walks
of life. This too is not a zero-sum game: we are all one in
Christ, who uses diverse gifts, who welcomes diverse forms
of worship, who alone is our redeemer.
Theological education does face challenges, but it will go
on as long as the church goes on. And, as Isaiah 40 holds, the
word of the Lord endures forever. All of us who are involved
77
in theological education—in other words, every committed
believer—is called to undertake the venture of theological
learning and theological teaching in the Spirit of Faith, with
joyous confidence in both God’s direction of our paths and
God’s redemption of our failings. And we are called, too, to
be learners at the feet of the great cloud of witnesses, the great
company of teachers who came before us and who span the
globe around us. We are called to be learners first from our
divine teacher.
ENDNOTES
1
Ng’weshemi, A. M. (2020). Lutheran churches in Africa: Vitality, challenges, and opportunities for the new face of Lutheranism in the 21st
century. Dialog, 59(1), 14–22. Rev. Deborah Lyanga also presented a
paper at the 2018 Colloquy entitled, Narrative Theology, Cultural Practices and the Lost Sheep: The Significance of the Church and Rethinking
of the Mission in Tanzania.
2 Dr.
Elizabeth Lewis Pardoe also presented a paper at the 2019 Colloquy entitled, Catechism as Catalyst: Lutheran Education from German
Reformation to American Revolution.
3 See
my review essay in 2018, From the universal to the particular:
Luther and the reformation after 500 years. Journal of Ecclesiastical
History, 69(2), 806–820.
Vincent Evener
United Lutheran Seminary
philnevahefner@gmail.com