I have read many articles and letters to the editor about the Health and Human Services (HHS) rules mandating that religious institutions (other than houses of worship) cover birth control. It seems as if the various sides have made their points, some arguing that it is a women’s health matter and others that it is a religious freedom matter. Commentators have weighed in on both sides of the issue and pollsters have explained how Americans of various viewpoints look at the matter. But I have never come across anyone trying to explain the poll numbers.
I am less interested in the poll numbers that reflect the political divide. One would expect Democrats to support the president’s policy and Republicans to oppose it, especially in the highly partisan environment that now exists. But the numbers I find most interesting is how various religious groups view the matter: as of a few weeks ago (when I last came across the statistics), 55% of mainline Protestants believe that the HHS policy does not impinge on religious freedom, while 68% of evangelical Protestants think it does. Roman Catholics are split, with slightly more (48%) saying it does step over the line than not (46%). Why are mainline Protestants okay with the rule, but evangelicals aren’t? Why are Roman Catholics split nearly evenly when it will be their institutions most affected by the policy?
The short answer is that a person’s view of religious freedom depends on what he or she thinks religion is. One of the difficulties in any dialogue among or about various faiths is that people tend to think that other religions function in a manner very similar to their own. Thus, Christians often mistakenly assume that other religions are all about teaching how one can get into heaven or some equivalent. While they acknowledge that the answers may differ among religions, they assume that this is the task of all religions. But it is not, as anyone who has done a serious study of the world’s religions knows. In the same way, each religion has a different idea of what its scope is and therefore of what freedom it needs to operate fully. Moreover, every religion comes with a defining narrative, which often includes the quest for a particular type of religious freedom as an integral part of that narrative. But since different religions have different histories, their narratives about the quest for religious freedom are not identical or even always compatible.
Above all else, mainline Protestants prize individual conscience. They see history in general, as well as the history of the church (if properly understood), as tending toward greater freedom of the individual. The Reformation broke the back of papal tyranny; Roger Williams and his “soul liberty” freed Protestantism from Calvinist orthodoxy; and John Stuart Mill (and a host of other post-Enlightenment thinkers) gave the Anglo-American world freedom from society at large and all its institutions. Also by the end of the nineteenth century, mainline Protestantism had had its bouts with both revivalism and Deism—and accommodated both. When the Modernist-Fundamentalist controversy broke out, mainliners were unwilling to banish adherents of a more avant-garde theology. It wasn’t that all mainliners were overwhelmingly liberal, but rather that they didn’t think that the boundaries needed to be drawn so narrowly. The last real mainline heresy trial was in the 19th century, and in the 20th century James Pike’s atheism did not prevent him from remaining an Episcopal bishop in good standing for many years.
Because mainliners emphasize the freedom of the individual conscience and do not emphasize a particular creed as normative, they make the church (and institutions in general) subservient to the individual’s needs. In addition, mainliners have always thought of themselves as cultural dominant (even when they have been declining in numbers) and are not particularly alarmed when one of their institutions gains a large measure of autonomy. They tend to believe that enlightened institutions will always accord well with the goals of Christianity, even if their formal ties with the church are attenuated or abrogated. Indeed, mainliners have a particularly rosy perspective that believes that both secular and Christian history is nothing but one step of progress after another, a few knuckle-draggers notwithstanding. Thus, few mainline Protestants are troubled when they see the schools and hospitals founded centuries earlier becoming generic private institutions since top-notch scholarship or medical care is ultimately what those places are all about. If such an attitude wouldn’t quite sit well with their Puritanical or more orthodox forebears who founded such institutions, that just goes to prove how much they have progressed from the days of their Neanderthal ancestors.
It is not surprising, then, that mainliners find Roman Catholicism particularly offensive. It is also quite easy to understand why mainliners tend to focus on two things when discussing the Roman Catholic Church: sex and dissent. They are galled to think that any prelate would dare to voice his opinion on such a personal matter as sex, but are delighted whenever they can find a hint of dissension. Mainliners don’t mind individual Roman Catholics adopting any particular dogma; if someone wants to eschew birth control or believe in the virgin birth of Christ, mainline folks have no objection, just as they are perfectly willing to welcome vegan New Agers and carnivorous Wall Street types as fellow congregants. What they object to is Rome’s insistence on teaching its dogmas and expecting a certain level of assent from its parishioners. In their mind Rome is one step away from the Spanish Inquisition whenever it behaves in this way.
If mainliners emphasize the individual in religion, evangelicals stress the personal. Though “individual” and “personal” are often used interchangeably in common parlance, there is a slightly different nuance here. Both evangelicals and their mainline cousins are loathe to countenance “priestcraft”—anything that could interfere with the relationship between the believer and God. But while mainliners would see such priestcraft as an unwarranted intrusion on the sanctity of conscience, evangelicals would say that it interferes with the direct, personal relationship between God and a believer. Many mainliners are content not to have had a direct, personal encounter with God, but no evangelical would be.
Given that both mainliners and evangelicals are somewhat anti-institutional and wary of creeds or anything else that might be too restrictive, why are evangelicals so worked up about the new HHS rules? In large measure it is because they know what it is like to be excluded institutionally and to be exiled from cultural influence. While mainliners are optimistic, evangelicals are not—as experience has taught both of them to be. While mainliners thought that their seminaries and other institutions were following a positive trend in embracing liberal theology in the late 19th and early 20th century, fundamentalists (the forebears of today’s evangelicals who were at the dawn of the 20th century the more conservative wing of mainline churches) saw it as nothing but apostasy. Even worse, fundamentalists saw that mainliners weren’t exactly as tolerant as they claimed to be, since they were quick to tolerate modernists but marginalized fundamentalists.
A good example is what happened among the Presbyterians in the 1920’s and 1930’s. Modernist theology held sway in the northern Presbyterians’ mission board and all of its seminaries except for Princeton. But even that was not good enough for the modernists. After forcing Gresham Machen and his colleagues out of Princeton, they continued to harass him when he founded Westminster Theological Seminary and an independent mission board, until finally he was drummed out of the denomination. Thus, evangelicals today are sensitive to the way that liberalizing and secularizing forces can take over institutions that evangelicals themselves have founded. Also, given their long public exile from the death of William Jennings Bryant until the election of Jimmy Carter, they are quite familiar with being cultural outsiders and people without any political voice. One would expect then that evangelicals would be wary of allowing government interference in their faith institutions, since they would see it as inherently weakening them.
An interesting group akin to evangelicals is the confessional churches. Pollsters usually don’t list them as a separate category, even though they have unique concerns. Like evangelicals, they know what it is like to be marginalized, in their case from the state church. Unlike evangelicals, they have never been a cultural force in this country and don’t want to be. For a variety of reasons (some theological and some sociological), confessionals have tended to stay out of politics.
In part, this is due to the fact that the government (not other members in their churches) has been the main source of their oppression. The king of Saxony allowed my forebears to worship as they pleased and to think whatever they wanted, but wouldn’t allow them to meet with their pastor at any other time than on Sunday morning—not even to study their faith more deeply. It was worse to the north in Prussia, where the king allowed pastors to preach and people to believe whatever they wanted—as long as Lutherans embraced an institutional union with the Reformed that undercut whatever Lutheran beliefs they had. (The Prussian king thought of himself as liberal and open-minded; he was no Grand Inquisitor probing into people’s beliefs. But he did insist that institutions conform to his specifications.) But my forebears understood that freedom of religion is meaningless if a church cannot develop its own institutions to practice and to pass on the faith.
Even in this country confessionals have endured government opposition. Upon their arrival, they saw that the public schools were firmly in the hands of people who sought to turn all nonconformists into good Reformed Protestants. In response, confessionals established their own schools, much as Roman Catholics did for much the same reasons. And from time to time (such as in the 1920’s) state governments have responded by trying to shut down all parochial schools and make all students attend the public schools.
Thus, in recent weeks confessionals have been alarmed by the prospect of a government telling religious institutions what they may or may not do. They see it as 1830 all over again, with Prussian jackboots marching toward confessionals to force them to stay within the confines of their own minds, while the Kaiser takes over their institutions at bayonet point. This has forced confessionals out of their natural reluctance to enter the public realm and has compelled them to protest the new HHS rules.
But why are Roman Catholics split, with a slight plurality in line with their bishops in opposition to the HHS rules? The simple answer is that the social dimensions of the faith are far more important to Roman Catholics than to their Protestant neighbors. Whereas some Protestants can imagine themselves as being perfectly good Christians without having any connection with other believers, such a notion is utterly foreign to Roman Catholicism. Even if a Catholic has no more connection to their church other than baptism, it is enough to make him or her part of the community.
This appreciation of the importance of belonging cuts two ways. On the one hand, this view can be used to emphasize the need for an authoritative magisterium and for the obedience of the faithful in order to maintain a cohesive identity as the church. On the other hand, belonging can become more important than believing, with the result that people with very limited ties to the church still count themselves as Catholic, whereas Protestants who have wandered from the church of their youth wouldn’t be as likely to still call themselves Methodists or Presbyterians. That explains why the most devout Catholics, even those of liberal bent, are upset that someone is interfering with their bishops’ work. And it also explains why many Catholics for whom Catholicism is a cultural or ethnic identity rather than a belief structure oppose their bishops. How dare those bishops hint that they aren’t part of the group!
In addition, the last couple of centuries have been rather painful for the Roman Catholic Church, especially in those countries where it had been the only church of any note. Over the centuries it had developed schools, universities, hospitals, orphanages, and other institutions, which it saw as an integral part of its mission. But beginning with the French Revolution, Rome saw itself shorn of its institutions, which were then placed in the hands of the state. What institutions it retained were often placed under tight governmental control. For example, in the days of the Paris Commune (1871), the government took possession of the church buildings, but permitted congregants to worship there as long as they would open their doors in the evening for community gatherings. Even to this day, the French government retains an extraordinary power in the appointment of bishops in their country. This was the process of laïcité; from the perspective of the French government it was a movement to wrest control of society from clerical dominance (and many of its advocates still considered themselves good Catholics, just anti-clerical), but from Rome’s perspective it was nothing short of an attempt to abolish Christianity. A similar development occurred in Latin American countries, and Germany’s Kulturkampf between Bismarck and the Roman Church is well known to most readers. Rome does have a point when it argues that Europe’s present secularism is due less to natural developments in modern society than to calculated attempts by governments to suppress religion.
By this point it should be clear to the reader why the polls have tracked the way that they did. Far from being just about the HHS rules, the attitudes reflected in the polls reveal different ways of understanding not only what religion is but what religious freedom means. Mainliners and cultural Catholics see religious freedom essentially as the freedom of individuals to believe whatever they want to believe and to reject conformity with society, government, or even one’s own church. Evangelicals, confessionals, and active Catholics believe that the freedom of the individual to believe means nothing without the ability of like-minded individuals to work together to build strong institutions that will foster and carry out those beliefs. These different visions of religious freedom account for the impasse today.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Monday, September 19, 2011
Wauwawhat? (Part Four)
I have a life besides that of a blogger—including that of parish pastor and adjunct professor. The latter really caught up with me this past month as I was forced to spend much time preparing to use a new textbook in my Latin class and had to let my blogging slide. Your patience is appreciated. Here are my long awaited comments on Köhler’s article.
Köhler’s article "Legalism Among Us" (originally titled "Gesetzlich Wesen unter uns") appeared in installments in 1914 and 1915 in the Theologische Quartalschrift and was translated and printed in The Wauwatosa Theology 2:229-282; the pagination in this blog will refer to the latter. Köhler makes four arguments: “Legalism among Christians consists in that they take the motives and forms of their actions from the law instead of letting them flow from the gospel” (p. 229). “This behavior manifests itself in the Lutheran church chiefly and principally in bravado of orthodoxy” (p. 229). “Where these factors gain the upper hand in every phase of ongoing church life and become a condition to the point of style, the decline sets in, evident externally when we adopt all kinds of unhealthy traits copied from the sectarian churches” (p. 230). The only antidote is repentance “brought about when again we search more deeply into the gospel and cling to it all the more incessantly” (p. 230).
Köhler is not arguing that the confessional Lutherans of his day were teaching a salvation by works. It is not that kind of a crass legalism, but rather a more subtle kind, one where the law rather than the gospel motivates Christian behavior. Köhler notes that this legalism appears in more than one form. Among the Reformed and the Pietists the legalism appears as a stress upon sanctification, but among Lutherans it often comes in the form of “bragging about orthodoxy” (p. 239). Köhler is not opposed to orthodox teaching, but he knows that the goal of orthodox teaching is not itself, but to preach faith in Christ (pp. 239-240). When orthodoxy becomes more of an intellectual exercise used to congratulate its adherents than to lead to a genuine life of repentance and faith, it makes people factious and more eager to dispute over words rather than facts (p. 239). The result is intellectualism, which turns “the words of Scripture, especially of the gospel, into a law for which one demands rational assent” (p. 241, emphasis in the original) and an unhealthy traditionalism that elevates an inherited system above the Scriptures. While the legalism of the Reformed usually leads to doctrinal indifferentism in that they stress godly living over doctrine, legalism among Lutherans tends toward sectarianism (p. 247).
He has much to say about the way that legalism was shaping late 19th and early 20th century Lutheranism that I cannot fully explore in this essay: on giving (p. 277), on administration (p. 269-279), and dialogue with other Christians (pp. 248-249, 279-281). But rather than summarize more of the essay, I would rather have you read it on your own so that I can devote the rest of this blog to considering its ongoing relevance.
Köhler keenly saw that people tend to fall into legalism in those matters that they are most concerned about. Those who stress godly living will be tempted to become legalistic about sanctification. Those who stress the pure teaching of God’s Word will be tempted to become legalistic about orthodoxy. There is nothing wrong with sanctification or orthodoxy. In fact, we should have more of both. But legalism introduces bravado rather than the substance. To underscore the bravado, those who are doing the boasting will have to do everything they can to distinguish themselves from the great unwashed. For those who stress sanctification, it will mean inventing all sorts of rules (e.g., no card playing). For those who stress orthodoxy, it will mean an unthinking traditionalism removed from the Scriptures. Ironically, though, legalists end up with less than they had hoped to gain. Sanctification-based legalists in the end are less sanctified; they don’t play cards, but they bicker and lack the other virtues. Orthodoxy-based legalists in the end are less orthodox; they don’t exactly teach false doctrine, but they know the Homiletisches Real-Lexikon better than they know the Scriptures and they use their knowledge to find fault with others rather than to teach the faith.
Köhler also noted how often the church lurches from one legalism to another without recovering the gospel. In effect that is what happened to the Missouri Synod in the middle of the twentieth century, as some of its theologians argued against its parochialism. If previously the synod had been legalistic about being orthodox, many became legalistic about being unorthodox. In fact, I know several pastors whose theological thinking goes no further than “I’m for whatever most undercuts traditional morality or articles of faith and will call anyone who differs from me a legalist.” Of course, that is a legalism all of its own—a blind unthinking anti-traditionalism that, unlike the legalism of orthodoxy, doesn’t even have the virtue of teaching God’s truth.
The clash between the orthodox and the anti-orthodox came to a head in the Missouri Synod in the 1960’s and 1970’s. Perhaps one reason that some of the issues still smolder a half century later is because we have not confronted the issue of legalism head on. There are still some people for whom sound doctrine is a giant game of “gotcha” rather than a reveling in the mercy and love of God as revealed in Scripture. And those people keep others from taking doctrine seriously. Perhaps as we work on the Koinonia Project to bring about a deeper unity in synod, we can all do what Köhler rightly recognized as the only antidote to legalism: digging deeply into the gospel and clinging to it for all its worth.
Köhler’s article "Legalism Among Us" (originally titled "Gesetzlich Wesen unter uns") appeared in installments in 1914 and 1915 in the Theologische Quartalschrift and was translated and printed in The Wauwatosa Theology 2:229-282; the pagination in this blog will refer to the latter. Köhler makes four arguments: “Legalism among Christians consists in that they take the motives and forms of their actions from the law instead of letting them flow from the gospel” (p. 229). “This behavior manifests itself in the Lutheran church chiefly and principally in bravado of orthodoxy” (p. 229). “Where these factors gain the upper hand in every phase of ongoing church life and become a condition to the point of style, the decline sets in, evident externally when we adopt all kinds of unhealthy traits copied from the sectarian churches” (p. 230). The only antidote is repentance “brought about when again we search more deeply into the gospel and cling to it all the more incessantly” (p. 230).
Köhler is not arguing that the confessional Lutherans of his day were teaching a salvation by works. It is not that kind of a crass legalism, but rather a more subtle kind, one where the law rather than the gospel motivates Christian behavior. Köhler notes that this legalism appears in more than one form. Among the Reformed and the Pietists the legalism appears as a stress upon sanctification, but among Lutherans it often comes in the form of “bragging about orthodoxy” (p. 239). Köhler is not opposed to orthodox teaching, but he knows that the goal of orthodox teaching is not itself, but to preach faith in Christ (pp. 239-240). When orthodoxy becomes more of an intellectual exercise used to congratulate its adherents than to lead to a genuine life of repentance and faith, it makes people factious and more eager to dispute over words rather than facts (p. 239). The result is intellectualism, which turns “the words of Scripture, especially of the gospel, into a law for which one demands rational assent” (p. 241, emphasis in the original) and an unhealthy traditionalism that elevates an inherited system above the Scriptures. While the legalism of the Reformed usually leads to doctrinal indifferentism in that they stress godly living over doctrine, legalism among Lutherans tends toward sectarianism (p. 247).
He has much to say about the way that legalism was shaping late 19th and early 20th century Lutheranism that I cannot fully explore in this essay: on giving (p. 277), on administration (p. 269-279), and dialogue with other Christians (pp. 248-249, 279-281). But rather than summarize more of the essay, I would rather have you read it on your own so that I can devote the rest of this blog to considering its ongoing relevance.
Köhler keenly saw that people tend to fall into legalism in those matters that they are most concerned about. Those who stress godly living will be tempted to become legalistic about sanctification. Those who stress the pure teaching of God’s Word will be tempted to become legalistic about orthodoxy. There is nothing wrong with sanctification or orthodoxy. In fact, we should have more of both. But legalism introduces bravado rather than the substance. To underscore the bravado, those who are doing the boasting will have to do everything they can to distinguish themselves from the great unwashed. For those who stress sanctification, it will mean inventing all sorts of rules (e.g., no card playing). For those who stress orthodoxy, it will mean an unthinking traditionalism removed from the Scriptures. Ironically, though, legalists end up with less than they had hoped to gain. Sanctification-based legalists in the end are less sanctified; they don’t play cards, but they bicker and lack the other virtues. Orthodoxy-based legalists in the end are less orthodox; they don’t exactly teach false doctrine, but they know the Homiletisches Real-Lexikon better than they know the Scriptures and they use their knowledge to find fault with others rather than to teach the faith.
Köhler also noted how often the church lurches from one legalism to another without recovering the gospel. In effect that is what happened to the Missouri Synod in the middle of the twentieth century, as some of its theologians argued against its parochialism. If previously the synod had been legalistic about being orthodox, many became legalistic about being unorthodox. In fact, I know several pastors whose theological thinking goes no further than “I’m for whatever most undercuts traditional morality or articles of faith and will call anyone who differs from me a legalist.” Of course, that is a legalism all of its own—a blind unthinking anti-traditionalism that, unlike the legalism of orthodoxy, doesn’t even have the virtue of teaching God’s truth.
The clash between the orthodox and the anti-orthodox came to a head in the Missouri Synod in the 1960’s and 1970’s. Perhaps one reason that some of the issues still smolder a half century later is because we have not confronted the issue of legalism head on. There are still some people for whom sound doctrine is a giant game of “gotcha” rather than a reveling in the mercy and love of God as revealed in Scripture. And those people keep others from taking doctrine seriously. Perhaps as we work on the Koinonia Project to bring about a deeper unity in synod, we can all do what Köhler rightly recognized as the only antidote to legalism: digging deeply into the gospel and clinging to it for all its worth.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wauwawhat? (Part Three)
The Wauwatosa theologians not only revived biblical studies among confessional Lutherans, they also warned of the forms legalism could take in Lutheran circles. I will devote my next blog (the final one in the series) to paying final tribute to J.P. Köhler by looking in detail at an article he wrote against legalism and commenting on its continued relevance. But in today's blog I will talk about legalism inside and outside of Wauwatosa. As Köhler stated so well, legalism consists of deriving the power of the Christian life from the law rather than the gospel. Although confessional Lutherans might seem to be immune to legalism because we believe that we are saved by trusting in Christ rather than by doing the works of the law, there is an insidious means by which legalism can creep back into the church: preserving sound doctrine (noble task though it is) substitutes for believing it; in other words, we are tempted to become proud of our work of preserving orthodoxy rather than cherish the teaching God has given us. Moreover, Köhler argues, we can easily fall into legalism by overemphasizing a particular structure or style of organization for the church or by preaching a sanctification empowered by the law rather than the gospel.
Köhler’s words spoke to a confessional Lutheranism of the early 20th century that was often orthodox but had lost its first love (Rev. 2:4). Orthodoxy had become a game of “gotcha” rather than a reveling in the truth that our merciful God had revealed to us. There was also a rather dour attitude towards life in general that revealed itself in all sorts of prohibitions from going to the movies to installing lightning rods on barns. “For them, life was meant to be endured,” quipped one person about people of that generation. The joy of the gospel wasn’t there.
Köhler’s words were welcome, but unfortunately the Wauwatosa theology was not able to escape a legalism of its own. Köhler’s words in “Legalism among Us” are a candid but loving admonition to the Wisconsin and Missouri Synods. However, there was a torrent in Wisconsin of the 1920’s of what can only be called legalistic anti-legalistic writings, as writer after writer (from the renowned exegete August Pieper to elementary school teachers) wrote scathing denunciations of the Wisconsin Synod. The Synod had wanted merely to see the prisoners in the Bastille set free, but it got Jacobin terror instead.
Three incidents in particular stand out. Two school teachers denounced their pastor as a false prophet for not condemning what they considered vices. A college faculty and its governing board disagreed over the proper discipline for a couple dozen students. A parish pastor wrote a ham-handed attack on life in the Wisconsin Synod, complaining about everything from confirmation instruction to synod structure. In each instance the advocates of Wauwatosa were on the more rigorist side of the question and operated with little charity towards their opponents.
As a result the era of the Wauwatosa theology came to a formal end. Köhler left the presidency of the seminary in 1930 (and the Wisconsin Synod in 1933) and lived somewhat reclusively for his last twenty years. A handful of congregations left the Wisconsin Synod to form the Protes’tant Conference, unusually punctuated in more than one sense. That conference publishes the journal Faith-Life, which tends to have insightful articles by Köhler, less than useful (and perhaps less than truthful) encomiums to Köhler’s great musical and artistic abilities, and scathing denunciations involving personalities and events long forgotten. When I went through a stack of Faith-Life issues about twenty years, one article in particular stuck in my mind. It described how Köhler had criticized August Pieper out of the blue by saying at a dinner, “Pieper, du bist Pommer!” (“Pieper, you are a Pomeranian!”) This had taken place long before Pieper and Köhler parted company. Now one cannot read very much of Faith-Life without realizing that its writers deem August Pieper to be the Darth Vader of the Wisconsin Synod—the formerly noble knight who went over to the dark side. But there was no explanation as to why Köhler had made the remark, what it meant, and whether it was justified. If the reader didn’t instantly understand and assent, it was proof positive that the reader was hopelessly in error.
This is a negative legacy left by the Wauwatosa theologians, one that mars an otherwise positive inheritance. I would urge that the experience teaches us that those who rail against a particular form of legalism should be wary lest they fall into another form of that same vice.
Köhler’s words spoke to a confessional Lutheranism of the early 20th century that was often orthodox but had lost its first love (Rev. 2:4). Orthodoxy had become a game of “gotcha” rather than a reveling in the truth that our merciful God had revealed to us. There was also a rather dour attitude towards life in general that revealed itself in all sorts of prohibitions from going to the movies to installing lightning rods on barns. “For them, life was meant to be endured,” quipped one person about people of that generation. The joy of the gospel wasn’t there.
Köhler’s words were welcome, but unfortunately the Wauwatosa theology was not able to escape a legalism of its own. Köhler’s words in “Legalism among Us” are a candid but loving admonition to the Wisconsin and Missouri Synods. However, there was a torrent in Wisconsin of the 1920’s of what can only be called legalistic anti-legalistic writings, as writer after writer (from the renowned exegete August Pieper to elementary school teachers) wrote scathing denunciations of the Wisconsin Synod. The Synod had wanted merely to see the prisoners in the Bastille set free, but it got Jacobin terror instead.
Three incidents in particular stand out. Two school teachers denounced their pastor as a false prophet for not condemning what they considered vices. A college faculty and its governing board disagreed over the proper discipline for a couple dozen students. A parish pastor wrote a ham-handed attack on life in the Wisconsin Synod, complaining about everything from confirmation instruction to synod structure. In each instance the advocates of Wauwatosa were on the more rigorist side of the question and operated with little charity towards their opponents.
As a result the era of the Wauwatosa theology came to a formal end. Köhler left the presidency of the seminary in 1930 (and the Wisconsin Synod in 1933) and lived somewhat reclusively for his last twenty years. A handful of congregations left the Wisconsin Synod to form the Protes’tant Conference, unusually punctuated in more than one sense. That conference publishes the journal Faith-Life, which tends to have insightful articles by Köhler, less than useful (and perhaps less than truthful) encomiums to Köhler’s great musical and artistic abilities, and scathing denunciations involving personalities and events long forgotten. When I went through a stack of Faith-Life issues about twenty years, one article in particular stuck in my mind. It described how Köhler had criticized August Pieper out of the blue by saying at a dinner, “Pieper, du bist Pommer!” (“Pieper, you are a Pomeranian!”) This had taken place long before Pieper and Köhler parted company. Now one cannot read very much of Faith-Life without realizing that its writers deem August Pieper to be the Darth Vader of the Wisconsin Synod—the formerly noble knight who went over to the dark side. But there was no explanation as to why Köhler had made the remark, what it meant, and whether it was justified. If the reader didn’t instantly understand and assent, it was proof positive that the reader was hopelessly in error.
This is a negative legacy left by the Wauwatosa theologians, one that mars an otherwise positive inheritance. I would urge that the experience teaches us that those who rail against a particular form of legalism should be wary lest they fall into another form of that same vice.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Wauwawhat? (Part Two)
In my last post I noted that I sympathize with the goals of the Wauwatosa school. It sought to restore the primacy of exegesis even when doing systematic theology. It did not so much seek to overturn the conclusions of Missouri’s systematic theology as to add depth to it by making sure that it was not making use of a facile interpretation of a biblical passage but that it fully understood the context. But even as I praise it, I must say that to some degree that its more recent advocates have done injustice to the state of affairs in which Wauwatosa developed. Ironically I find myself having less trouble with the Wauwatosa theology itself than some of its would-be heirs, just as those of the Wauwatosa school objected less to the 19th century C.F.W. Walther than to his heirs in the early 20th century.
Most discussions of the Wauwatosa theology fail to consider the whole context of education in the early twentieth century. For one thing, the history given in the first volume of Northwestern Publishing House’s collected works of the Wauwatosa school is a little misleading. It correctly chronicles how much time the seminarians at the Missouri Synod’s Saint Louis seminary devoted to mastering the Latin of the Baier-Walther Compendium, but it fails to recognize that most Missouri Synod pastors were not trained there in the synod’s first sixty years or so, but at its practical seminary (which migrated from Fort Wayne, Indiana, to Saint Louis to Springfield, Illinois, and would eventually return to Fort Wayne) and its pre-seminary partner schools in Germany. It was only in the early twentieth century that the synod thought it might be better if more of its ministers were given the highly academic training of Saint Louis than the more practical training of Springfield. To accomplish that, though, the Missouri Synod realized that it would have to drop some of its practices (such as the heavy use of Latin in the classroom) that proved too big of an obstacle to all but the best students.
And thus it is easier to understand the reason that the Wauwatosa school declined to copy Missouri’s model of education in its entirety. While the Missouri Synod still retained a more practical route of training for its ministers, the Wisconsin had only one option: six years of Gymnasium (the equivalent of a boarding high school and junior college) followed by seminary. Thus, it made little sense to foster a seminary curriculum that even the larger Missouri Synod found too impractical for most of its pastors and was revising even for its more academically minded students. And yet the histories gloss over this reason for why the Wauwatosa seminary developed the way it did.
In addition, the histories of the Wauwatosa theology seem blissfully ignorant of the larger picture of educational trends in the late nineteenth century. A mere state away from Wauwatosa was Augsburg College, which under the tutelage of Georg Sverdrup and the Lutheran Free Church sought both a more exegetical approach to theology and a broader cultural education than the traditional model provided, enamored as it was with Greco-Roman antiquity. And yet the late Leigh Jordahl in his doctoral dissertation argues that Wauwatosa was one of a kind in breaking from the Latin theological model. (Jordahl, trained in Norwegian-American circles, ought to have known better.) On a more global scale there was an intense debate on the direction education should go. Was academic specialization to be preferred to the teaching of a common curriculum? Should education be founded on practical truth rather than abstract theory? Indeed, was anything that was not in some way practical untrue? Was it possible to speed up learning by presenting abstractions (e.g., by giving entire paradigms of grammatical forms at once) rather than by having students learn more intuitively?
None of this lessens the value of the Wauwatosa theology. But it seems ironic that those who love Wauwatosa’s emphasis on understanding historical context seem to have overlooked some of the historical context of Wauwatosa.
Most discussions of the Wauwatosa theology fail to consider the whole context of education in the early twentieth century. For one thing, the history given in the first volume of Northwestern Publishing House’s collected works of the Wauwatosa school is a little misleading. It correctly chronicles how much time the seminarians at the Missouri Synod’s Saint Louis seminary devoted to mastering the Latin of the Baier-Walther Compendium, but it fails to recognize that most Missouri Synod pastors were not trained there in the synod’s first sixty years or so, but at its practical seminary (which migrated from Fort Wayne, Indiana, to Saint Louis to Springfield, Illinois, and would eventually return to Fort Wayne) and its pre-seminary partner schools in Germany. It was only in the early twentieth century that the synod thought it might be better if more of its ministers were given the highly academic training of Saint Louis than the more practical training of Springfield. To accomplish that, though, the Missouri Synod realized that it would have to drop some of its practices (such as the heavy use of Latin in the classroom) that proved too big of an obstacle to all but the best students.
And thus it is easier to understand the reason that the Wauwatosa school declined to copy Missouri’s model of education in its entirety. While the Missouri Synod still retained a more practical route of training for its ministers, the Wisconsin had only one option: six years of Gymnasium (the equivalent of a boarding high school and junior college) followed by seminary. Thus, it made little sense to foster a seminary curriculum that even the larger Missouri Synod found too impractical for most of its pastors and was revising even for its more academically minded students. And yet the histories gloss over this reason for why the Wauwatosa seminary developed the way it did.
In addition, the histories of the Wauwatosa theology seem blissfully ignorant of the larger picture of educational trends in the late nineteenth century. A mere state away from Wauwatosa was Augsburg College, which under the tutelage of Georg Sverdrup and the Lutheran Free Church sought both a more exegetical approach to theology and a broader cultural education than the traditional model provided, enamored as it was with Greco-Roman antiquity. And yet the late Leigh Jordahl in his doctoral dissertation argues that Wauwatosa was one of a kind in breaking from the Latin theological model. (Jordahl, trained in Norwegian-American circles, ought to have known better.) On a more global scale there was an intense debate on the direction education should go. Was academic specialization to be preferred to the teaching of a common curriculum? Should education be founded on practical truth rather than abstract theory? Indeed, was anything that was not in some way practical untrue? Was it possible to speed up learning by presenting abstractions (e.g., by giving entire paradigms of grammatical forms at once) rather than by having students learn more intuitively?
None of this lessens the value of the Wauwatosa theology. But it seems ironic that those who love Wauwatosa’s emphasis on understanding historical context seem to have overlooked some of the historical context of Wauwatosa.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Wauwawhat? (Part One)
In my next couple of blogs I will be writing about “the Wauwatosa theology.” It gets into some arcane history, but some of that history gets into more recent events in confessional Lutheranism. Even though I belong to the Missouri Synod (ca. 2.4 million members) instead of the Wisconsin Synod (ca. 390,000 members) where the Wauwatosa theology was centered, I cannot entirely ignore it because the Missouri Synod and the Wisconsin Synod were in fellowship with each other at the time and it had an effect on both denominations.
But what is the Wauwatosa theology? It refers to the emphases found in the Wisconsin Synod of approximately the 1910’s and 1920’s when that synod had its seminary in Wauwatosa and was under the leadership of J.P. Köhler. Although August Pieper and Johannes Schaller (and sometimes Hermann Meyer and Adolf Hönecke) are often mentioned as fellow Wauwatosa theologians, it was Köhler who was the driving force behind the movement. Although it would be incorrect to speak of a Wauwatosa theology as soon as he began teaching at the seminary in 1900, it was certainly well in place when he took over the presidency in 1920. The movement came to a formal end with the seminary’s move in 1929 and the end of Köhler’s presidency in 1930, although most in the Wisconsin Synod would say that its legacy remains.
At the heart of the Wauwatosa theology was a re-emphasis on exegetical theology (which explains the Scriptures verse by verse) and to a lesser extent historical theology (which is concerned with the history of the church and theology). This emphasis stood in distinction to the Missouri Synod at the time, which spent more time on systematic theology (which explains the teachings of the Scripture topic by topic) and practical theology (which teaches pastors how to apply doctrine in their parish life through preaching, teaching, pastoral care, and the like). In addition, the Wauwatosa movement criticized the Missouri Synod for its educational system that placed a premium on doing theology in Latin. This was due to the fact that nearly every systematic theology had been written in Latin until the nineteenth century and the early Missouri Synod found little to commend in the contemporary systematic theologies being published in German or English. Because many students were too busy struggling with the Latin in the Baier-Walther Compendium, the main systematics textbook, they had no time to devote to verse by verse exegesis of the Scripture.
Even before the Wauwatosa theology made its appearance, the Missouri Synod had realized that there was a problem and was correcting it. C.F.W. Walther (who is sometimes caricatured by historians of the Wauwatosa school as hostile to serious exegesis or at least uninterested in it) finagled a call to Georg Stöckhardt to teach exegetical theology at his seminary; indeed, Walther was far more eager than just about anyone to see more exegesis taught at his seminary. Köhler and his colleagues readily acknowledged their deep debt to Stöckhardt and to Walther, but some more recent chroniclers of the Wauwatosa movement are less willing to do so. Moreover, about the same time that the Wauwatosa school was forming, Franz Pieper wrote a systematic theology in German so that his students wouldn’t have to struggle with Latin theological texts any more, thus freeing up more time for other studies. (A generation later seminarians found the German as difficult as their forebears had found the Latin, and Pieper’s work was translated into English.) More exegetical courses were added with the result that today the total number of required exegetical courses in Missouri’s schools outnumbers the systematic ones and is close to that required by the Wisconsin Synod. The transition was also furthered along by a change in Missouri’s environment. In its first half century or so the synod was growing so quickly that the best form of education seemed to be to cover all the major theological topics as well as possible and to offer advice on how to preach them and then to let the seminarian read the Bible carefully verse by verse on his own once he was out in the parish. But now the synod was beginning to realize the value of a more rounded theological education.
I tend to think of myself as more of an exegete than a systematician, but systematics has been a close second love. It is not surprising then that I find much to commend in the Wauwatosa theology. I recommend the three volume collection of the Wauwatosa theology published by Northwestern Publishing House, the first of which has a quite detailed history of the movement. I also recommend John Schaller’s Biblical Christology as a fine example of systematic theology done with an exegetical bent. At the same time, though, I find that there are areas of that school that bear further investigation and perhaps even critique.
But what is the Wauwatosa theology? It refers to the emphases found in the Wisconsin Synod of approximately the 1910’s and 1920’s when that synod had its seminary in Wauwatosa and was under the leadership of J.P. Köhler. Although August Pieper and Johannes Schaller (and sometimes Hermann Meyer and Adolf Hönecke) are often mentioned as fellow Wauwatosa theologians, it was Köhler who was the driving force behind the movement. Although it would be incorrect to speak of a Wauwatosa theology as soon as he began teaching at the seminary in 1900, it was certainly well in place when he took over the presidency in 1920. The movement came to a formal end with the seminary’s move in 1929 and the end of Köhler’s presidency in 1930, although most in the Wisconsin Synod would say that its legacy remains.
At the heart of the Wauwatosa theology was a re-emphasis on exegetical theology (which explains the Scriptures verse by verse) and to a lesser extent historical theology (which is concerned with the history of the church and theology). This emphasis stood in distinction to the Missouri Synod at the time, which spent more time on systematic theology (which explains the teachings of the Scripture topic by topic) and practical theology (which teaches pastors how to apply doctrine in their parish life through preaching, teaching, pastoral care, and the like). In addition, the Wauwatosa movement criticized the Missouri Synod for its educational system that placed a premium on doing theology in Latin. This was due to the fact that nearly every systematic theology had been written in Latin until the nineteenth century and the early Missouri Synod found little to commend in the contemporary systematic theologies being published in German or English. Because many students were too busy struggling with the Latin in the Baier-Walther Compendium, the main systematics textbook, they had no time to devote to verse by verse exegesis of the Scripture.
Even before the Wauwatosa theology made its appearance, the Missouri Synod had realized that there was a problem and was correcting it. C.F.W. Walther (who is sometimes caricatured by historians of the Wauwatosa school as hostile to serious exegesis or at least uninterested in it) finagled a call to Georg Stöckhardt to teach exegetical theology at his seminary; indeed, Walther was far more eager than just about anyone to see more exegesis taught at his seminary. Köhler and his colleagues readily acknowledged their deep debt to Stöckhardt and to Walther, but some more recent chroniclers of the Wauwatosa movement are less willing to do so. Moreover, about the same time that the Wauwatosa school was forming, Franz Pieper wrote a systematic theology in German so that his students wouldn’t have to struggle with Latin theological texts any more, thus freeing up more time for other studies. (A generation later seminarians found the German as difficult as their forebears had found the Latin, and Pieper’s work was translated into English.) More exegetical courses were added with the result that today the total number of required exegetical courses in Missouri’s schools outnumbers the systematic ones and is close to that required by the Wisconsin Synod. The transition was also furthered along by a change in Missouri’s environment. In its first half century or so the synod was growing so quickly that the best form of education seemed to be to cover all the major theological topics as well as possible and to offer advice on how to preach them and then to let the seminarian read the Bible carefully verse by verse on his own once he was out in the parish. But now the synod was beginning to realize the value of a more rounded theological education.
I tend to think of myself as more of an exegete than a systematician, but systematics has been a close second love. It is not surprising then that I find much to commend in the Wauwatosa theology. I recommend the three volume collection of the Wauwatosa theology published by Northwestern Publishing House, the first of which has a quite detailed history of the movement. I also recommend John Schaller’s Biblical Christology as a fine example of systematic theology done with an exegetical bent. At the same time, though, I find that there are areas of that school that bear further investigation and perhaps even critique.
Friday, August 5, 2011
All That Jazz
Has anyone else noticed that whenever a jewelry store or high end furniture gallery runs an ad on the radio, there is always upbeat jazz playing in the background? It’s never quite as laid back as Kenny G, but there is never any scatting either. It tends to feature saxophone or guitar solos rather than trumpet ones. It never has any of the edginess of ragtime or Latin jazz, but is more of a distilled form of the genre without lapsing into muzak.
It makes perfect sense. What other type of music would you expect to be played? Pop rock is the music of the hoi polloi. Indie rock might show that you have some taste, but also probably indicates that you have no money; it would be the perfect music for a futon store ad, if futon stores actually advertized. Country music appeals to people who care more about the bed of their pickup truck than the bed in their house. The usual classical music favored in advertisement—things like a Mozart concerto—might appeal to a well-educated and wealthier crowd, but it also conveys the notion of being stuffy. And that leaves a more urbane form of jazz. It says that you are the kind of person who came from a family that took music seriously. You learned to play the piano, but you didn’t stay stuck in the eighteenth century. You sneaked out to go to those small clubs featuring musicians that 99% of the population had never heard of. You love flattened fifths and swung notes and other things that “break the rules.” You’re a bit naughty, but in a nice way; no one ever gets hurt. You’re sophisticated and enjoy the finer things in life, but you don’t want to drive Daddy’s car or have his couch from his suburban McMansion in your trendy city loft. And the advertisers are saying, “We’re just as sophisticated. Come on in and you’ll see a selection that is all you.”
Interestingly enough, though, the musical choice seems to work even with people who didn’t grow up in Kenilworth, spending their misspent youth on sneaking into the city to go to the Green Mill. (That certainly isn’t my background.) The important thing is that when you decide to buy that engagement ring or splurge on that really nice sofa, you go to a place run by people who have the sophistication that you feel you may lack. As long as you have the sense that they are honest people, you want someone who will steer you into making the right choice—and make you look more debonair than you really are.
This has application to life in the church. There is nothing inherently wrong with any genre of music for its use in the church, just as there is nothing inherently wrong with a furniture showroom using any kind of music it wants. But because music has cultural associations—associations, by the way, that change over time—one has to be thoughtful about the sort of music used in the church. The music should convey that the church is ancient, not archaic; modern, not ephemeral; holy, not sanctimonious; amid a particular culture, not of it; and a lover of beauty, not hedonistic. That’s a tall order, but an important one.
It makes perfect sense. What other type of music would you expect to be played? Pop rock is the music of the hoi polloi. Indie rock might show that you have some taste, but also probably indicates that you have no money; it would be the perfect music for a futon store ad, if futon stores actually advertized. Country music appeals to people who care more about the bed of their pickup truck than the bed in their house. The usual classical music favored in advertisement—things like a Mozart concerto—might appeal to a well-educated and wealthier crowd, but it also conveys the notion of being stuffy. And that leaves a more urbane form of jazz. It says that you are the kind of person who came from a family that took music seriously. You learned to play the piano, but you didn’t stay stuck in the eighteenth century. You sneaked out to go to those small clubs featuring musicians that 99% of the population had never heard of. You love flattened fifths and swung notes and other things that “break the rules.” You’re a bit naughty, but in a nice way; no one ever gets hurt. You’re sophisticated and enjoy the finer things in life, but you don’t want to drive Daddy’s car or have his couch from his suburban McMansion in your trendy city loft. And the advertisers are saying, “We’re just as sophisticated. Come on in and you’ll see a selection that is all you.”
Interestingly enough, though, the musical choice seems to work even with people who didn’t grow up in Kenilworth, spending their misspent youth on sneaking into the city to go to the Green Mill. (That certainly isn’t my background.) The important thing is that when you decide to buy that engagement ring or splurge on that really nice sofa, you go to a place run by people who have the sophistication that you feel you may lack. As long as you have the sense that they are honest people, you want someone who will steer you into making the right choice—and make you look more debonair than you really are.
This has application to life in the church. There is nothing inherently wrong with any genre of music for its use in the church, just as there is nothing inherently wrong with a furniture showroom using any kind of music it wants. But because music has cultural associations—associations, by the way, that change over time—one has to be thoughtful about the sort of music used in the church. The music should convey that the church is ancient, not archaic; modern, not ephemeral; holy, not sanctimonious; amid a particular culture, not of it; and a lover of beauty, not hedonistic. That’s a tall order, but an important one.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Change and the Church
It is an article of faith in many sectors of Christianity that everyone must be for every change in the church, no matter what it might be. “Change or die” is their motto, and there is some truth to that adage. Companies determined only to sell buggy whips have gone out of business. But there is a corresponding truth that is often overlooked: if you change, you will die. Many companies have tried tinkering with the formula that had brought them success and were quickly driven into bankruptcy. Change can breathe new life into a dying organization, but it can also kill off a healthy one. Healthy babies must change by constantly growing and maturing. Healthy adults, however, often have to resist changes, such as cancer and the deterioration of the body.
Change in and of itself, therefore, shouldn’t be the be-all and end-all of the church—or a company or organization or government. We shouldn’t tell pastors that their one calling in life is to be a visionary leader of change. And we certainly shouldn’t tell pastors that their Sunday sermons are supposed to be all about keeping in front of their congregation’s eyes the organizational changes they desire. (A few years ago I was actually told by an expert in my denomination that this should be the focus of my preaching rather than the Scriptures!) We shouldn’t condition congregations to embrace every proposed change unthinkingly. And that means we need to stop joking about people who are resistant to change, as if they are all troglodytes who think that the wheel will spell the downfall of civilization.
Instead we should have a more nuanced approach. When a body is growing, there are certain constants (e.g., the DNA is always the same, as is the overall structure), even as there are certain changes being made (e.g., in height and weight). Even when a body has reached maturity and is not growing any more, little changes are constantly occurring, as when one cell dies and another replaces it. And thus we should expect that life in the church (as well as in society at large) will balance change and constancy. Constancy won’t be sclerosis, and change won’t be artificial. There will be an organic development, one where the change confirms and builds upon the substance.
In order to do that, churches and pastors must cultivate a climate that welcomes both new ideas and constructive criticism of them. Everyone must understand that God has placed in the church people with different attitudes toward change. Some will automatically be for it, others against it, and many in the middle who (like myself) embrace some changes while eschewing others. Rather than write off the other groups as unrepentant degenerates (as many church leaders have treated those less than eager for every change), the church ought to welcome all these voices. Those who embrace change without a second thought need to listen to those who oppose it. They must also give them time to formulate their ideas because often opponents can sense a negative result of a proposed change before they can articulate it. At the same time, opponents of change must be willing to consider whether or not they are against a particular idea simply because they don’t want to be bothered with something new.
This process should also help people to see that a change need not be merely an either/or proposition. Sometimes the question is not whether a change should be made, but when, and that point gets lost in the debate. To use an example from my personal life, I often welcome the announcement of new technologies, but I am also rarely the first to buy them, mainly because they are pricy and full of bugs when they first come out. I wait to buy them until they have gone mainstream. By the same token, a church that chooses to adopt something that is rather unusual will often have to pay an extra cost and deal with many unforeseen problems, while another church that adopts the same general ideas a decade later may do so with fewer difficulties.
All change isn’t of God—or of the devil. Therefore, we need a spirit of discernment in order to make wise choices.
Change in and of itself, therefore, shouldn’t be the be-all and end-all of the church—or a company or organization or government. We shouldn’t tell pastors that their one calling in life is to be a visionary leader of change. And we certainly shouldn’t tell pastors that their Sunday sermons are supposed to be all about keeping in front of their congregation’s eyes the organizational changes they desire. (A few years ago I was actually told by an expert in my denomination that this should be the focus of my preaching rather than the Scriptures!) We shouldn’t condition congregations to embrace every proposed change unthinkingly. And that means we need to stop joking about people who are resistant to change, as if they are all troglodytes who think that the wheel will spell the downfall of civilization.
Instead we should have a more nuanced approach. When a body is growing, there are certain constants (e.g., the DNA is always the same, as is the overall structure), even as there are certain changes being made (e.g., in height and weight). Even when a body has reached maturity and is not growing any more, little changes are constantly occurring, as when one cell dies and another replaces it. And thus we should expect that life in the church (as well as in society at large) will balance change and constancy. Constancy won’t be sclerosis, and change won’t be artificial. There will be an organic development, one where the change confirms and builds upon the substance.
In order to do that, churches and pastors must cultivate a climate that welcomes both new ideas and constructive criticism of them. Everyone must understand that God has placed in the church people with different attitudes toward change. Some will automatically be for it, others against it, and many in the middle who (like myself) embrace some changes while eschewing others. Rather than write off the other groups as unrepentant degenerates (as many church leaders have treated those less than eager for every change), the church ought to welcome all these voices. Those who embrace change without a second thought need to listen to those who oppose it. They must also give them time to formulate their ideas because often opponents can sense a negative result of a proposed change before they can articulate it. At the same time, opponents of change must be willing to consider whether or not they are against a particular idea simply because they don’t want to be bothered with something new.
This process should also help people to see that a change need not be merely an either/or proposition. Sometimes the question is not whether a change should be made, but when, and that point gets lost in the debate. To use an example from my personal life, I often welcome the announcement of new technologies, but I am also rarely the first to buy them, mainly because they are pricy and full of bugs when they first come out. I wait to buy them until they have gone mainstream. By the same token, a church that chooses to adopt something that is rather unusual will often have to pay an extra cost and deal with many unforeseen problems, while another church that adopts the same general ideas a decade later may do so with fewer difficulties.
All change isn’t of God—or of the devil. Therefore, we need a spirit of discernment in order to make wise choices.
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