With the recent (ill-timed, it would seem) release of a theological declaration regarding human sexuality, signed by the likes of J.I. Packer and D.A. Carson and folks from their respective camps (British evangelicals and Gospel Coalition American Calvinists), the Christian news sources have been all a-flutter along the same lines that they tend to be with all these such statements and all these such discussions. The (broadly speaking) traditionalist Right* has made the typical claim that they feel adequately communicates their historic orthodoxy, while the (broadly speaking) progressive Left* has responded in typical outrage and frustration, even crafting a reflective statement of their own (courtesy of Nadia Bolz-Weber). *Left/Right, notably, are horrible terms to use when speaking of theology. Continue reading “The Pastoral Problem with Theological Statements”
Broadway Books, 2001. 239 pp.
In December of 2016, my wife and I drove “[out] of Upper Alton… up a state road…” in our 2009 Chevy Malibu. We had been visiting families for our first Christmas with our son (Theodore) — hers in Godfrey and Collinsville, mine in Gillespie — and on that day we had one small pilgrimage, of a kind, to make before we left for our home in Chicago. We were on-the-hunt for “New Cana.”
About a month earlier, one of our pastors gave a message in which she quoted from a moment in the memoir of a Lutheran minister named Richard Lischer. She told how he had entered into his first pastoral appointment, at a small rural church in southern Illinois, with the high aims of using all his theological training to its utmost ability. He sets up, at his first event, a small group discussion for talking about how the church is engaging with their new pastoral appointment; the first (and second) responses are muted, stiff “Well, I didn’t vote for you, but I know we will have a very good church with you as our pastor.” Our pastor weaved this narrative as an example of how we (as American evangelicals especially) often think of ministry strategies before thinking of the people we aim to serve.
But, if I’m an honest parishioner, I was a little distracted by her description of Lischer himself. A memoir about a pastor in small-town Illinois? As a son of small-town Illinois who had married a daughter of small-town Illinois, and as a person who had recently received a call to pastoral ministry, I knew that this was one of those books I would need to borrow. While walking to lunch after church, I grew curious: I wonder where in small-town Illinois Lischer preached? Then I read the opening chapter via an Amazon preview and saw the above quote of him driving north out of Alton (where my wife and I had lived our first year of marriage) into the country. Immediately, I began comparing Lischer’s words with my mental map of Madison and Macoupin Counties (which is, if I say so myself, pretty accurate), and soon I had narrowed down the location of his “New Cana” parish to a small sub-region of the north-of-Alton, east-of-Jerseyville region.
It was in this context, that my wife and I ended up outside of “New Cana” Lutheran Church, the world of Lischer’s memoir Open Secrets.
Our pilgrimage itself was not precisely “exciting.” After all, we are long-time Madison-Macoupin County residents who have only recently made residence as urbanites in Chicago.
We have been lost in the middle of a cornfield many-a-time before. And “New Cana” Lutheran Church is literally “lost in the middle of a cornfield,” in a way that was utterly familiar to us. Hannah ended up taking one of her better photographs of the church (as my photograph, above, is, characteristically, angled and unprofessional) and using her graphic design wizardry to produce a better book cover, since the edition we had clearly represented a “small town” on the Atlantic seaboard, not southern Illinois. Our small “Lischer-circle” at church (which was us, our pastor Tiffany, and our local Hauerwasian theologian Kevin) were ecstatic about such an update. But the church itself, however mythic as told by Lischer, was no surprise to us. It was, in many ways, a part of us already. The stories that Lischer tells in his memoir could have just as easily been some of the stories my grandmother tells me about growing up on a farm in Shipman. Actually, I’m not entirely sure that somewhere in her family there wasn’t some offshoot that married into or joined the “New Cana” Dullmanns and Bufords and Semanns at some juncture. I’ll have to investigate the Caveny family line at some juncture.
But we didn’t pilgrimage to the “New Cana” church for the sake of excitement. Rather, I think we pilgrimaged there for a sense of “home.” In December, it was becoming ever-clear to me and Hannah that we longed to return “home,” to “our world.” Our inability to see the sunset or sunrise in Chicago was wearing on us; our distance from family was difficult for us; and our new “city-like” busyness was, honestly, “not our thing.” So, however blessed and joyful our time in Chicago had been, we visited “New Cana” with the strong sense that someday soon we would live again in this world. Our world. And in the same sense, we didn’t read Lischer’s memoir to view, as though visitors at a zoo, a “different culture and society,” but, in part, to learn again and learn anew our own home.
Lischer’s pastoral observations are some of the most profound on the topic that I have ever read.
Instead of confronting, as most theological-praxis books tend to do, us with theological controversies in the church or practical concerns about preaching or leading Bible studies, Lischer addresses the real “meat” of pastoral work: arguing with the cemetery committee about an unnecessary expense that would overburden a poor widow, learning how to receive a beer offered by a parishioner when the subtexts of the convention are concealed, attempting (unsuccessfully) to “be tough” while half the church watches a pig be butchered prior to dinner. Or, more difficult, wrestling with how to effectively marry a passionate couple with no sense of responsibility or commitment, baptizing an infant that will surely die, consoling a mother whose only son fell in the pond and drowned, or taking a young man to the Cardinals game in the wake of him both losing his father (to a heart attack) and his pastor (to a job-move).The book is a holy excursion into the work of pastoral ministry, and one that expounds on a far more interesting (and far more important) layer to how one thinks of “pastoring.” Too often in American Christianity, the “pastor” is really seen as a “preacher-teacher,” whose “ministry” is all words, words, words; theology without any weighty living behind it. In some sense, Lischer also had this preconception upon arriving at “New Cana.” But Open Secrets divulges a different kind of pastoral ministry, a different aim of a philosophy-of-pastoring, that is desperately needed in our day. Ministry, in Lischer’s memoir, does not occur primarily in the pulpit but at fences, post offices, hospitals, and garages. And, yet, (and this is crucial) it is not the flimsy thing that happens when a person smacks the word “ministry” on top of something else (“Brother, I feel called to do a cassette tape-to-CD transfer ministry,” etc.). Lischer’s ministry is something holy, that manifests the divine in the day-to-day. It is Sacramental, perhaps in its purest form.
Lischer’s insights on rural thought are also extraordinarily valuable. He uncovers the concept of “Gossip” as a form of knowledge (even, I think, an epistemology), and considers how he, as a pastor, can use that “Gossip” for the sake of God’s Kingdom. He reveals the power-structures of committees and sub-committees, of the elders versus the cemetery committee. He observes the tensions of interfering with abusive families, wrestles with his own methods of accomplishing what he feels is right, and, more often than not, discovers that he does not understand how this German farming community actually communicates. If anything, Lischer’s “outsider” view of downstate Illinois rural life helps one to consider any number of “outsider”-“insider” dynamics within churches; and, furthermore, underscores the need to observe traditions and values before moving too quickly in changing them.
If Hillbilly Elegy reminded me of the rural world “falling apart” (as I’ve written about before), then Open Secrets encourages me about all the good of rural communities, all the possibility that exist in them, and all the tensions that come with doing effective Christian ministry in that context. In the time since Hannah and I made our pilgrimage to “New Cana,” we have been considering a pastoral opportunity at a church in small-town Illinois. It isn’t a job offer yet — there are, as always, various hurdles to jump over — but we have still, nevertheless, been considering the possibility in a way we hadn’t when we first picked up Open Secrets. As we finished reading Lischer’s memoir last night, I think we both felt a strange sense of preparedness for wherever the Lord is taking us. Lischer’s misadventures in “New Cana” have changed us, equipped us, even prophesied to us, of some new adventure of our own.
The Crucifixion of the Warrior God
Gregory A. Boyd
Fortress Press, 2017. 1492 pp.
Before I can properly review and engage with the ideas presented by Greg Boyd’s newest work, The Crucifixion of the Warrior God, I suppose I must first “out” myself as someone who is about as theologically opposite to Greg Boyd as is possible. His advocacy of open theism, his views on Augustine and Aquinas, and his soteriology are thoroughly distant from my own views. I think it’s important to put that out first, so that I might write this review with integrity. And while I certainly find certain claims (especially open theism) that Boyd holds as truth to be problematic because of where my theology lands in comparison to his, it is my goal in this review to engage just with the central claims that Boyd presents for this work. As we shall see, I find The Crucifixion of the Warrior God to be an ambitious work of heremeneutics that despite its brilliant methodological approach has major flaws when applying that approach to the problem it proposes to solve.
The Crucifixion of the Warrior God (CWG) is a two-volume monograph that attempts to address OT violence in light of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. For Boyd, OT violence isn’t simply an ethic problem but an epistemic one, contradicting, in his view, the very foundations of the Christian faith. In order to provide a basis for re-engaging the OT this way, Boyd proposes a Cruciform Hermeneutic, using it to re-read the OT through the lens of Christ upon the Cross. Through this, Boyd maintains, we will come to see that the narratives of God behaving violently in the OT are simply depictions masking God’s true revelation of Himself. In Volume One, Boyd presents the problem at hand, writes at length on the importance of the centrality of the Cross and then develops the Cruciform Hermeneutic. In Volume Two, he clarifies how that hermeneutic functions and then applies that hermeneutic to various OT texts and proposes new readings for them.
In order to review a work so large as CWG, I will write my review in multiple parts. This first part aims to address the whole of Volume One. The second part will address Volume Two and maybe give some overview and final thoughts. However, since as of this part of the review I have not yet finished Volume Two ,it could happen that I write a third review article or a follow-up to consider other possible solutions to the problems that Boyd reveals. My goal in this first review will be threefold: to give a sense of the quality of Boyd’s writing, point to some of the strengths of his claims and arguments, and lastly engage with some of the problems that arise from Boyd’s claims.
Quality — Meandering, Repetitive, and Quote-Reliant
Before jumping into the matters of Boyd’s claims themselves, I do have a few things to say with regards to the quality of his writing. In stark contradiction to Rob Grayson’s review (the only other review I could find during the writing of this one), I think that one of the great weaknesses of the book is its rhetorical composition. There is a goodness, as Grayson observes, in how Boyd takes great lengths to ensure that his readership understands every twist and turn of the argument, making his work accessible. But in order to accomplish this clarity, Boyd’s work manifests as long, meandering parades of paragraph-after-paragraph of mostly regurgitated information, quotes, and repetitions. Sometimes the structure of Boyd’s argument felt like reading a Choose Your Own Adventure book, with him repeating, numerous times, statements like “As I said in Vol. 1, Chp. 4,” “This will be made clear in Ch. 8,” etc. The book feels like it could have been written in a different order, and, thus, made considerably less cumbersome.
Usually poor rhetorical quality is not anything more than simply poor writing, an excusable error. However, Boyd’s work in Volume One suffers from a far more serious problem. There are times, especially in the first six chapters, in which Boyd lets his interlocutors do the majority of the rhetorical heavy-lifting. Not only is this a nuisance to the reader (at the very least, Boyd broke every rhetorical rule I was taught in graduate school), it also creates the sense that Boyd is attempting to advocate his positions through the voices of other writers. If this is intentional, then Boyd is being disingenuous in a very serious and disconcerting way. However, my sense is that he is not intentionally misrepresenting his interlocutors. Instead, one begins to feel that Boyd is not totally comfortable coming out and making his explicit claims. In the first half of Volume One, there is a hidden fear in the text as he sets his ideas behind the claims of other, more established, theologians. In fact, it isn’t really until Chapter 9 that Boyd’s own voice begins to appear in earnest in the narrative of claims he makes (and, as I will mention in the next post, Volume Two is thankfully freed from this particular impediment).
The fortunate thing, rhetorically speaking, is that his writing cleans up significantly in the last few chapters of Volume One, letting his most engaging and most interesting claims shine. All of the earlier cluttered rhetoric, piling on quotes repeating roughly the same material, gives me the sense that CWG unnecessarily complicates itself, cancelling out Boyd’s own direct ambition to make his work more accessible. The first six chapters could have easily been cut out and written more concisely as a simple introduction to his assumption that Christ on the Cross is the central biblical revelation. It is when Boyd gets into his more interesting claims — how the crucicentral revelation affects other parts of Scripture, etc. — that he begins to write in a more compelling way and ceases to retreat behind the words of other theologians. As it stands, I had the growing sense that this whole book could have been accomplished in one volume of ~400-500 pages. The writing is raw and unfinished, more like a doctoral dissertation in style than like a monograph.
Strengths — The Cruciform Hermeneutic is a Marvelous Exegetical Tool
What accounts for Boyd’s hesitance to put his cards on the table? I wonder if he’s hesitant because he wants his thesis to be received well. Maybe he’s aware that some of the claims he makes later in the book are radical. And maybe, to be sure, the fact that he must frame his rhetoric in this defensive manner is symptomatic of how the broader evangelical community treats new ideas (i.e. poorly).
Yet the first part of Boyd’s thesis is not actually so radical as all his defensive stances makes it seem. (Maybe that’s another reason I don’t think he needs the first six chapters?)
At its core, the Cruciform Hermeneutic is a pretty normal understanding of how one ought to read the Scriptures, although we don’t often think so clearly about it as Boyd does. In summation, he claims that we ought to read the Scriptures as God-breathed manifestations of revelation pertaining first and foremost to Jesus Christ who was crucified and raised from the dead. Except for a few outliers, most major streams of theology view the Scriptures with this precise central theme in mind, and, thus, it is no surprise that Boyd is able to leverage such a diversity of theologians for the sake of this claim.
In fact, I think the chief of Boyd’s successes in Volume One is the manner in which he convinces the reader in Part Three (the last three chapters) that all good Christian hermeneutics treat certain parts of the text as literal (i.e. Jesus really did die on a Cross) and certain parts as figurative (i.e. Jesus does not actually expect us to pluck out our eyes). In one of his strongest moments in Volume One, Boyd wagers that most of us are already doing something like what he calls the “Reinterpretation Solution” with the OT, we just don’t know it.
If we follow the logic of that claim then we can begin to see how Boyd aims to use it for the purposes of establishing his Cruciform Hermeneutic. He provides us with a useful tool and metric for reading the Scriptures, helpful guidelines with which to judge what ought to be read literally and what ought to be read figuratively, all focusing on the exaltation of Christ on the Cross. All this is incredibly insightful, helpful, and orthodox.
So, what is it about his thesis that is radical enough for him to spend the majority of the first half of Volume One defending himself from all possible angles and all possible critics? Surely, if the Cruciform Hermeneutic is simply a matter of reading the OT (and the rest of Scripture as well) with the revelation of Jesus on the Cross as our guiding interpretative framework, then what Boyd suggests ought not be so problematic!
Problems — Uncritical Manifestations of Boyd’s Presuppositions
Of course, Boyd’s goal is not just to establish a Cruciform Hermeneutic, but to use that hermeneutic to solve what he sees as one of Christianity’s greatest age-old problems: Why does God behave so violently in the OT? Boyd’s specific engagements with the OT occurs in the bulk of Volume Two, which I will engage in my next post.
For Volume One, it is simply enough to question the question itself. In Chapter 7, Boyd addresses OT violence head-on, describing every violent event he can find. He even adds a hypothetical story from the perspective of the Canaanites as the Israelite army comes in to kill. The straightforwardness of presenting biblical texts with forthright honesty is, of course, valuable. But what Boyd never presents us with at any juncture is either A) a framework for determining which texts are and are not problematic, in light of the Cross; or B) a definition for how Boyd proposes to understand “violence” (and, thus, as he describes Jesus, “nonviolence”). The lack of these terms is a serious blow to Boyd’s entire argument.
The problem here is simply that for all his hard work in defending against a wide variety of criticisms, Boyd has not taken the time to critically assess his own a priori assumptions. In the Introduction, he takes for granted that Jesus’ revelation of God is “agape-centered, other-oriented, self-sacrificial” without putting flesh on what those terms really mean. These terms are fascinating, intriguing, and radical claims on their own, but Boyd assumes that his readership is already on-board with the content of those words. Likewise, he doesn’t seem able to abide the arguments that, as an example, Augustine has proposed with regards to God being both “agape-centered” and the “God of war” that the OT describes him as. There could be an interesting discussion engaging with Augustine here, but when Boyd brings it up, he dismisses Augustine out-of-hand with far too much ease. This is yet another example of the weakness of Boyd’s rhetoric: he spends very little time refuting the more substantial arguments against his case, and a lot more time defending and shoring up the more self-evident points for his case.
This is one of the things that I personally found aggravating throughout CWG. Boyd holds long-form arguments in order to support certain claims that he could just hand to us as simple propositions (i.e. Christ’s Cross as a centralizing biblical revelation), but then neglects to engage with the propositions that he does hand to us that are not actually that simple to surpass (i.e. Boyd’s presupposed definitions of love). Rather than linger on the Augustinian question of whether or not Love could or could not engage in Violence of any kind, or even rather than admit that the discussion therein is more complicated that it appears, Boyd makes an interpretative leap and then assumes what is implied by his Cruciform Hermeneutic. If one of the strongest points of Volume One is how useful the Cruciform Hermeneutic is as an exegetical tool, then easily the weakest matter is how Boyd attempts to apply that Cruciform Hermeneutic, premising his reading of the OT upon his own presuppositions of how that hermeneutic views Love, Violence, and the like.
In so doing, I am afraid that Boyd begins his engagements with the OT from a thoroughly modern standpoint, in which “Violence” and “Nonviolence” are terms decided upon by Western secular society, not Christ, even though Boyd would surely assert that he prefers the latter. As a result, from very early on in the text I am continually concerned that what we are receiving is not an actual re-reading of the OT through the proposed Cruciform Hermeneutic, but, instead, a re-reading through the modernist presuppositions of Greg Boyd. It is Boyd’s definitions of “Violence” and “Nonviolence” that articulate his concerns in Chapter 7, and it is his definitions, not necessarily Christ’s, that constitute the hermeneutic he intends to deploy in Volume Two. As I shall discuss in the next part of my review, Boyd’s failure to address these presuppositions results in a touch-and-go exegesis of the OT, with some readings revealing brilliant insights and others leading to nonsensical conclusions.
I would like to thank Fortress Press for sending me a review copy of this work. As with all these reviews, I was not required to write a good review, and all the opinions expressed within are my own.
“Social class in America isn’t just about money.” So says J.D. Vance in the midst of his memoir Hillbilly Elegy. Raised in southwestern Ohio, but grown with close ties to nearby Kentucky, Vance tells a story that is more than just his own “rags-to-riches” type of narrative. His tale encompasses a breadth of white rural experience that conditions not just the hillbillies of Appalachia but actually many poor rural whites throughout the country. Around the time of the election of Pres. Donald J. Trump, Vance’s memoir was often pointed at as a description of the ailment that manifested in political symptoms.
If social class, neatly construed, is not, as Vance suggests, about money, then what is it about? Vance struggles with this throughout his book. He goes to the Marines, a big state university, an Ivy League law school, upper-crust elite work, and all the time he still feels like a “hillbilly.” For him there’s a sense of pride in that identification; but there is also a sense of humiliation. For some reason, he stresses near the end of the book, he just cannot escape the pressures of rural poverty and the power it wields over his life, even in the midst of relative success.
I have wondered about this problem of social class too. In my working life thusfar, I have been a campus missionary, a graduate student, and a low-level lab manager in an expensive neighborhood (e.g. my pay was better than as a missionary; my costs were higher still). At every juncture I would have described myself, financially, as poor. And, based on the poverty level standards, this would have been objectively true. Yet I was raised in a middle-class household, in a stable family, in a culture with certain values. It has only been fairly recently that my eyes have become adjusted to seeing what “poverty” looks like.
The numbers describe me and my family as poor. But we don’t look it. Instead, we look pretty successful. (We save a lot of money by not caring about having “satellite TV” or “high speed internet.”) In a strange way, in spite my financial “lacks” (i.e. I don’t make enough to save any money, and we spend more on food every month than we can afford), I feel successful while Vance, in spite of his financial gains (making upwards, we are told in the book, of $100K a year; good house; good neighborhood), feels unsuccessful. What constitutes this? What is “social class” really, if it isn’t, as so many sociologists or economists (or policy-makers) claim, an economic demographic?
A problem confronts me whenever I set down to think about theology: I have been to too many different places. At present, I live in a demographically-mixed (all the demographics!) part of Chicago’s South Side; in the past, I lived in a poorer part of the river town Alton, IL; I grew up in a middle-class household in an impoverished rural county; I once lived in a burgeoning up-and-coming town for the upper-middle-class. And this is just the state of Illinois!
An observation that I have seen in my life throughout Illinois (and also in my sojourns to other states as well) is that denominational / theological groups thrive in certain socioeconomic circumstances. The more poor, the more rural, the more Pentecostals, the more Baptists, and the more non-denominationals (who are really Baptists). Drive through eastern Tennessee into the mountains, for instance, and you will see, one after another, X Baptist Church, Y Baptist Church, Z Church of Christ, Q Church of Christ, R “Fancy Name Big Church” (which might be non-denominational evangelical or charismatic, you can’t quite tell by the sign).
This observation is just an observation, of course, and I haven’t yet gotten the chance to dig up the data for it. My hunch is that there are surely a few of churches that don’t fit these socioeconomic trends, and yet my hunch is also that this is the minority. There is a history to this phenomenon: most American denominations were founded by ethnic minorities as they migrated to the country. Poor Irish settlers (like my great-great-great-grandfather Caveny) brought with them their Roman Catholicism, not-quite-as-poor-but-still-poor German farmers brought with them their Lutheranism or their Congregationalism, while more financially-astute English immigrants brought Methodism and Anglicanism.
Different ethnic groups brought with them different levels of financial stability and different home-cultures and values when it came to work, money, and the like (although discerning those cultures and values becomes a very difficult ethnographic task, one that cannot be navigated lightly). The different ethnic groups in America for a long time created different social classes, and these social classes became tied to theological identities.
How American society transformed from ethnically-determined churches into socioeconomically-determined churches, especially amidst white people, is a mystery that I do not want to broach here, and it should go without saying that there is another parallel story that occurs in American society with regards to African-American, Hispanic, and other minority churches. But the result of these historical processes is clear: somehow when you land in a geographic location determined by certain economic situations, you can already get a sense of the theology of that people.
This leads me to propose a surprising and bizarre claim: theology in America is the result of socioeconomic class more often than it is the result of Bible-training, study, and preaching.
Vance finds this to be true in his memoir. His observations of the culture of Appalachian hillbillies includes claims like “[they have] a lack of agency,” they believe in “avoidance and wishful-thinking,” and “[they] had an almost religious faith in hard work and the American Dream.” He provides some statistical differences between how hillbillies perceive their own church attendance (“Why, of course I go to church!”) and how the actual church attendance in their towns; he notes the suspicion held by his communities towards ecclesiastical structures; he observes their personal, private commitments to Christian faith that are divorced from communal, public manifestations of it.
What manifests in utter suspicion of ecclesiastical structures in Appalachian appears as devout congregationalist / Baptist communities in my own southern Illinois. Non-denominational churches pop up like wildfire in the rural Midwest, communities with little to no oversight except centralized pastoral authority. American civil worship practices appear too, like the displaying of patriotic symbols (the flag, “God bless America!”) or the singing of the National Anthem at a church. I remember visiting a church on the Fourth of July in which the whole congregation recited the Pledge of Allegiance, something that to me was utterly off-putting but absolutely normal for the community. For many in rural churches this is a natural manifestation of their Christian belief.
I am “waving” at something here. One of the pinnacles of Protestant — especially Reformed, but also Wesleyan — belief is the emphasis that beliefs, values, doctrines, and practices find their home in the Scriptures first. And, yet, if we take Vance’s personal stories of Appalachian faith to heart, and if my admittedly-broad observations ring true, then it would seem that theologies and doctrines are not as based off of “serious Scriptural study” as they are based off of socio-economic class, with a priority to the “social” part over the “economic.”
The pastor-theologian should find this strange and maybe even a little troubling. If a pastor’s goal is to see my people grow in the knowledge of the Lord and in a knowledge of His Word, how is it that the people under pastoral authority seem to grow most effectively in a knowledge of the socio-cultural beliefs they already bring with them? And, given these socio-cultural beliefs are difficult to leave behind, as we see Vance wrestle near the end of the memoir, how is a pastor to provoke pervasive underlying beliefs that have a lot more to do with American or social-class identity than our ancient Christian identity or the Scriptures?
Theologically speaking, this is the problem that feels most at stake in Vance’s work. There are surely problems of socio-economics, justice, cultural-community dynamics and the like that one could discuss from Hillbilly Elegy, but the issue of a socially-determined (as opposed to biblically-determined) theology is one that seems to manifest underneath a lot of the societal ills Vance describes. He comments, for instance, on how churches that ought to be a safety-net for low-income families instead have become so individualistic that their social benefit is altogether negated, to the detriment of his community.
How the American Christian should respond to this level of theological crisis, a thing tied to the socioeconomic crisis of the white poor, is complicated, and my goal here is simply to point out what Vance has already pointed out in his book. It is provocative enough to notice that most of our received theologies in evangelicalism are not the result of Bible study or theological inquiry, but instead the result of the strange interconnections between church-life and our social-cultural matrix. My hunch is that this is just another type of syncretism that American Christians do not see as such because we would rather describe syncretism as something “people in the third world” do. (As I overheard a Ph.D. candidate in Anthropology say the other day: “Anthropology is the word white academics use to describe non-white cultures, while sociology is the word for white cultures.”)
If rural theologies flourish and propagate as a culturally- and socially-derived set of beliefs, even tied to economics and class, how ought pastors — in all types of communities and contexts — communicate the Gospel and discuss the Scriptures? Once the problem is clearly seen, it becomes difficult to know how to go forward. Vance wrote that “social class in America isn’t just about money”; but, as we have seen, so too “theology in America isn’t just about Bible studies and teaching.” Somehow both of these things rely on a rural culture that is much more powerful than we could have expected.