Advent and Disposable Society

“Purity of heart is to will one thing…”

Against my better judgment, I was out last Saturday afternoon, three weeks before Christmas, looking for a pair of black shoes.  I was scheduled for my first Sunday as a chalice bearer the next day and, as I am wont to do, I had waited until the last minute to look for the black shoes I needed to blend in with the black cassock that would be hovering just above them.

I didn’t want anything too expensive because 1) I’m sort of a cheapskate 2) I wouldn’t wear these shoes any other time since black isn’t really a color I prefer.  As those were my only two guidelines for my shopping expedition, I visited those receptacles of all that our department stores have deemed disposable: Marshall’s and Ross.

I have mixed feelings about these sorts of stores.  I enjoy that occasionally I can find a good deal on something I need (one time, it was a belt, another, socks).  But while this may be the case on occasion, I generally stroll the aisles at these stores with a sense of gloom.  While you may be able to find some good deals from time to time, these stores, to me at least, are a reminder of our society’s addiction to consumption and waste.  As you search for the thing you’re looking for, you’re surrounded by items nobody wanted or could use – not only shirts and pants and size 14 shoes, but also things like electronic gadgets, cologne, and housewares.  A veritable Island of Misfit Toys here in the real world, and to me, all a bit depressing.

Last Saturday, as I moved out of the shoe section at Marshall’s, I ended up in the area with gadgets and cologne.  I wasn’t too interested in looking at the goods displayed there but something caught my eye as I glanced around.  Down low on a display case was this:


Not a great photo but I think you can get the idea.  There on the low shelf  was some kind of cologne and perfume combo with the Khloe and Lamar brand on it. What made this piece arrest my attention was the image of Lamar Odom, and while I’m not a celebrity news follower and don’t really know anything about the Kardashians, I do follow the NBA, and if you’ve done so in recent years, you may know the sad story of Lamar Odom.  This isn’t the place to recount it but suffice it to say Lamar Odom almost died just over a year ago when he was found unresponsive in a Las Vegas area brothel.  An overdose of cocaine had caused him to have a stroke.  One of the sweetest persons to every play the game, some say, had players from all over the league, in the days following his collapse, rallying to wish him a quick recovery, which for a while seemed like it might not happen at all.

All I could think of as I glanced at this emblem of our disposal culture is how things seem to be produced in our society almost so they can be tossed aside to make room from something else – including people and in this case, athletes.  The liturgy, if you will, of consuming and throwing away influences our imaginations on a deep level – so much so that we often see this time of year as the time of malls, shopping bags, wrapped presents under the tree, sales at department stores or online.  James K.A. Smith’s “liturgy of the mall,” of course, has shaped many an evangelical’s imagination in recent years as he describes that whole consumeristic enterprise as a formational practice that steers our hearts toward one thing and not another – toward impure desires on the one hand and away from pure desires on the other.

51yr3tsnfhl-_sx330_bo1204203200_In his book The Truce of God, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, writes about pure and impure desire.  Impure desire, according to Williams, “desires to stop having to desire,” to stop needing and to be self-sufficient.  Pure desire, on the other hand, can live with an “unlimited horizon;” it’s at home with longing and anticipation.  Williams writes:

The ‘impure heart’ is a heart which never wants anything enough to be intolerant of substitutes.  Beneath its readiness to make do with less than reality is the fear of real desire.  For real desire means the candid acknowledgment that I am incomplete and need something in order to be real myself.  Impure desire, on the other hand, assumes that I am solid and important: I take things to myself as my fancies suggest…I consume things – to stop myself from being consumed by real desire.”

Dismissing a moralistic/simplistic understanding of purity, Williams reveals that what’s really wrong with the impure heart and what it desires is its spiritual sloth, or as the monastic tradition calls it, acedia.  It’s the noonday demon of making do with what is less than real by bouncing from one distraction to the next.  Because the impure heart cannot acknowledge that it is “incomplete and need[s] something in order to be real” itself, it fails to integrate the negative in itself, in others, or in the world.  To do so is too costly: it means to surrender to one’s frailty and spiritual lack.  As Williams is later quoted as saying, “Unreal desire stumbles from moment to moment trying to gratify an immediate hunger, without accepting that ‘hunger’ is part of being human and so cannot be dealt with or understood by an endless succession of leakplugging operations.”

For me, this is where Advent comes in.  Advent is a kind of resistance movement against the barrage of “unreal desire” being piped through the various devices we find ourselves staring at or plugged into on a daily basis. The marketing that surrounds us and that is the air we breathe is trying to get us to forget that “hunger is part of being human.”  All the disposable, throwaway “stuff” being pushed on us from all directions is seeking to persuade us to that the I is important and solid and complete in of itself.  You need nothing else (except what they’re trying to sell you, of course).

Advent, on the other hand, is about pure desire.  It’s about acknowledging and being mindful of our hunger, our incompleteness and our need, and any disposable thing that leads you to skip over the surface of those needs that make up the hunger of living is a lie.  Advent, as a season of repentance and expectation, reminds you it’s OK to be hungry and to feel the need you bump into in your daily life. Advent reminds you to embrace your full humanity and to be “intolerant of substitutes” that keep you from living wholeheartedly.

But it’s easy to forget we’re in need on a daily basis.  Not only do we live longer and (perhaps) suffer less due to advances in modern medicine but we live in a throwaway society where the temptation never to sit still long enough to feel ones need is always with us. We can easily move from one consumable distraction to the next without even tapping into our own spiritual poverty. Because of our smart phones, our music is always with us as well as instant TV and movie access.  And while there certainly have been movements in our society to buy less “stuff” and rid ourselves of waste or even to “unplug,” there has to be a more abiding reason to do these things than simply to have a cleaner home or no credit card debt or better sleep (even those are all important).  While those things are good, as Christians we should simplify our lives out of a desire to identify with the Other, especially the poor, the refugee, and the excluded. There should be no greater motivation to pursue such discipline than God’s identification with us in the person of Jesus.

And that’s exactly what Advent is about: identification.  God identified with us in our neediness and we, in turn, should seek to identify with those in need who are all around us.  Meditating on the mystery of the Incarnation and our own spiritual poverty and then letting that meditation move us toward action is what Advent is for.  To do so is to engage in a counter-cultural movement that moves us away from consumption and greed and toward mercy and kindness.  And when that happens, then maybe we will be a church shaped not by the desires of the market economy and our throwaway society but by the expectations and vision of God’s economy.


When it Comes to Dealing With Sexual Abuse, Will Evangelicals Take the Path of the Hero or the Saint?

St. Francis preaching to the birds. What a fool! What a waste!

Since my last post inspired by Brian Zahnd’s blog, I’ll admit I’ve been revisiting his site quite a bit.  His post from earlier this past week  brought to mind something in regards to the whole Sovereign Grace Ministries scandal (if you’re not familiar with it, then you can catch up on it here.  If you’re an Evangelical, you need to know about it).  First, let me quote something I found in Zahnd’s most recent post and then I’ll link it to the SGM scandal.

Zahnd quotes Francis Ambrosio, Associate Professor of Philosophy at Georgetown, regarding the difference between heroes and saints:

“For the hero the meaning of life is honor. For the saint the meaning of life is love. For the hero the goal of living is self-fulfillment, the achievement of personal excellence, and the recognition and admiration that making a signal contribution to one’s society through one’s achievements carries with it. For the saint, life does not so much have a goal, as a purpose, for which each human being is responsible, and that purpose is love, and the bonds of concern and care that responsibility for one’s fellow human beings carry with it. These two paradigms, the hero and the saint, and the way of life that descends from each, are really two fundamentally distinct and genuinely different visions of human society as a whole, and even of what it means to be a human being. They are two distinct and different ways of asking the question of the meaning of life.”

My wife and I both have been reading about the sexual abuse lawsuit that has been filed against a number of former and current leaders at SGM. I think Ambrosio’s words might just strike at the heart of the question as to why C.J. Mahaney’s friends have chosen, until recently, to remain silent about Mahaney’s alleged involvement in the conspiracy: is it possible that Evangelicalism as a culture is overly concerned with producing leaders who are “heroes” rather than “saints”? As Zahnd points out…

In the Western world we are deeply conditioned to choose the heroic over the saintly. We love our heroes best of all. Heroes are goal-oriented people of great capabilities who know how to make things happen. We admire their ability to get things done and shape the world according to their will. Saints on the other hand — especially to the American mind — seem quaint and marginal, occupying religious spheres on the periphery of the action.

Together for the Gospel (L to R): Al Mohler, Ligon Duncan, C.J. Mahaney, Mark Dever

Could it be that as Evangelicals, in our desire to reach the masses–to be, well, evangelical–we have unwittingly embraced practices that actually work against the Gospel and work against the central mission of the church, which is love–especially love for the vulnerable?

In ancient Greek literature, heroes pursued glory, fame, and honor, and even with the influence of Christianity on Western culture, in our collective psyche, that image of the hero is still with us: the one who accomplishes great feats of strength and racks up acknowledgements and awards.  We still honor, as Ambrosio says, the hero who seeks “self-fulfillment, the achievement of personal excellence, and the recognition and admiration that making a signal contribution to one’s society through one’s achievements carries with it” (and with good reason: there’s nothing wrong with honoring someone for excelling at, let’s say, a sport, or more significantly, for achieving some discovery that yields life-saving results). But as Zahnd points out, Jesus comes along and carves out another way: the way of the saint, who doesn’t live by our goal-setting and goal-achieving ways, but instead reveals that love is the highest good in life–that responsibility to others, especially to the vulnerable (Matt. 25), is more important than reaching goals or achieving fame.  I like the language Ambrosio uses: the saint is called not to a goal but to a purpose.  The saint’s life is not centered around statistics or numbers–the number of conversions or the number of members on the roll, the number of people you reach via satellite or the internet–but the hero’s life is.  The hero’s life, according to Ambrosio’s two paradigms, is centered on product, accomplishment, and recognition.  The saint’s?  The saint’s life is focused on the opposite–the quiet, little way of acts of compassion, self-giving, and self-forgetfulness.  Why?  Because the saint is focused on the one, not the many.  The saint’s “accomplishments,” in fact, may seem rather useless and ineffectual in the end, according to his critics (see the late Christopher Hitchens’ criticism of Mother Teresa, if you’re not familiar with it).

I wonder if this is what’s really at the heart of C.J. Mahaney’s friends’ muted response to the SGM lawsuit. Is this the reason Mark Dever, Al Mohler, and Ligon Duncan–with whom Mahaney started Together for the Gospel–initially broke their silence about the sexual abuse lawsuit against SGM and Mahaney with a defensive open letter to the public–one that remained un-nuanced in its defense of Mahaney (the revised version is not much different)?

Defensive and lacking nuance: two unfortunate qualities that Evangelicals have possessed in their history when faced with criticism.  Could it be that this defensive posture has been the the go-to mode for Evangelicals because, despite their calling to be self-emptying servants in the City of Man, they have been actually more concerned with position and accomplishment in the eyes of “secular” society–that their desires have been more shaped by “secular” images of the good life–than they are willing to admit?

Ultimately, I know this defensiveness has nothing to do with being Evangelical.  We all know similar sexual abuse scandals and cover-ups have occurred in the Catholic Church and at non-religious institutions like Penn State.  Both of those institutions have exhibited their own defensiveness and committed the sin of silence out of the desire to maintain position or reputation.  Though it should be different with religious institutions, it’s in our nature–regardless of whether you’re a mega-church pastor or Catholic priest (or a Division 1 college football coach, for that matter)–to cling to power, position, and prestige.  And since Evangelicals have had skin in the culture wars for some time, it’s understandable if they feel they must remain vigilant–must remain in combat mode–against the “enemy.”

But Evangelicals are called to “downward mobility” (as described by Henri Nouwen in my previous post), and I think Evangelicals can learn to see the beauty of this other way, the way of the saint–indeed, the way of Jesus–if they can catch a vision of the paradoxical beauty of victory in defeat.  I think they can catch this vision and learn to value those things considered foolish by society–such as exposing darkness even when that darkness is in their own midst–even if exposing that darkness will provide the “enemy” with more arms in their arsenal to attack them in the ongoing culture war.  I think they can learn to see that this embracing of defeat is actually the path of victory (we do follow a “failed” Messiah, after all, whose kingdom was not of this world).

Despite being in combat mode for so long, I think Evangelicals can learn the way of the saint–can learn do something as “useless” and “foolish” as St. Francis once did when, as it’s told, when he preached to the birds.  What did such preaching produce for Francis?  What could Francis show for his preaching to these unproductive members of creation?  Nothing.  But it was an act of beauty, an act of praise (which is, by nature, a “useless” act, as in it serves no utilitarian purpose).  Can Evangelicals do something just as “wasteful” and “useless”–just as non-product oriented–as Francis once did by preaching to the birds?  Under the current circumstances, could they do something, which in the end, may appear self-defeating (talk about unproductive!)–may appear foolish if viewed from the vantage point of the culture warrior–something like siding with the vulnerable, siding with those who for so long have had no voice–even if it makes them “look bad”?  Can they “lose” in the eyes of their “enemies” and let their own glory dim so that the glory of Jesus’ humble way may shine more brightly?  Can they shed the desire for accomplishments and goals for the calling to a purpose, a calling to love?  I think so if they embrace the downward path of Jesus, of the saint, and forsake the hero’s desire for power and position.

Just this week, my denomination (and Ligon Duncan’s), the Presbyterian Church in America, pared down a resolution on child sexual abuse to exclude a part, among other things, that would require churches in the PCA to notify law enforcement about allegations of sexual abuse in their congregations (you can read the original draft here and the revised here to see the difference between the two).  The good news that came out of the revision process was that the PCA, instead of adopting the revised (and watered down, according to some) draft of the resolution, has decided take the next year to investigate the matter more thoroughly and work with survivors and experts so that they can come up with a more informed resolution.

If the PCA’s example is any indication that Evangelicals are willing to take a stand against the darkness–even when that darkness may exist within their own borders–then they’re on the right path toward being a witness to the power of the downward way–indeed, the power of the saint.

Brian Zahnd: Countering the Politicizing Proclivities of Fundamentalism with the Beauty of the Cruciform Life

Brian Zahnd

In the search for certitude and a penchant for Bible-Answer-Man explanation, the intrinsically artistic nature of the Christian mystery is turned into gift shop simulacra. Fundamentalism is to Christianity what paint-by-numbers is to art. 

So Brian Zahnd, pastor of Word of Life Church in St. Joseph, Missouri, states in a recent post on his lively and insightful blog. Zahnd, who is an interesting mix of mystic, pastor, scholar, and Bob Dylan, maintains an insightful blog laced with insights from the church universal.  It’s common to find him quoting anyone from Dostoevsky to St. Athanasius to Stanley Hauweras.  (I first discovered him through a friend who sent me this link)

If you give his blog posts a cursory glance, you’ll find that a main theme in his writing is the need to recognize mystery and not to rely too easily on “cheap certitude,” as he calls it in more than one post.

His most recent offering is no exception. In this post, he astutely notes something that I have long recognized: that Fundamentalism is just as enslaved to modern scientific explanations of the Bible (and the Christian’s experience of grace) as any modern skeptic (which is why, by the way, he prefers The X Files to, say, Sherlock Holmes. For The X Files, the answer is “out there”–there’s a mystery to explore–but for Sherlock Holmes, created as he was in the 19th century with its industrialized imagination, mysteries are only problems to be solved).  In this recent post, he writes:

In discovering a richer Christianity I have been able to identify an ache that had always been in my soul — it was the ache for mystery. Mystery is at the heart of reality. Ask any quantum physicist! Newtonian physics sought to explain everything, but post Einstein physics has learned to bow in chastened reverence before the altar of mystery. And Christians should have at least as much reverence for mystery as quantum physicists! Christianity is a sacred mystery. The Apostle Paul loves to speak of the mysterion — he uses that rich word twenty-one times in his letters. Christianity is a confession, not an explanation. We will attempt to explain what we legitimately can, but we will always confess more than we can explain. I fully confess God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, even though I cannot fully explain the Trinity. I fully confess the resurrection of Jesus Christ, even though I cannot fully explain what it means that the Son of God has inaugurated a world beyond the realm of death. Room for mystery is necessary for orthodox theology. Mystery is good for theology. And mystery is good for the soul.

In addition to his understanding of the importance of mystery in the Christian life, I appreciate Zahnd because he recognizes that Christianity is meant to be a prophetic witness in society: it is a political, though not politicizing, faith.  The Kingdom of God challenges partisans on the Left and the Right.  In an interview that The Gospel Coalition’s Trevin Wax conducted with Zahnd, the pastor from “St. Joe” (who, by the way, was once a Word of Faith preacher.  Read Wax’s interview to find out more) replied to the question, “What are the dangers of a politicized faith? And does moving away from that lead us into quietism?” with the following:

Christianity is an intensely political faith and as such can never be compatible with quietism. The church should be a prophetic witness within the body politic—the church is to embody the politics of Jesus. But when the church settles for cheap partisanship, it forfeits its prophetic voice. Once the religious right became the de facto religious wing of the Republican Party, it ceased to be prophetic. To the Left, it was a partisan enemy, and to the Right, it was a partisan tool—but it was prophetic to neither.

Unfortunately, in our polarized partisan culture, if I pull away from a carte blanche endorsement of the Right, it is perceived as an endorsement of the Left—which is not the case at all! For example, as I allow my politics to be informed by Christ, I try to be consistently pro life—so I’m opposed to abortion and the death penalty. As you can see, that doesn’t make for a nice alignment with either the Left or the Right. It’s not political engagement that I’m opposed to but partisan allegiance. Ultimately, political parties are interested in power, but the church is called to transcend the politics of power and embody the politics of love set forth in the Sermon on the Mount.

Christianity is interested in public affairs because it is interested in the common good, but “partisan allegiance,” and ultimately the desire for power, short circuits this involvement and prevents the church from effectively engaging society. Christianity’s witness to the public, in order to be prophetic, must embrace an alternate approach of social engagement that is shaped by something other than the binary imagination of our politicized world.

Photo courtesy of the Fenland Hermitage

Ultimately, our engagement in the public sphere is shaped, according to Zahnd, by the beauty of the cross. Later on in the interview with Trevin Wax, Zahnd says,

In defending truth, the church has created Christian apologetics, and in defending the good, the church has created Christian ethics. But by and large, we have ignored the virtue of beauty, relegating it to the demoted status of mere adornment. Yet the recovery of beauty as a way of interpreting and expressing the Christian faith may be just what we need at this time.

Along with Christian apologetics and ethics, we need some Christian aesthetics. In a culture that is suspicious of our truth claims and less than impressed with our claim to a superior ethic, beauty may be a fresh way to communicate our message. Beauty has a way of sneaking past defenses.

But for us to adopt a presence of beauty, we need a form that we can look to as a guide. Whether it’s a painting or a poem, a sculpture or a song, it’s the form that gives a thing its inherent beauty.

So what is the form of Christian beauty? I think it has to be the cruciform—Christ upon the cross, arms outstretched in offered embrace, forgiving the sins of the world. What I’m suggesting is that the body of Christ should be in the world as the beauty of the cruciform. What we say, what we do, what we demonstrate should be in some way an expression of cruciform beauty.

We should ask ourselves, does this stance, this position, this project, this action, this attitude look like Jesus upon the cross? If not, maybe we should rethink it. This would be a helpful step in getting rid of some of the ugly ways we react to what we perceive as wrong with the world.

Zahnd’s thoughts about beauty here remind me of two things.  The first is in regards to beauty and the second, the cross, cruciformity, and weakness.

The first is Gregory Wolfe’s response to the politicization of Christianity (it’s no mistake, by the way, that both Zahnd and Wolfe have both written a book with the title Beauty Will Save the World).  According to Wolfe, societal transformation will not take place primarily through the go-to modes common in our day and age–politics and rhetoric–but instead will only come about because “of the imaginative visions of the artist and the mystic.” But this deference to the dreams of the artist and the saint is not a surrender, not a withdrawal into quietism, as Wolfe points out.  Instead, this retreat “involves the conviction that politics and rhetoric are not autonomous forces, but are shaped by the pre-political roots of culture: myth, metaphor, and spiritual experience as recorded by the artist and the saint.” Without articulating it quite this way, I think Zahnd promotes this vision of cultural engagement.  What is needed from the church is the more indirect approach of the visionary poet or the suffering saint.  This indirect approach has a way of working on the heart and imagination of the individual that the more straightforward approach of politics–and even apologetics–cannot. As Zahnd says in the quotation above: “In a culture that is suspicious of our truth claims and less than impressed with our claim to a superior ethic, beauty may be a fresh way to communicate our message. Beauty has a way of sneaking past defenses” (italics mine).

The beauty of the cross, of the cruciform, provides an alternative in our world of the culture wars.  In response to the bald desire for power that often undergirds a politicized faith, Christians should prophetically bear witness to the power of weakness, the power of emptying ourselves of our rights and privileges in order to serve and give.  Henri Nouwen called this “downward mobility,” the way of powerlessness:

It seems nearly impossible for us to believe that any good can come from powerlessness. In this country of pioneers and self-made people, in which ambition is praised from the first moment we enter school until we enter the competitive world of free enterprise, we cannot imagine that any good can come from giving up power or not even desiring it. The all-pervasive conviction in our society is that power is a good and that those possessing it can only desire more of it….

Surrounded by so much power, it is very difficult to avoid surrendering to the temptation to seek power like everyone else. But the mystery of our ministry is that we are called to serve not with our power but with our powerlessness. It is through powerlessness that we can enter into solidarity with our fellow human beings, form a community with the weak, and thus reveal the healing, guiding, and sustaining mercy of God….As followers of Christ, we are sent into the world naked, vulnerable, and weak, and thus we can reach our fellow human beings in their pain and agony and reveal to them the power of God’s love and empower them with the power of God’s Spirit.

Paradoxically, as Nouwen points out, it’s through surrendering our power that we will gain a hearing with others, with “them.” Why? Because such a surrendering allows us to sympathize with others, which of course, opens the lines of communication.  It opens the ears so we–so they–can hear. We sympathize because He first sympathized with us.

Elsewhere, Nouwen writes:

This is the way of downward mobility, the descending way of Jesus. It is the way toward the poor, the suffering, the marginal, the prisoners, the refugees, the lonely, the hungry, the dying, the tortured, the homeless–toward all who ask for compassion. What do they have to offer? Not success, popularity, or power, but the joy and peace of the children of God.” (from Here and Now pp. 138-139)

I think it’s this joy and peace Zahnd is calling the church to–a joy and peace that can only be found, however, by surrendering to the mysterious beauty of the cruciform–a joy and peace that counters the concern, worry, and power-grabbing of a politicized faith–a faith that, lacking a substantial vision of the kingdom of God that can capture the collective imagination and move the collective heart of the public, overly relies on answers and morality–rather than holistic witness–to counter the decadence and decay of our society.  If the Gospel truly has an “intrinsically artistic nature,” as Zahnd says–by which he means that it is ultimately a mystery–then we need more witnesses who are willing to enter that mystery and live the mystery.  Doing so, may not produce immediate results, but slowly, over time, the beauty of bearing witness will have its way with those who have ears to hear.  It will sneak past their defenses and give them a picture of what could be and, indeed, what one day, shall be.

Can We Have a Real Conversation About Unethical Adoption? Taking a Look at Together for Adoption’s Rhetoric

(Photo courtesy of Institute of Development Studies)

I’ve debated about whether I’ve needed to write this post, and I’ve decided that I do.

Earlier last week, Dan Cruver had a guest blogger, Micah Jelinek, write a post on his Together for Adoption blog in response to my post “‘Cosmetic Solutions’? Some Thoughts About Dan Cruver’s Series on Unethical Adoption.”  In this post, Jelinek comes to Cruver’s defense, claiming that I misunderstand Cruver’s theology of adoption, while also expanding that theology to show how it fits within a broader theology of justice.

Let me just say, first of all, that I think Cruver, Jelinek, and I end up in the same place: all three of us stand for ethical adoptions, social justice, and believe that when all is said and done, Christ will make all things new.  I agree with much of what Jelinek wrote, but in order to prevent us from talking past each other, I want to highlight a few subtle, but crucial, differences.

In “Orphan Care is Not Enough: Part 3” I mentioned that I was making my critique of Cruver from a macro level.  I purposely painted with a broad brush when describing Evangelicalism’s relationship with social justice in order to shine a light on the assumptions of Evangelicalism.  I did not intend to argue facts and details (e.g. isolated cases where Evangelicals have pursued social action) but instead I wanted to try to expose underlying beliefs that have made it difficult in the past for Evangelicals to embrace, without hesitation or equivocation, social justice.

Misunderstanding this aim of mine led Jelinek to claim that I was criticizing Cruver because he had “forgotten to address broader social justice issues as a result of an underdeveloped theology of justice.”  I believe I made clear, though, that the language I was critiquing in Cruver’s post was symptomatic of the “old dichotomy” between Gospel proclamation and seeking social justice that has long been inherent in Evangelical theology–that, whether Cruver realizes it or not, the suspicion toward social justice was latent in his language.   I wasn’t saying that Cruver should have been writing about “broader social justice issues” or that, somehow, he had forgotten to do so.  Rather, I was suggesting that Cruver narrowly focuses on adoption because it’s an acceptable form of social involvement among Evangelicals.  I realize he may intend otherwise, but Cruver’s language suggests the uneasiness Evangelicals have had with social action.  In fact, shortly after I posted my critique of his post, Cruver got in touch with me via email and it gave me a chance to explain my point to him.  Here is part of what I wrote:

I wrote what I wrote because I perceived a fundamental inconsistency in what you were writing and what I hoped my post would encourage you to clarify your meaning.  I am sure you are opposed to the Manichean split between social justice and the preaching of the Good News, but while you may hold to this theoretically, I still stand by my assertion in my post that your language betrays that belief.  My post wasn’t a critique of you or your beliefs as much as it was a critique of the assumption that seems to be latent in your words.  I’m sure if you and I could meet and talk, we would find a lot to agree about…But as a writing teacher, I know that language matters, and so when I said I detected in your language the split between pursuing social justice on the one hand and preaching the Gospel on the other, I meant that as a critique of the way you expressed yourself. So, whereas you may know for a fact that you don’t see a huge chasm between social justice and the preaching of the Gospel, I don’t think your language expresses that very clearly.  So, take that for what it’s worth.   

I would also like to add, in response to Jelinek, that I did not seek to “account for the large numbers of Evangelicals who have been concerned with social responsibility since the mid ‘6o’s” because I was not focusing on the exceptions, but rather the rule.  Ask any historian of American Evangelicalism, and he will tell you that Evangelicalism has never fully embraced social justice, and when it has, it’s been with an uneasy and awkward side hug. Sure, there are groups within Evangelicalism that have been, and still are, advocating for social justice while proclaiming the gospel, but these groups are exactly that–groups within a much larger movement.  Again, they are the exception, not the rule.

To be fair to Jelinek, I am well aware of recent movements within Evangelicalism and books that have been published more recently that highlight Evangelicalism’s growing embrace of social justice.  I mentioned before the End It movement, borne out of the student-focused Passion Conferences, in “Orphan Care is Not Enough: Part 1.”   And as far as books go, I am aware of Tim Keller’s A Generous Justice, When Helping Hurts by Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert, and The Hole in Our Gospel by Richard Stearns to name a few.  These, and many more, are all wonderful signs that Evangelicals are seeing the need to be active in the world, not just to save souls so they can make it to heaven, but to bring light in the the dark corners of the world.

With all that said, when you boil it all down, I think that my ultimate problem with Cruver’s point of view, and now Jelinek’s, is a rhetorical one as much as a theological one (the theological problem I discussed here).

Though I believe Jelinek makes a fairly clear case for how “capital A” adoption is central to all of salvation history and guides us in our pursuit of justice, I’m still confused about one thing in particular.  When Jelinek writes, “Adoption is bigger than adoption,” a la Cruver, he fails to connect this in any meaningful way with what he writes after that statement.  While I understand what he’s getting at with this idea (I think), it would help the discussion regarding adoption standards if this concept was more thoroughly brought into conversation with some of the critiques of this idea (more on this in a minute).

In my mind, the adoption metaphor, as Cruver and Jelinek use it, is overburdened and in danger of collapse.  While I understand this metaphor’s role in expressing the profound reality of God’s redemption of his people, I also believe metaphors have limits.  (A question I still would like answered is “Does Cruver, and now Jelinek, view adoption as a literal cosmic event? Or, is it a metaphor?  And if it is, can it still be authoritative for Cruver and Jelinek as ‘merely’ a metaphor?”)

To close, what I would like to do now is transition from my response to Jelinek and focus on Cruver once more–in particular, on his response to David Smolin’s critique of the Evangelical adoption movement. “Adoption,” as Cruver uses it, is an ultimate term, or “uncontested term.”  An uncontested term represents the “values, premises, and conclusions assumed already ‘fixed by universal enlightened consensus’ for an era or a culture.”  To me, the key words from this definition are “assumed” and “culture.”   I believe Cruver has helped create a culture that, in my mind, has become so insular that it can rarely, if ever, truly hear any dissenting opinions.  This is why, for example, I don’t think Cruver has ever actually answered Smolin’s critique (click on the link above and see for yourself).  Cruver is speaking a language that only those who assume the values, premises, and conclusions of T4A can hear.  It’s as though if one does not use the code Cruver speaks (employing terms like “redemptive-historical,” for example), then one cannot be heard. Smolin doesn’t use that code and thus, he isn’t heard by Cruver (if you read Cruver’s response to Smolin, you’ll see what I’m talking about here).  As far as I can tell, the best Cruver does in his response to Smolin is simply to dismiss Smolin’s critique.  He never really interacts with Smolin’s socio-historical exegesis, but instead is surprised (genuinely, I think) when Smolin does not hold to the same “metanarrative” he does–doesn’t use the same code he does.  Consequently, he spends the rest of his critique earnestly educating his audience and Dr. Smolin about redemptive-historical theology and how it provides a theological justification for adoption.  Again, the problem with this approach is it causes Cruver to disengage from the matter at hand and therefore prevents him from really interacting with Smolin’s textual critiques, thereby effectively shutting down the conversation.

When I studied the Bible in college, I was taught that Scripture cannot mean for us what it never meant to its original audience.  This fact is what leads students and scholars of the Bible to spend so much time exploring the socio-political (and yes, rhetorical) layers of the text.  Cruver dispenses with this principle with his overemphasis on a redemptive-historical understanding of adoption.  He misses the socio-historical trees for the redemptive-historical forest.

For me, what this all boils down to is this:  Does the theology of adoption that Dan Cruver and T4A put forth allow us to live with “the constant recognition of the claims of human community” upon us?  To put it another way, what is the trajectory of such a theology?  I think, in the end, Cruver and Jelinek agree with me that the Evangelical community has to have a more multi-faceted approach to working with orphans and vulnerable children (Cruver even has a post on the T4A blog entitled “Adoption Doesn’t Mean Adoption,” in which he explains how T4A is about more than child placement).  But as I wrote to Cruver in the email cited earlier, language matters.  The way we talk about adoption and the care of vulnerable children shapes our imagination and how we see the matter at hand.  Allowing some of their terms and ideas to be challenged would help Cruver and T4A foster a true conversation about best practices and the care of vulnerable children and their families.

“Cosmetic Solutions”? Some Thoughts about Dan Cruver’s Series on Unethical Adoption

I agree with Dan Cruver that when all is said and done, God will put “the world and the universe to rights,” as he says in part two of his blog series on unethical adoption at the Together for Adoption blog.  I, too, believe that there is a “cosmic” solution to the orphan crisis that, on this side of things, I can only imagine but not see. And I believe that we are living out a grand narrative which God is authoring and consequently, we have only a partial knowledge of God’s grand design for the world and how he is going to renew and recreate it someday.  I agree that we should let that larger narrative of God’s redemptive drama influence how we view the world and the darkness therein.

But when I read the following in Part 3 of Cruver’s series on unethical adoption, I had to do a double take:

“If all we really focus on is fixing the broken systems that perpetuate unethical adoptions, we’ll never arrive at permanent solutions. The world we live in is systemically and profoundly broken. We who began our existence in this world by being born into it can’t fix it. No way in ‘hell’ will we ever be able to fix it. The brokenness of our world is so broken that no one who comes to the world from within the world can fix it. Impossible. Our world’s long history is irrefutable evidence of that very fact. As long as we are the ones who are in charge of coming up with solutions, we’re in trouble; or should I say, ‘Orphan and vulnerable children are in trouble’?”

As I read Cruver’s words in this passage, two words kept popping into my head: eschatological fatalism.  Cruver’s language here suggests that because man is so sinful and because the brokenness of the world can only be “fixed” by God’s supernatural power, then we might as well just accept the status quo as we wait for Jesus to come back and fix everything.  This is God’s “cosmic solution” to the brokenness we see all around us–including unethical adoption and child trafficking.

But is Cruver not aware that in Scripture, while we are called to “wait upon the Lord,” we also called to “kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight” (thank you, Bruce Cockburn, for that apt language).  Has he read the OT prophets? Or Jesus haunting words about what our judgment will be based on in the end (Did we feed the hungry, clothes the naked, visit the imprisoned?).  Is he not aware that a true biblical understanding of the church views her members as God’s agents of new creation in the world, and that, while the rescue of the world may not rest upon their shoulders, God chooses to use their efforts to spread the influence of his Kingdom throughout the world?  Throughout his three posts on unethical adoption, Cruver is guilty of missing the trees because he’s been made privy to a view of the forest.  His bird’s-eye-view, “redemptive-historical” understanding of the Bible has caused him to gloss over some of these finer points and nuances of Scripture.

One last thought.

In my last post, I tried to highlight the fact that Evangelicals, who, historically, have not possessed a theology of justice to allow them really to deal with corruption and child trafficking (due to their Fundamentalist heritage), are, today, struggling to face these serious matters head on:

For generations now, if I may oversimplify matters for a moment, liberals have been concerned with social justice and conservatives (Evangelicals/fundamentalists) with getting souls saved.  But here’s the problem: what happens when conservatives want to move in the direction of social justice?  And what happens when they don’t have the apparatus (a theology of justice) in place to help them do so?  

In my previous post, I answered that question by saying that lacking this apparatus has led Evangelicals involved in the orphan care movement to focus narrowly on orphans at the expense of the larger grid within which caring for orphans exists: social justice.

In my mind, Cruver’s recent post only confirms this interpretation (unfortunately).  Even in the quotation above, I detect in Cruver’s language the old fundamentalist suspicion about seeking social justice–that it’s somehow separate from the “real” Gospel, which is all about how people get reborn and get into heaven.  Therefore, seeking to eradicate child trafficking smacks too much of the old liberal “social gospel” of the early to mid 20th century, he seems to be suggesting in this fatalistic passage.  Whether Cruver means to or not, to me, he’s implying that focusing on social issues like corruption and child trafficking is diametrically opposed to saving souls, and that unless we worry about saving souls first, then we may as well forget about striving for justice for orphans.  Does he mean to say this?  I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and answer, “Probably not,” but it’s difficult not to end up with such an interpretation when he writes the way he does in the passage above.  The old dichotomy between doing good in the world and saving souls is latent in his language.

The problem with this (admittedly) alleged assumption in Cruver’s theology is that Scripture doesn’t warrant a Gospel that seeks only to save souls while allowing this material world–bodies included–to remain unredeemed.  We’re not just souls after all but bodies as well–bodies that were affirmed in the Incarnation and the Resurrection.  Therefore, our lives here on this earth matter–and so do those of the poor and the injustices they face.  Surely the Gospel that we are to promulgate is not only a Gospel of words but also of good deeds–cups of cool water for the thirsty, bandages for the wounded, justice for those who are vulnerable and threatened by abused power (cf. Matt. 25.31-46 and Titus 3.1-8, especially v. 8)

The ultimate problem with Cruver’s theological assumptions here is one that C.S. Lewis emphasized in Mere Christianity when we wrote,

“[God] uses material things like bread and wine to put new life into us. We may think that rather crude and unspiritual. God does not: He invented eating. He likes matter. He invented it.”

While Lewis is writing in defense of the Eucharist here, the principle behind what he writes speaks to the age old problem of spirit vs. matter, soul vs. body–the problem the Fundamentalist faces by emphasizing the spirit, the soul, and the divine over matter, the body, and the human.  Lewis’ point is that God has always used the material world to reveal himself.  Whether it was a burning bush, a donkey, the tabernacle, the sacrificial system, or ultimately, Jesus himself, God has made use of the seemingly mundane and the “crude” to show us not just more of himself, but also more of what we are meant to be as humans.

From the suspicions about social engagement I detect in his language, Cruver seems to be missing this fundamental incarnational element in his theology, and consequently, he is dangerously close to implying that because souls are all that really matter, focusing on justice for orphans and their families–on their lives in the here and now–in the end, does not matter.  I don’t think he means to imply this, but based on what I’ve read, it’s difficult not to take what he writes to this logical end.

Finally, I think the overall issue with what Cruver is writing in this series of posts, which is not unrelated to my first point above, is that he is reading into Scripture something that simply is not there. When he writes that

God’s cosmic scope of Adoption, though, will ultimately solve the global orphan crisis because it’s how our Triune God is putting the world and universe to rights (enjoying my use of this British idiom, “putting to rights”? I sure enjoy using it!). When that Day finally breaks into our broken world—when God’s work of Adoption is consummated—everything will be unimaginably better than we can even begin to imagine now.

What does it mean that “God is putting the world and universe to rights” through “Adoption”?  This is never made clear or explained in Cruver’s posts and from what I can see, is never made clear in Scripture–that is, that the language of adoption is used in Scripture to describe God’s overall plan to rescue the world is either not clear or not there at all. Even from a biblical theological perspective, I don’t think one can say this. In this regard, I would point anyone interested to David Smolin’s “Of Orphans and Adoption, Parents and the Poor, Exploitation and Rescue,” where he makes the case that “the concept of ‘adoption’ is not necessary to the communication of the gospel, as almost all of the New Testament, including Jesus, the authors of the Gospels and Acts, Peter, James, and John all communicate the gospel quite effectively without referring to adoption” (p. 308).  Smolin also shows that when Paul uses the metaphor for adoption in his New Testament letters, he is using the concept of adoption common to ancient Rome, which was actually the adoption of an adult male by Roman emperors in order to ensure they had the heir of their choosing.  Smolin makes a compelling case that Paul uses this metaphor in order to “communicate to gentile, Roman Christians the immeasurably high honor and unfathomably great inheritance they possess as co-heirs with Jesus, the son of God” (p. 309).  Reading our contemporary image of adoption (i.e. impoverished orphan child being taken in by a family of means) back into the text distorts Paul’s meaning, he argues (Smolin has many more insights into a biblical understanding of adoption, and I highly encourage you to read his essay).

Taking the biblical text in this more exegetical way, I think, prepares us for the hard work of working as faithful witnesses in a dark world.  We must be careful not to read into Scripture something it never intended to say, and I think, in this case, doing so, will allow us to see combatting child trafficking and corruption as no mere “cosmetic solution,” as Cruver calls it.  In fact, in the great drama of redemption, seeking to combat such darkness is done with the knowledge that such darkness has already been dispelled with Christ’s victory over death, a victory that we bear witness to through our good works, which are “profitable for everyone” (Titus 3.8).  We are to be people who are concerned with public matters–fighting for justice, combatting human trafficking, promoting human rights–knowing that faithfully acting in the public sphere, in light of Christ’s victory over death and darkness, will mean something in the end, when God’s “cosmic” purposes for the world are revealed.

Orphan Care is Not Enough: Part 1


As I listened to the lectionary readings in church today, I was struck by one in particular from the Old Testament.  It came from Leviticus 19.15 where it says, “You shall do no injustice in court.  You shall not be partial to the poor or defer to the great, but in righteousness you shall judge your neighbor.”  What struck me about this passage is the call to “righteousness,” which is here characterized as not being overly piteous toward the poor—to the degree that you check your reason at the door—nor overly preferential toward those with power, or “the great.”  Isn’t this kind of wisdom what we need in our time—a time that is so divided along party lines that the best we can muster in our public discourse—whether it’s over political issues, theological, etc.—is to lob polemical rants at the other side from the safety of our cyber trenches? I sat there and mused about such things as the lay reader finished the passage.

But then, this verse also led my mind in another direction—one that I had a bit of experience with since my wife and I worked in this field when we lived in Ethiopia: international adoption.  It wasn’t the content of the verse that got me thinking so much as the principle behind it—that is, the maintaining of a “righteous” objectivity in matters where one’s heart may find itself divided (more on the word righteous in Part 2).

I first became aware that the news coming from the international adoption world was a mixed bag when in 2010, ABC, the Australian Brodcasting Corporation, began producing news stories and viewpoints critical of international adoption—especially in Ethiopia.  My wife and I had just moved to Addis Ababa with our daughter, Ruthie (adopted from Ethiopia in 2008), and were skeptical of such stories as we began to receive links to them via email.  Both of us, at the time, I think, were aware of the complexity of international adoption—the way it affects both children and birth families—but I think the awareness remained exactly that—an awareness.  It wasn’t until we had lived in Addis for another year or so that that awareness—an awareness of the complexities of not only adoption but of also working with the poor—became more concrete.  It wasn’t any one person or situation that did it.  It was, rather, the slow accumulation of one experience after the next of life in a severely impoverished country that did.

More recently, there has been more bad press about international adoption—and in particular, about Christians adopting internationally.  Many who will read this piece of mine will now be familiar with Kathryn Joyce’s article from Mother Jones entitled Orphan Fever: The Evangelical Movement’s Adoption Obsession.   In it, Joyce primarily writes about the Allisons, a family who lives in a rural “hamlet” outside Nashville where they homeschool their kids and live on a “compound” with Serene Allison’s parents, Colin and Nancy Campbell (Colin is a pastor and Nancy is a “Christian leader” among homeschooling mothers and even has her own magazine). Sam, Serene’s husband, went to Liberia in 2005, intending to bring back three orphans and instead came back with four, after he and an adoption worker rescued an infant from the “bush.”  Things started out fine for the newly adopted kids but then quickly—after a month, one of them says—went south as Sam and Serene Allison made few provisions for their adopted children from a world away—forcing them to homeschool when they expected to go to public schools, using the controversial parenting methods of Growing Kids God’s Way, and in essence living a rural life not too much different from the children’s previous lives in Liberia.

In 2005, Nancy Campbell’s magazine, Above Rubies, began advocating for international adoption, and shortly thereafter, many of her readers were on the road toward adopting a child from Liberia—or in some cases, multiple children.  But, because many of these families were ill-equipped (like the Allisons, Joyce’s article suggests) to parent children from such difficult backgrounds as the children from previously war-torn Liberia, they experienced problems—problems when these adopted children didn’t respond to the same discipline these parents gave their biological children, problems because some of these children were “liars,” and so on.

Having just read Joyce’s article today and consequently being unaware of the response to it, my wife told me that many in the Evangelical adoption community view Joyce’s article as unfair because she is focusing her story on a fringe element of the Evangelical orphan care movement, not families within its mainstream—many of whom have been prepared to parent children from other cultures and difficult places.  These mainstream parents don’t live in the sticks without electricity (see the article for what I’m referring to here), don’t homeschool but rather seek out the best kind of education for their adopted children, and they discipline their adopted children with an awareness that adopted kids may not, and many cases, will not, respond to traditional methods of correction.

While I believe these responses to Joyce’s article are valid and in fact, I myself feel the same way, I want to focus on an crucial issue Joyce’s piece suggests.  In fact, the title of her article does more than suggest it.  When Joyce says, with her title, that Evangelical’s have “orphan fever,” I am inclined to agree.  Again, I see the problems with her article.  If she had just used a different tone with her piece and focused on people who are living more mainstream lives, she would have a stronger case.  Sure, I think so, too.  Moreover, I am an adoptive father and see good reasons for international adoption, but I also think Joyce is tapping into something that Evangelicals may be missing because the call to care for orphans has risen to such a, well, feverish pitch.

Why is this?  Why, for example, is the call to care orphans so loud and persistent when, in fact, Scripture is just as insistent that God’s people should be just as concerned for widows, immigrants, the poor?

I suspect that it has something to do with what I mentioned earlier: the need for Evangelicals to cultivate a “righteous” objectivity in matters that pull our hearts in two different directions.

But ultimately, I think the problem is that the average Evangelical has a narrow view of justice and what’s needed is a thorough-going theology of justice that Evangelicals can embrace—and I might add, are beginning to embrace (at least the younger generation is as is evidenced by the End It campaign).  It’s not just the orphan that should be our concern.  A theology of justice is needed that is able to speak to the whole problem of poverty—the systemic issues that have given rise to the orphan crisis in the first place—corrupt leaders and political mismanagement, drought and food security issues, human rights, etc.

The problem is that such a theology of justice requires a lot of thought and the average person is not prepared to put that much thought into seeking a solution to such a problem.  I think I can safely say this because I recognize this lack of willingness to think through these complex issues in myself.  I just want the problem of poverty and its effects to be easier and besides, who has the time or leisure to think through such a complex issue as the poverty affecting most third world countries?  I don’t—at least I don’t feel like I do most days.

But I do have a desire to think through these issues more carefully, and perhaps that is all I need.  If the desire to acquire wisdom, as it says in Proverbs, is the beginning of wisdom, then perhaps we can say the beginning of a thorough-going theology of justice—one that includes the orphan, the widow, the immigrant (or alien as it’s often translated in the Bible), and the poor (including birth families)—is the desire to acquire it.

More about this kind of theology of justice in my next post.

Orphan Care is Not Enough: Part 2

In my last post, I made the claim that the average Evangelical’s understanding of justice is too narrow—that it lacks the breadth it needs to include not only the orphan, but also the widow, the poor, the immigrant.   I want to continue down this path in this post, but I do want to make something clear up front: a blog post is not the place to work out that thorough-going theology of justice I mentioned in the previous post; there are others who have done that and do it better than I ever could.  However, in a third post, I would like to point folks in the right direction toward that kind of theology.  In this post, though, I would like to encourage Evangelicals to develop the “righteous” objectivity I mentioned in part one when it comes to thinking about orphan care and adoption.  I want to explore what may be preventing Evangelicals from developing it.

But first, I would like to say that as an adoptive father and one who has lived in Ethiopia, I am pro-adoption (when adoption is the only option left for a child) and I am pro-orphan care. But I also firmly believe that adoption is not God’s original plan—an original plan that did not include the loss and suffering of my daughters’ first families.  God created everything good, and man, in an attempt to play god, ruined it with his lack of trust and desire for control.  But God, in his self-giving love, saw fit to rescue him and redeem the world.  This is the basic narrative that informs my understanding of adoption.  Man’s sin brought famine, disease, betrayal, and ultimately, death into the world; it’s because of these things that man came up with adoption in the first place.  But these things were not in God’s original plan—human flourishing was, however—flourishing that included plenteous crops, health, trusting relationships, intact families, and life. And yet, I know that there are many in the Evangelical world who would take issue with how I have stated the fundamental narrative of the Bible.  To them, adoption was always God’s original plan—from before the foundations of the world.  To them, because God adopts us and gives us a new name, we, likewise, should do the same for our adopted children—even going as far as having them abandon their first names and cultures—indeed, their identities.  They believe because this is what God does for us, we should do the same for our adopted children.  It’s the classic argument from the greater to the lesser.

But there are problems with this kind of thinking that I don’t have the expertise to illuminate, though I would commend to you Dr. David Smolin’s insightful article on the Evangelical adoption movement and what adoption meant in the ancient Greco-Roman world (he says it in more detail than I have time for in his article).  However, what I would like to claim in this post is that the basic understanding I articulated above, regarding God’s original plan, helps Christians have a more nuanced view of adoption—one that seeks wisdom as it balances the old with the new, first parents and culture with adoptive parents and culture. Such a theology also helps us not to shy away from thinking about issues like corruption, child trafficking, coercion, and so on. Understanding that adoption was not a part of God’s original plan allows us to develop the wisdom of the serpent while allowing us to maintain our dove-like innocence.  We, too, like Christ’s disciples, have been sent out as sheep among the wolves, and it’s to our great harm—and even more importantly, to the great harm of others—if we go out among the ravenous beasts (i.e. corruption, child trafficking, etc.) innocent of these troubling problems and how they affect vulnerable children and families in the countries from which we adopt.

Not only is innocence not enough to help us navigate these issues, but zeal, or single-minded enthusiasm, for orphans is not enough either.  Why? Because zeal without knowledge leads to a pragmatic approach to the “orphan crisis”—one that is inevitably focused on action and making things “work” without taking the time to reflect on the consequences of our actions.  In fact, John Stott, at the beginning of his little book Your Mind Matters, speaks to this when he quotes Dr. John McKay, former president of Princeton Seminary: “Commitment without reflection is fanaticism in action.”  Fanaticism is a charged word, I know, and I don’t cite this quotation lightly, but there is a reason why someone like Kathryn Joyce, writing from the outside of Evangelicalism, would describe the adoption movement as a “fever” in her Mother Jones piece, and it doesn’t help when Evangelicals, uncritical of themselves, react to her use of the word and her critique.  Even if she has an agenda, Christians should be humble enough to accept such criticism if it’s true.  In making this point, I’m not worried about what the orphan movement looks like to the outside world (“Those crazy-for-God fanatic Evangelicals!”) as much as I am concerned with actually being part of a fanatical movement—that is, one whose excessive enthusiasm for a cause (i.e. orphans) drowns out all other concerns (i.e. corruption, justice for first families, the poverty and disease that leads to orphans in the first place, etc.).  As Christians, we are not called to be activists with a single focus.  We are called to be fully human, ready to engage the world not just with our money, time, strategies, and planning but also with our minds—our reflective minds that guide us to assess the world before us with biblical wisdom—the good, the bad, and the ugly.  If we will eschew the fanaticism of activism, we will be prepared to grow in the “righteous” objectivity I’ve been mentioning in this post and the last—objectivity that will prevent us from, dare I say, being partial toward the orphan at the expense the orphan’s biological family (see Lev. 19.15 again for the principle behind what I’m saying here). We will be able to suspend judgment and not dive into something so quickly that has hidden dangers—dangers obscured by the thousands of miles between our children’s first countries and us.

What this all means is that the average Evangelical must grow up when it comes to his reflection upon the world and the evil that is out there—especially as it relates to orphan care and adoption.  The world is a very dark place—not to mention a place laden with complexities—and to launch out into it with only zeal will not do. Evangelicals concerned for the plight of the orphan must cultivate biblical wisdom that has room for the orphan, yes, but also the widow—the widow who the orphan belongs to in the first place—the poor, the alien, or immigrant.

The way I see it, if Evangelicals are going to develop a “righteous” objectivity about orphan care and adoption, they have to learn to think biblically. Consider the verb in that infinitive phrase—“to think.”  The modifier is “biblically.”  I’m choosing my words carefully here: thinking is something we do as humans made in God’s image and then, as Christians, do so with an understanding of the world that is shaped by the biblical narrative.  Despite some popular understandings of how to understand the Bible, it is not a manual and we shouldn’t follow it like one. We don’t follow it like we would the manual for our car when we’re trying to repair it.  Likewise, when we see a problem in the world, we can’t assume that we can go to Scripture and then have a clear application from Scripture for that problem. Moreover, we shouldn’t expect Scripture to speak as plainly as we often assume it does.  The Gospel is plain and the simplest of people can understand it but Scripture is nuanced, delivered to us via human authors, living in a time and culture distinct from our own. We have to honor those human and ancient cultural elements of Scripture if we want to be faithful to it and then also be faithful to the world that we are called to serve.

If we want to grow in biblical wisdom that allows us to assess the world and its problems with a righteous objectivity, then we must honor Scripture in this way.  Only then will we be prepared to go out into the world and face its complexities.

In my third, and final post, I want to point Evangelicals supportive of adoption and orphan care toward a broader understanding of justice—one that will allow them to pursue hope and healing for orphans while not leaving those orphans’ first families behind.