Shape and Substance

meditations on faith and church

Tag: christianity

November 29, 2024

Shape and Substance No. 4

Nudifidian 

PRONUNCIATION:

(noo-dee-FID-ee-uhn) 

MEANING:

noun: One who believes that faith alone is sufficient for salvation. 

ETYMOLOGY:

From Latin nudus (bare) + fides (faith). Earliest documented use: 1616. 

NOTES:

The term often emerges in theological discussions about “sola fide” (faith alone), a cornerstone of certain Protestant doctrines during the Reformation. Nudifidians believe that salvation is attained solely through faith, without the need for good works, though they don’t necessarily reject good works, but rather see them as a result of faith, not a prerequisite for salvation. 

USAGE:

“Yet a Christian must work — for no nudifidian, as well as no nullifidian, shall be admitted into heaven.”
Thomas Adams; The Three Divine Sisters, Faith, Hope, and Charity; Robert Carter; 1847. 

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My friend Jan Williams of Santa Fe, NM, knowing my fondness for obscure words and the way they roll off the tongue, sent me this word. Nudifidian. Say it two or three times, for no other reason that the sheer and slightly tingly joy it gives your mouth to say a word that has its home in the numinous but its roots in the naughty. Nudifidian.

Jan said I should write a column about it, and I always do what Jan says.

Among the hallmarks of the Protestant Reformation was the notion that we are not saved by the good works we amass but by the faith and trust we place in Jesus Christ. Sola fidei—“faith alone”—was one of three “watchwords” (so our Presbyterian Book of Order, F-2.0104) by which it was possible to tell a trustworthy and reliable Protestant from one of those questionable Catholics,[1] the other two being Sola gratia—“grace alone”—and Sola scriptura—“Scripture alone.” By the Wordsmith.org definintion above, we Protestants are all nudifidians. There, you see? Our Roman Catholic brethren have been right all along: there is something a bit scurrilous and sleazy about us (and here we thought we were just sexy).

Nudifidian, obviously, has its roots in the Latin nudus, the source of our English “nude,” and fides, “faith.” Nudifidians are naked believers. “Nude” is a societally proper word for “naked,” which is in turn the morally upright if still slightly risqué rendering of the great Southern word, “nekkid.” If you don’t know the difference between the latter two terms, let me refer you to the late Southern comedian and columnist Lewis Grizzard, who said that “Naked is when you don’t have any clothes on; nekkid is when you don’t have any clothes on and you’re up to something.” To be nude is to be without the costumery that defends our modesty and (usually) disguises our intentions.

How, then, did a word arising (image intended?) from nakedness slink its way into proper academic speech? I wasn’t around to hear the original exchanges, but I imagine that someone described those morally opprobrious Protestants as standing naked before the throne of God without the benefit of the clothing of good works to make a positive impression on the divine. We are nude before the Seat of Judgment, they must have said, and judged us who hold such notions as sola fidei to be as scandalous as a skinny-dipper.

As a lifelong Protestant, I confess an affinity for nudifidianism. I like the notion that I don’t have to earn my standing before the divine—can’t earn it, in fact; that it is as gift I can neither be worthy of nor revoke by insufficient merit. I like the fact that my status with the eternal is not conditioned on my behavior, which is inconsistent at best and more often problematic. And while it’s been many a year since such notions were truly scandalous, I like the fact that we Protestants were once looked upon as theologically risqué, like a strippers in a sanctuary. I find myself attracted to a “naked faith.” I want to write some more about this “naked faith,” but to do so now would launch us into a conversation larger than this format will tolerate. Suffice it for now to say that as my theological journey lengthens and steepens, I’m finding it necessary to shed more and more of the heavy clothing of my former convictions. I’m getting closer to naked all the time.

[1] My beloved Roman Catholic friends and family members who read this blog must know, because they know me well enough not to entertain thoughts to the contrary, that I speak here with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

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November 15, 2024

Shape and Substance No. 2: Beyond Moralizing

Shape and Substance

Paul Hooker

15 November 2024

No. 2

I want to follow up my comments on moralizing preaching with some additional thoughts. Several of you have been kind enough to respond with some critique, for which I am immensely grateful. Your comments have been thoughtful and wise. I might summarize those reactions as concern that, in this era of diminished moral responsibility at both the top levels of government and across society in general, we cannot afford to lose the moral imperative of preaching. Additionally, a few of you have expressed concern that you would prefer moral directives over flights of preacherly fancy.

It seems important to me to distinguish between moralizing and moral vision. The former amounts to someone telling me what to think or do, most often accompanied by all manner of homiletical hand wringing over the state of the world. The latter, it seems to me, sets forth a compelling image of beauty, hope, and peace, and invites us to enter that vision and absorb its values and attributes.

Above is the famous Russian icon, painted by Anton Rublev in the early 15th century. There is a tradition in Russian iconography of depicting the visit of the three angels to Abraham beside the oaks of Mamre (Genesis 18) to convey to him the news that he would have a son to inherit the blessing. In both Eastern and Western Christianity, the visitation of the angels is taken to be an image of the Trinity. So much so, in fact, that in many renditions the background of the dwelling and the oaks still visible in Rublev’s icon disappear completely in favor of the three figures, each of whom bears specific attributes associated with one or another person of the Trinity.

A Google search of “Rublev icon” will open for you the world of commentary about the icon and its theological significance, far more than I have time or space to explore here. I only want to illumine one aspect of the painting. You will note that the three figures (the Father in the center, the Son at the Father’s right, and the Spirit to the Father’s left) are seated at something like a table, on which rests a vessel of some sort. Perhaps the vessel holds the water, bread, cakes, or meat Abraham has called to be prepared (18:2-8). Or, as some have suggested, perhaps is a chalice that holds Eucharistic wine, and the three are gathered at the Eucharistic table. Part of the beauty of art is its flexibility and openness to wonder.

I rather like the Eucharistic reading of the icon, and I note one thing further. As on looks at the painting of the seated Three, there appears in the center foreground an open space, as though there is a place at the table presently unoccupied and waiting for the arrival of the final guest. As one approached the painting, one has the sense that this place belongs to the viewer, that the Three invite each and all of us to enter the fellowship of Beauty in and through the Sacrament.

I want to suggest that, like the Eucharist, the best preaching is an invitation into the divine fellowship. I want to suggest that, beyond all the shoulds and oughts we are tempted to adjure, the most effective means of transforming life and lives is the offer of a place more lovely, more compelling, more fulfilling than any moralizing can finally be. I want to suggest that preaching point in the direction of Beauty and remind us that there is a place waiting for us at the table.

I am not advocating sacramental escapism, dousing the very real fires of a passion for justice with sacramental wine. I am not suggesting that the Beautiful Vision does not carry with it some expectation of change on the part of those who see it. Precisely the opposite. As Reformed theology has taught for generations, to be the invitee into the divine relationship is to become what one was created to be, not merely continue being what one already is. However, we change not in hopes of getting an invitation to the feast, but because we already have that invitation in hand and want to dress appropriately. Beauty makes us want to become.

The coming years will have more than their share of moral horrors on which to reflect (although, one hopes there may be some good in them, too). We who wear the homiletical mantle will be tempted weekly to decry the ugliness we see displayed on the evening news. Some of that, I would agree, is necessary. But can preaching be more than decrying the ugly? Can there be also and finally a vision of Beauty that draws us beyond the grit, grime, and grimace of the daily grind? Can there be an opportunity not to escape but a summons to fulfillment? Can there be a sanctified imagination that asks what is possible, not merely what is practical or pragmatic or politic?

I hope so. What about you?

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November 12, 2024

Moralizing

Shape and Substance
Paul Hooker
12 November 2024
No. 1

I have a bone to pick with preachers. And since I was one for forty-plus years, I’ll include myself among the pick-ees.

I’ve had all I can take of homiletical moralizing.

Moralizing, in case you were wondering, is defined by St. Merriam of Webster as

1: to explain or interpret morally
2 a: to give a moral quality or direction to
b: to improve the morals of

You know what I mean. The preacher reads some text, perhaps gospel or epistle, and then proceeds—either implicitly or explicitly—to deduce a set of behaviors obligatory for Christians, each preceded by some form or hortatory. We must do something; we must not think something. We must be like (insert name of biblical hero); we must not be like (insert name of biblical goat).

This is not new; preachers have been doing this since the Hebrew prophets and the apostle Paul, and probably before. And I can hear myself as a younger man, without much knowledge or appreciation of the art of preaching, sawing away at a congregation with the dull blade of adjuration. We must …we must not. I feel a strong need to apologize to the good people of the three congregations where I regularly preached for what I put them through. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

Sunday’s sermon in the congregation where I worship was a good example of what I mean. The morning’s preachment, we were told, was the last in this year’s stewardship season (for those unaccustomed to churchly rhythms, “stewardship season” is akin to a public television fund drive, only without the enticements of themed coffee mugs and canvas tote bags). During such a sermon, the preacher said, he “ought to be talking about pledges and giving”…but he was eschewing all that to focus on the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer and his definition of ministry as “humility.” We were then treated to a 20-minute lecture on being humble, accompanied by all manner of admonitions about what “we must do” or “must not think.” At the end, he recited a recycled tale from the writings of Fred Craddock, a story about how the author’s father came to appreciate the importance of the church on his deathbed after a lifetime of denying it. What Craddock’s father’s almost-too-late-in-life learning had to do with humility—or stewardship, or the gospel text, for that matter—was not elucidated, except for the concluding moral that “it’s important to admit you were wrong.” That was it; sermon over. In the name of Christ, amen.

It seems to me that moralizing is cheap and lazy preaching. It ducks out on any commitment to creativity, thereby making no demand on the preacher to think originally or write/speak innovatively. All I have to do is list the things I want to see happen, and then put “I/We must” in front of each, then find some clever or emotionally manipulative story in one of the many books or websites I have at my disposal, and there, sermon done. Moralizing also allows listeners off the hook by not demanding of them that they try on the garments of the text for size, to see whether and how the text might make a demand of them that is distinct from that demanded of the person sitting next to them in the pew. No need to think, no need to assess whether the truth claimed by the preacher comports with the truth as I understand it. One size fits all; here’s your dose of behavior modification for the morning.

There are all manner of explanations as to why churches are struggling (and mostly failing) to thrive. Just add my observation to that canon of critique: preachers are too eager to tell their beleaguered congregations what they must do or think or be. Whether it’s offering an extended homily on how to be humble or demanding conformity with the latest in progressive pronouncements on pronominal linguistics, have we not reached a point of saturation with moralizing? Have we not filled the cups of congregational attention to overflowing with adjurations and admonishments? All those bowed heads in the pews: are they really reflecting on their need for repentance, or have they taken the moment to check out on the preachments and check in on their smart phones for the scores of last night’s college football games?

In the last few years of my active ministry, I was trying to find another way to preach, one that didn’t involve me telling people what I thought they needed to know or do or think. I was never really successful at this; there is something about preaching that poses an almost irresistible invitation to the preacher to improve the behavior of those gathered before the preachment. But I saw a vision of it in something my former colleague, the late Blair Monie, once called “atmospheric” preaching—trying to create with the colors of language the atmosphere and environment within which hearers (and preachers?) hear the text anew and afresh and for themselves, rather than being instructed by the preacher on its meaning and application. I think I got close a time or two—maybe the baccalaureate sermon I preached (over Zoom) for the 2020 graduating class of Austin Seminary, or this ordination sermon I preached in 2021—but the effort it took was enormous. I don’t know if it’s something a weekly preacher can do weekly. All I know is that occasionally being lost in the mythic landscape of the text without having someone else’s homiletical roadmap to rescue me feels like adventure and delight, and I’d like to do it more often.

Maybe you would, too?

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