Is Yahweh the God Who Never Was?

 

         Yahweh, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob never was. 

 

         That is, Yahweh wasn’t what I was brought up to believe or what I was taught in seminary. In this post I will explain why he never was and I will ask what that might mean for modern faith.

 

         What I learned as a child was that God appeared to Moses at a burning bush, and said his name was “Yahweh.” He had showed up earlier in the Bible, of course. But the people of Israel, stuck in slavery, had either forgotten God’s name, or forgotten God altogether. Moses was a new beginning.

William Blake: "The Ancient of Days." 1794

         What I learned in seminary was that there were several strands of oral and/or written tradition in the Old Testament (the JEDP theory) masterfully woven together by an editor or two. Be that as it may, the stories found in the Old Testament—perhaps with the exception of Genesis 1-11—pretty much happened as recorded. This was so because the Bible was thought to be God’s inspired, infallible word.

 

         What I’ve learned since then is that there are many clues within scripture itself, and some others from archeological studies, that suggest the Old Testament contains very little of what we would call history, and nothing like a straightforward revelation of who Yahweh (or El, one of God’s other many names) is.

 

         Contemporary scholars believe that for most of Israel’s history, right up to Judah’s exile in 597 BC, Yahweh was one of several God’s worshipped in the temple, albeit he was also conceived of as Israel’s personal, national God. He had a consort, too, the goddess Asherah, whose statue was also found in the temples of Jerusalem and Samaria.

 

         These same scholars argue about when and how Israel and Judah settled on Yahweh as their national God, an equal to the national Gods of the surrounding nations. Some (perhaps most) think that Yahweh was a tribal God for people in the South—Midianites, Edomites, or Kennites. Others think that Yahweh is the Israelite name given to Israel’s version of Baal, the storm God. 

 

         The view that the Israelites worshipped many Gods for most of their history, but they finally adopted one of them as their favorite “national” God is called monolatry. When both Israel and Judah went into exile, their temples in Samaria and Jerusalem destroyed, religious leaders looked for a way to explain things. The did so by anchoring Israel’s religious beliefs not in a place—the temple—but in a book, the law. The story of how the law came to be is the near final edit of all the Bible’s material--now usually called the Deuteronomist source. This edit shaped much of the Hebrew Bible to agree with the new view, although discerning readers can find many traces of the older, monolatrous views in scripture as well.

 

         The move of Israel’s religious and ethnic self-understanding to the law allowed the Hebrew Bible’s final editors to argue that it was Israel’s purported refusal to keep the law that resulted in the one and only God Yahweh to use foreigners such as the Babylonians and Assyrians to punish Israel. God could do so because he actually was the one and only and almighty God.

 

         In this short space I cannot make a detailed defense of these sort of claims. However, at the end of this post, I’ve listed a half dozen great resources that explain this scholarship in depth.

 

         I think, though, that Evangelicals who hold to the inspiration of scripture, and its basic factual correctness, have to stop dealing with modern scholarship by hiding behind this doctrine as a way of avoiding or rejecting such scholarship. It is shocking how few evangelical journals even review this sort of contemporary scholarship. I think that if Evangelicals want to argue for something like divine inspiration, they will have to show that such inspiration is still plausible given what we now know about both scriptures and Israel’s history.

 

         The deeper question that all this raises for me, however, is this. Given that we can recreate the story of how Judaism evolved from following many gods to a monolatrous to a monotheistic religion over the course of six or seven hundred years, can we really know anything about who Yahweh really is, if he or she is at all?

 

         Perhaps not. Perhaps all we can say is what an interesting story this is—like the Atrahasis Epic, or the Gilgamesh Epic, or the Beowulf epic are interesting.

 

         Or, we might say that what really matters here is how the values and hopes and dreams of Israel shaped the story which in turn still shapes Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. These values continue to play a critical role in our present time.

 

         Or, we might say that whatever the history of how Yahweh came to be the (related but quite different) Gods of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, what really matters is that Yahweh somehow shaped that evolution, so that where the Bible ends up is the picture an actual Yahweh wants us to invest in. Some versions of this view are labeled “progressive revelation.” 

 

         Personally, on most days, I am a theist. But the truth is, we—or Buddhists or Muslims or Animists—we all get about as much about God as we get about the algorithms that shape our web searches. Whoever or whatever God is, he or she or it is hard to find. 

 

         After all, as Isaiah puts it, “Truly, you are a God who hides himself” (45:15).

 

Bibliography: Robert Bellah, “Religion in Human Evolution.” James Kugel, “The Great Shift: Encountering God in Biblical Times.” Jurgen van Oorschot and Markus Witte (Eds), “The Origins of Yahwism.” Thomas Römer, “The Invention of God;” Konrad Schmid and Jens Schröter, “The Making of the Bible: From the First Fragments to Sacred Scripture.” Franceseca Stavrakopoulou, “God: An Anatomy.” Karel Vander Toorn, “Scribal Culture.” 

 

            Just over two years ago, just before Covid, I found myself weeping in a theatre. The movie, The Rise of Skywalker, was part of the Star Wars franchise. 

            Why the tears? The movie, was not, after all, high art. It’s a cartoon drawn with live actors and full of especially silly effects.

Luke, Leia, and Han!

            A bit of background. The Rise of Skywalker’s plot is much the same as that of every Star Wars movie. The Resistance—good guys and gals—is once again down on its luck and hiding. The evil Emperor Palpatine is back with a new fleet of planet destroyers. The last and most beautiful Jedi knight, Rey, is the chosen one to save the universe. After several light-saber duels and gun battles; after jumping from one moving space ship to another; after sailing a tiny boat across a raging sea; after dying and rising from the dead; Rey Palpatine—for it turns out that she is the evil emperor’s granddaughter—Rey Palpatine defeats the evil emperor and decides to change her name to Rey Skywalker (the good). The universe is saved. The end.

            Silly? Yes. Cartoonish? Absolutely. 

            And yet. watching a The Rise of Skywalker matinee at Yorkdale theatre in Toronto, I wept. Not just a bit around the edges, but big tears rolled down my face. Why?

            Nostalgia. I saw the first Star Wars movie in the summer of 1977. I was 20. I went with three other guys, days before we all hopped in a car and drove across Canada and back on ten dollars a day. I was so carefree back then. I wasn’t taking my studies seriously. I had an uncomplicated relationship with church and faith that fed me. I wasn’t thinking about the future or my dreams. I had a loving family. Life was good.

            But now, as I watched the latest Star Wars movie and remembered the first, I realized that of the four of us who went on that road trip, two have already died untimely deaths. So right off, sitting in that theatre, I’m thinking both about how good life can be, but also how brief and full of loss it can be. You know. Several family members have died. My church and faith life have become hugely problematic. And all of it choked me up.

            We’ve come a way since the Psalmist said we might live to be seventy—or eighty if our strength endured. Many of us will actually live to 90 or even 100. Still, I won’t live forever, and my life, like yours, is now full of cares and concerns, as well as joys and satisfaction, that I could not have imaged when I was 20. Watching Rise of Skywalker triggered memories of my first Star Wars movie and homesickness for carefree times. Those were the days, my friends. 

            Once, a few years ago, before my tears, I wrote a sermon critical of nostalgia. I said that nostalgia has a sweet aroma, but we too often weaponize it. For example, we may unrealistically remember the past as nothing but a time of surpassing blessing and think less of the present by way of comparison. This sort of nostalgia that inspires slogans like, “Make America Great Again.” But if you think about it, “great” like when? When Ronald Reagan was president? But his campaign slogan was also “Make America Great Again.” So great like when? Like the pre-civil-rights era? Great like the Great Depression? Great like during the slavery or reconstruction eras? Great like when Sir John A. McDonald and other Fathers of Confederation conspired to cultural – and physical -- genocide by setting up Residential Schools and using hunger as a political tool?

           Nostalgia can also be weaponized by using true memories to beat on the present. This happens in churches, a lot. Why don’t we have two hundred kids in Sunday School anymore? Why is church empty compared to thirty years ago? Why is there so much strife and anger in our denomination compared to when I was a kid? 

            But nostalgia doesn’t have to be weaponized. As with other human emotions, nostalgia can also build us up. Nostalgia can inform our hopes and dreams for the future, even if we’re in trouble now. 

           

            Constantine Sedikides recounts how concentration camp sustained themselves by telling stories about past meals and gatherings, before the Nazis came. “This is what we did,” one survivor said. “We used our memories to temporarily alter our perception of the state we were in. It was not a solution, but the temporary change in perception allowed you to persevere just a bit longer. And that could be crucial.” Nostalgia insists on emotionally monetizing the past, even when it wasn’t perfect.

            Nostalgia, then—tears at a Star Wars movie—doesn’t have to be a sign of weakness. On that day nostalgia was mostly a harbinger for tomorrow’s possibilities. There will be more road trips, more friends, more loving family, and more carefree days—along with disappointments, too.

            But I will face these disappointments with gratitude rather than bitterness. Nostalgia’s sweetness—in spite of difficult memories mixed in—is an invitation to new adventures rather than a setting down one’s roots in the land of loss. 

            It’s very exciting. I could almost cry. Which I did. At the Star Wars movie.

The Invention of Israel's--and Our--Gods

 

            How many gods have graced human history? Probably many tens of thousands—perhaps even millions. From Marduk to Mars, Thor to Thoth, Bastet to Baal, and El to YHWH, the list is endless. Inventing gods is a uniquely, nearly universal, human activity.

 

            But why would I include El and YHWH on this list? After all, most Christians, Jews and Muslims would say that thinking of god as an “invention” is blasphemy. We believe our god, the god of Abraham, is the one and only, the compassionate and almighty, eternal and omniscient, and so on and so forth god of the universe and all that is beyond it, too. Really.

 

            Still, given the sheer multitude of gods humans have adored (read Neil Gaiman’s novel, American Gods for a fun take on this, and on what happens to gods who lose their audiences) isn’t it sheer hubris to think that we finally got it right? Did YHWH actually reveal himself to Adam and Noah and Moses? Did scripture objectively capture these theophanies? Did YHWH also reveal himself, later, via dreams and visions, to the prophets? Did the one god of the universe pour himself and his (always his) truth into scripture, and then into a man named Jesus? 

 

YHWH's Divine Council

           Most people will answer such questions based on what they were taught in Sunday school or hymns they sang in church. For years, I answered such questions based on the narrow but intense education I received in seminary. Scholars who suggested different truths were either ignored or panned. Everyone—whether persons of faith or not—answers questions about who god is based on their presuppositions. Presuppositions, after all, save a lot of time by winnowing and narrowing the evidence one has to consider to answer such questions.

 

            Nevertheless, over time, my presuppositions have been challenged and my theological paradigm has been overturned. I now doubt the Bible is an accurate historical record of anything that happened in the Old Testament. 

 

            Well, just for example, what sort of a god would use two bears to kill 42 young boys (or perhaps they were young men), just because they teased a prophet (2 Kings 2:23-25)? Did that really happen? Would you worship such a god if it did happen? 

 

            Why did god command Moses to kill 3,000 Israelites for worshipping a golden calf (Exodus 32)? It was, on their part, an honest mistake, given Moses’ absence and Aaron’s leadership. Or why did god send an angel of death to kill 70,000 Israelites just because their king counted the fighting men? 

 

            And these examples don’t even get us to a flood which is supposed to have killed off pretty much the whole human race and 99.9 percent (or more) of earth’s animals too. Where is the justice in such acts of god? The compassion? The kindness? And if such passages are to be explained not as history, but rather, as a bit of imaginative flourish by an unknown author or editor or scribe—well, what does that say about the rest of scripture’s dependability as a historical record? How can orthodox scholars defend this sort of god? 

 

            Why, if god is a spirit, does he so often appear as a human to people in the Old Testament, much as Zeus or Thor are often described? How is it that god is sometimes surrounded by a council of other divine beings (for example, Psalm 82, 89, 1 Kings 22)?

 

            Why, if the Israelites are god’s chosen people does he allow the Assyrians and Babylonians to destroy them? No freedom of religion for god’s people? But isn’t such freedom a universal human right? Wouldn’t a real god have known that? And, why should the Israelites stick with such a jealous god, anyway?

 

            Is there a better explanation for the Biblical god than that offered by orthodox evangelical scholars? I think so.

 

            Most contemporary (but not evangelical) scholars of ancient Near-Eastern religion believe that ideas about who or what the god of Abraham is all about have a history, and that history is partly visible in the mixed-bag picture of god in the Old Testament. In short, that history goes something like this—although there are scholarly variations on the details. Once upon a time—well over 3,000 years ago—a tribal people who lived south of present-day Israel (or perhaps closer, actually in Palestine) worshipped a storm god who went by the name of (or a variation of the name of) YHWH. 

 

            Certain tribes of Palestinian people—what would become Judah and Israel—worshipped this god along with others: Asherah, Baal, El, and so on. Everyone in what would become Judah and Israel worshipped and made images of these gods, putting these idols in high places and temples and even homes. Some of the stories they told each other about these many gods, including YWHW, had broad similarities to the mythic stories of neighboring ancient Near-Eastern peoples. At some point, for reasons that are disputed, the identities of YHWH and EL began to merge, although both names for God still appear in what Christians usually call the Old Testament.

 

            And, over time the relative importance of YHWH increased, especially in the North, where most of the Old Testament prophets worked. Though he was still seen as one among many gods, YHWH was also seen as a god who had a special place in his heart for Israel. This god also had a consort, Asherah, whose image, along with Baal’s and perhaps others, graced temples in both Jerusalem and Samaria throughout most of their histories.

 

            After the Assyrian defeat of the Northern kingdom, southern King Josiah undertook a reform of Judahite worship in order to centralize the cult in Jerusalem. He cleared the temple of gods other than YHWH, and perhaps even destroyed images of YHWH at this time. His scribes pulled together the many strands of oral and written myth and legend that existed at that time and began the job of editing it all from a monotheistic point of view. An early version of Deuteronomy, Moses’ farewell speech, was written at this time. 

 

            After Judah was also defeated and exiled, the remaining religious leaders—priests and scribes weeping by Babylon’s rivers—continued to refine the notion of YHWH. He was seen now not only as Israel’s god, but the god of the conquerors too—and by extension, the one and only god of the universe. This one, universal god was said to have used the conquerors to punish Israel for her sins. These religious leaders invented Israelite monotheism more or less as we know it. And the religious leaders of that time bequeathed this new, mono-, almighty god to Israel forever after. And eventually to Christians and Muslims, too.

 

            So, it turns out that the god of Abraham—the god Christians worship—has a history. This history explains Biblical texts that are mythic or contradictory—such texts come from different strands of memory, and so from different times, when people had different ideas and stories. Historically, the god of post-exile Israel was not always the one and only. 

 

            Does this reality undercut the claim that the god of scripture really is the sort of god the monotheistic religions of the world say he (or she) is?

 

            I think so. Seriously so.

 

            It has not been easy for me to come to this conclusion. It removes me from easy theological agreement with the Christian communities I love. It disorients me with respect to the shape of my own faith. It erases the easy back and forth I have enjoyed with many of my Christian friends. It makes me question the worth of my years of leadership in both evangelical and liberal denominations.

 

            So, what’s next for me, faith-wise? I don’t know. I still want to belong to a community of people who search for deeper spiritual and philosophic meaning. I love being part of a community that is focused on meaning and on social justice for neighbours both near and far. But communities that not only allow for, but invite, a wide range of serious religious flavors are rare. I’m searching. Wish me luck or providence, as the case might be, for you! 

 

            And stay tuned as I explore different possibilitities.

 

Post Script

 

            Interested in exploring this history of god more deeply, yourself? Here’s a top-six list of books that have influenced me. Although all of them are specialist books, any dedicated reader can manage them!

 

Thomas Römer, The Invention of God. Cambridge. Harvard University Press, 2015. (A very readable history of the idea of god in ancient Judah and Israel).

 

Konrad Schmid and Jens Schröter. Translated by Peter Lewis. The Making of the Bible: From the First Fragments to Sacred Scripture. Cambridge. Belknap Press of Harvard University, 2021. (Great background read on the history of the Bible, which should be read in conjunction with Van Der Toorn’s book, below).

 

Karel Van Der Toorn. Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible. Cambridge. Harvard University Press, 2007. (Somebody had to edit the Old Testament to combine the many strands of tradition, oral or written, that existed in Israel five- or six-hundred years before the birth of Jesus. This is their story.)

 

Robert Bellah. Religion in Human Evolution. From the Paleolithic to the Axial Age. Cambridge. Belknap Press of Harvard UP. 2011. (The notion of an axial age is disputed, even if there was a remarkable convergence of religious developments around the world from about 800 BCE to 200 BCE. Still, Bellah’s summary of what happened in Israel, written as it is by a scholar who is not a specialist in OT history or language, makes it very accessible.) 

 

James Kugel & Ellen Geiger. The Great Shift: Encountering God in Biblical Times. New York. Houghten, Miflin, Harcourt. 2017. (Kugel is a great scholar who has had a long career. This is likely his last book, and though he is less radical than Römer and others, it is a great introduction to the literary world of the Old Testament.)

 

Francesca Stavrakopoulou. God: An Anatomy. New York. Knopf Publishing Group. 2022. (A tour de force. An intense reminder of how our presuppositions about scripture can lead us to miss some of its—and god’s—most obvious features. In this case, it is the fact that throughout the early history of YHWH, he was conceived of as having a body, not unlike Zeus or Thor. The evidence of this permeates the Old Testament.)

The Social Gospel Nag

My wife and I have been searching for a new church in our new city for just over a year. We’ve settled on one, for now. But the search has been disconcerting. 

There are a hundred-and-one reasons. One is my own, slowly, dissolving faith. I keep hoping for a church that will run with my doubts, rather than try to assuage them, or deflect them, or (God forbid) covert me to some sort of orthodoxy.

Shub Niggurath is a fictional H.P. Lovecraft god.
One that can, apparently, inspire preachers to nag.

The search has also been disconcerting, if I’m totally honest, because many—by far the most—of the churches I’ve visited have been mostly made up of elderly people. They’ve been faithful for long lifetimes. They deserve an opportunity to rest from their labors, to enjoy the next generation take on leadership and choir seats. I remember when—in a different denomination—I preached to churches full of young people, young adults, and young marrieds. It made for better singing, better after-sermon coffee klatches, better bazaars and picnics and volunteers. It’s all gone now—if not in the denomination I used to serve as a minister in—at least it’s very rare in the churches I’ve checked out in my new city.

But among all the reasons (I could go on for a while) why mainline churches (and increasingly, Evangelical churches) are failing, the one that irks me the most is this—they are consumed by a form of works righteousness.
 
Works righteousness is the idea you have to do something to get in good with God. In Evangelical churches, it manifests itself in the preaching of moral codes, which if you keep (more or less, and as defined by your denomination or minister) you get heaven as a reward. The Trumpization of the Evangelical Church in the USA has put the lie to that. 
 
But in the UCC, we have our own unique kind of social gospel works righteousness. It’s the notion that unless we’re busy doing everything in our power to set the powers that be—government, institutions, systems—to right, we’re falling short. 
 
United Church works righteousness is a never-ending list of “to-do’s.” House the homeless. Challenge Israeli apartheid. Fight racism. Pursue peace. Be LGBTQ-friendly. Change the system. Save the planet. Change your habits. Call your MP. Donate. Plant a forest. Acknowledge our wrongs vis a vis First Nations. And on and on.
 
Ironically, there is not a single one of these “to-do’s” that I disagree with. I embrace every one, without qualification. I preached or have written about each one. I have been guilty of what I’m going to rail against in this post.
 
The problem is one of balance. You see, the only church that can effectively make a dent on these issues is a healthy church. Such churches are multi-generational. They play and are fun. They meet in and out of the sanctuary. They are full of laughter and full of informed care for those in the fellowship who need it. They are full of people who are focused on each other as the closest neighbours at hand, a practical training ground for all our other neighbours. 
 
But preachers who wave their finger, endlessly, at people, telling them what to do, how to do it, why to do it all—they are weighing church goers down and making staying church, or coming for the second or third time, very hard. 

The preacher nag inspires the same sort of negative reactions that mask mandates did. It isn't that the mask mandate was a dumb idea. It is that people don't want to be told, over and over. It infuriates most of us--or exhausts us before we begin.
 
The preacher nag, perhaps unintentionally, serves as a constant accusation that we have not measured up. It is imitative, in an odd way, of how newspapers—on TV or the web or even real paper—work. You put the murders first, the car crashes next, and finish with scandal. Op Ed pages are full of negative reads on each and every political decision and economic trend. Good news is either absent or buried. 
 
Our churches are similarly focused on all that’s wrong. We put the latest injustice first, then the worst looming ecological disaster next, and finish with what we better do or else last. Good news?
 
Look. Once again, I’m personally engaged in righting injustices, responding to disasters, and being politically involved. But as much as the church as a public institution and its members as citizens need to address many urgent matters, we should do so because the church has inspired us to gratitude and thanksgiving first. Too much nagging muddies our motivation and saps our energy.
 
Let’s preach dreams rooted in hope. I want to hear sermons that celebrate the good—and even the privilege—that so many of us experience; that celebrate starry nights, great music and art, real caring, an ancient tradition, forgiveness, sex, shared meals, and friendship. 
 
Let’s preach out of our gratitude rather than our civic and cultural problems and fears and injustices. Where is the light yoke promised by Jesus? Where is the community in love with each other—not just for Sunday coffee time—but communities that prioritize the knowing and sharing and mutual support that the New Testament so often speaks of? That’s the foundation of our love for all neighbours and strangers.
 
I long for the consolations of the gospel. I long for a spirituality that isn’t so much marching orders as it a magical spiritual mystery tour. I long to be inspired instead of commanded.
 
Look, the seventy- and eighty-year-olds who fill many United Church pews are true believers in the social gospel. Most of them don’t need to be convinced anymore. They’ve hung around when the UCC was among the first churches in Canada to truly welcome women to leadership. We lost a third or more of our membership making sure that LGBTQ people were not only welcomed, but celebrated, but they stuck with us. Our older members also hung around when we called for an end to apartheid and as we made steps to work out reconciliation with First Nations. The people who still come to our churches have fed the hungry, housed the homeless, donated to the United Church and its favorite causes, and on and on. They don’t need to be nagged to do more.
 
And younger people are looking for hope, for inspiration, for meaning amid so many crises—they don’t want to be nagged to do more and more and more either. They’re busy with families and two careers. They’re struggling to make mortgage or rent payments and to hang on to their temporary jobs in a gig economy. Even if we, here in Canada, are living through the materially best of times, most peaceful of times, many young people don’t experience it that way. What do we have to say to them besides “volunteer. Do more. Support. Vote. Go. Go. Go.”?
 

I’d love to see the United Church commit to some sort of reverse-sabbath pattern when it comes to pulpit nagging. That would be a commitment to limit our nagging to one Sunday in seven. A commitment in the rest of our preaching and lives together to focus on the old, old story (and some new ones!) because the way to change anyone’s heart is through the doorway of the imagination.  

 
I’m not lazy. I do my part. But I’m filled with spiritual yearning. I want meaning. Maybe I'm strange that way. I wake up wondering what it is all about. I feel vulnerable in a world more dangerous than we realize and I want to know whether there is hope. I want my church to have a psychic playground out back, where we can laugh and play together, feed each other and party. Where I can be rejuvenated. 
 
I get that other people might want wildly different things from church than what I want. But if we did a reverse Sabbath, we could use those other six Sundays to explore what other people are curious about when it comes to God and humanity and this planet. Bring it on.
 
But, oh. I’m so tired of being told what to do.
 
 

A Mighty Fortress Is Our God?

If you go to church, you’ve probably sung Here I Am to Worship, by Tim Hughes:
 
Immortal, invisible, God only wise,
In light inaccessible hid from our eyes,
Most blessed, most glorious, the Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, they great name we praise.
 
I don’t sing this song. Though God has always had an outsize presence in my life, I’m trying to tone it down. An almighty God just doesn’t make much sense to me anymore—though I’m still good with “invisible.” I’ll get back to that, briefly, before the end of this post. But right now, you might well be wondering, “what? Haven’t you read J. B. Phillips’ famous book, Your God Is Too Small?” This was a big bestseller in the fifties and has been continually in print since then. 

Phillips’ book contains insights. He says we shouldn’t think of God as our resident policeman or as a grand old man or as a managing director, among other things. Phillips’ bottom line is that we must avoid caricatures of God. They often reflect our own wants, needs, or psychoses.
 
Ironically, some of these caricatures do make God seem big—though in distorted ways. So, if God really was a cosmic policeman, keeping peace for everyone in the world world, that would be a hugely impressive God. Or, if God was everyone’s (nearly eight billion of us) managing director, serving as everyone's judge and co-pilot, that would be impressive.
 
After rejecting these metaphors, Phillips says the best clue we have to the greatness of God is our longing for beauty, good and truth, longing that he says cannot be explained by science. This is odd because biologists, psychologists, and philosophers all have theories about how such longings evolved and why we experience them. 
 
Phillips also suggest that a key truth that magnifies God is that he reconciles himself (always a "him" for Phillips) to us through the god-man Jesus. And while this section of the book mentions several other doctrines Phillips believes make the case for a really big God, I didn’t find it very compelling. In spite of his frequent use of phrases like, “the weight of the evidence,” or “indisputable fact,” he gives too much credit to, and offers too little support for, his own thinking. All in all, Phillips doesn’t so much establish the bigness of God as give a very short course in evangelical theology’s description of a big God.
 
Even if Phillips misfired here, it doesn’t necessarily follow that God is small. Orthodox systematic theology includes lists of God’s "divine attributes," each of which makes for a huge God. He’s apparently omniscient (knows everything), infinite (that means really big), omnipresent (everywhere—quite something when you consider the James Webb photos), immutable (unchangeable—though since this seems silly on the face of it, many theologians have tried to reframe this as faithfulness).
 
Scripture makes some big claims about God too, claims on which these attributes are partly based. This matters if you think scripture is the inspired and infallible word of God. Ironically, people who believe this usually pass over, lightly, descriptions of God that they don't like. For example, theologians don't enumerate attributes that could be based on other, less impressive sides to God: killing forty-two children with bears because they teased his prophet for being bald (2 Kings 2:23-25), killing the first-born of Egypt (Exodus 12:29-32), or killing seventy thousand Israelites because their king did a census (2 Samuel 24). Well, and there are more, similar, portrayals of God all through scripture. 
 
The attributes of God that theologians do talk about are deeply rooted in Greek, mostly Platonic, ideals. And they put God, ironically, in a box. They make God so big that God must be responsible for every good or ill thing that happens in the world. Tsunamis. Earthquakes. Volcanoes. But also, on the theory if you can stop a bad thing happening, you should—all human actions, both good and bad pass through the hands of this big God. I recently read a post from a FB friend who wrote, “God is so good,” upon the safe arrival of a few guests from far away. Well, if safety after an eight-hour drive is a gift from God, then so too must car accidents and worse. Only double-predestinarian Calvinists, of course, would admit so gladly. 
 
I don’t like this line of thinking at all. I wonder if there are alternative ways of thinking about God. For example, I remember driving through Bali once, with my spouse Irene, to see Agung volcano.
 
The taxi-driver honked his horn incessantly, and it was bugging me. So, I asked him to explain. He said each honk was a way of honoring the Gods of the place he was passing through: the God of the bridge, the God of the great palm, the God of the dangerous corner. Gods, for him, were small and had limited scope. Their power and might was merely local. They were not omniscient, but could hear, so long as you honked loudly enough. 
 
God doesn't have to be big just because that's the sort of God we want. In truth, for most of recorded history, humans have often hewed to smaller-sized gods. Even the mighty Zeus had to share headlines with Hera his spouse, and a host of lesser Gods, many of them his children. For most of his history, the God of Abraham shared top billing with, variously, El, Baal, and Asherah. Judaism only became a mostly monotheistic religion just before, or during, the Babylonian exile. That development was then written back into, and mirrored, in the scribal compilation and editing of Hebrew scriptures. (More about this is coming in a follow-up post).
 
So, humans, including Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, as well as King David and nearly all of his descendants—they all, more often than not, worshipped several wee Gods rather than one really big God.
 
This is not an argument for paganism. The wee Gods of most Old Testament Israelites were also wee in their morals, often vindictive and violent, as the examples above  remind us.
 
But a God with more limited scope would explain all our unanswered prayers. Such a God would not be responsible for Tsunamis because he or she couldn’t cause or prevent them. Such a God would not be choosing to be good to some travelers and not others. Such a God would not be coming to town, making a list, checking it twice, to find out who is naughty or nice.
 
What might such a wee God do? Perhaps haunt us with dreams of beauty, goodness, and truth. Such a God might be praying to us to fulfill all his or her dreams. Such a God’s greatest deed might simply be to come to us with a still, small voice. 

God Isn't In the Driver's Seat (or, If Evolution Is True, What Do We Do With God?)

 

            I sort of believe in the theory of evolution like I sort of believe in the theory of gravity. Think about it. That means evolution is not up for discussion. But while the theory of gravity bores me, unless I’m falling, the theory of evolution fascinates me.

 

            Here’s why. I went to Toronto District Christian High, in Woodbridge, as a teen. Unlike many Christian schools, at Toronto Christian we were taught about evolution. We were taught, in fact, that evolution was how God probably created the universe. This is called theistic evolution.

 

            However, there was a single exception. Humans. According to my teachers humans were sinless special creations God made in his image a few thousand years ago. We were not part of the animal kingdom. We did not evolve. 

            This was pretty much the line I was taught at seminary, too. After seminary, I spent a year of graduate study digging deeper, comparing the Bible’s several creation stories to similar older creation stories like the Babylonian Enuma Elish, a creation and flood story told by ancient Israel’s neighbors. I learned that the stories in the Bible seemed to be very intentional, shabbat-night-live satiric commentaries on the more ancient creation stories of Israel’s neighbours. 

 

            Since then, studying human evolution has become a hobby. And one of the reasons I finally left my previous denomination was because I couldn’t, finally, pretend to play along with my denomination’s official view that the Genesis myths were actually real history.

 

            More recently, scientists have unraveled the human genome and the DNA within it. Doing so not only allows us to find relatives several generations removed through sites like 23andme’s DNA kits, but unravelling the human genome has helped us find criminals by the DNA they leave behind, and now even cure some diseases rooted in genetic problems. Within that genome, we’ve also discovered the deep evolutionary roots of humankind that ties us to the rest of the animal kingdom. We humans evolved from other earlier hominids, as have the Great Apes and yes, even monkeys. We are also related to other branches of the homo species, like Neanderthals and Denosivans—both now extinct. 

 

            But why am I telling you all this? Because as I’ve studied cosmic and biological evolution, I’ve begun to ask myself, more and more, “so what role does God play in all this?” If everything evolved, and if science can describe that evolutionary process without needing a God, then what use is God?

 

            And this is what I came up with. It is tentative. It is the best I can do. And I am very, very open to better ideas.

 

            Imagine a car. The car loosely represents the cosmos. And imagine God. God can relate to the car in several ways. For example, perhaps God is the driver.

 

            That is, God gets behind the wheel. God has the key, turns the ignition, and gets the car going. God as driver is in complete control. God chooses the destination. He’s the driver, after all. God steers the car around every corner. In fact, God even built the car he drives—he’s a cosmic Henry Ford. This is how most conservative Christians think of God—he’s completely in charge of the whole cosmos—starting it, directing it, and so on. It’s why, when someone dies or they get a new job, such Christians will say things like, “well, it was God’s will. That’s God’s plan.”

 

            Prayer, then, could be imagined as us asking the driver, God, to steer the car in a certain way, and get us to places we want to go. But God is the driver. God might listen to us, as passengers, but God might not. God is completely in charge of our journeys. Nothing is up to us. In its most extreme of the Calvinist versions of this line of thought, God’s mind is never changed by prayer. God has already decided everything ahead of time. This is called predestination—God decides everything about the destination and our drive there. Humans don’t really have a choice. No free will.

 

            But many Christians (and people of other faiths) disagree. For example, some Christians imagine that God is not much like a driver, but more like a passenger in a self-driving car, a next-generation Tesla, say, that he (usually) invented and built. In this case, God provides the blueprint, gets things going, comes along for the ride, but doesn’t personally steer the car himself. This is called deism.

 

            Deists have their own favourite analogy. Imagine finding a watch in a field. You pick it up. You wind it up. And the watch ticks and tocks. It keeps time. Perfectly. 

 

            If you found such a watch, you would have to presume that it was made by someone. Watches don’t just appear, by accident, as it were. So, if you found a watch, you would have to believe that there was a skilled watchmaker who designed and manufactured it. 

 

            Well, when deists look about the cosmos what they see is something even more wonderfully and fearfully made than that watch. The planets in their circuits, our blood coursing through veins, and all the laws of nature suggested to these ancients that, as with the watch, the cosmos must have a designer and a manufacturer. But once a big bang sets it off, the cosmos runs by itself. God is inventor, creator, but once God is done, God lets the whole mess run itself. Deism. 

 

            I’m more inclined to a deist God than to a driver God who predestines everything. My problem with deism, however, is that modern theories actually can pretty much explain everything—the big bang, the appearance of life, evolution. The physical world doesn’t need an inventor or watchmaker to be properly explained. Which is why Richard Dawkins wrote a book about evolution called, ironically, The Blind Watchmaker. 

 

            Well, as you can see, if you don’t need God to create the cosmos and just come along for the drive, and if you don’t need God as the creator and driver either, there isn’t much room left for God. So, some Christians—liberal ones, for the most part, have begun to think of God not as the driver, not as a quiet passenger who just set things in motion, but as a backseat driver.

 

            You see, while science can explain a lot, some people don’t think science can explain morality, our human notions about what is right and wrong. And so, these Christians turn God into a backseat driver who is always telling us what is right and wrong, what direction to take our lives, which pedestrians and hazards to watch out for. This is a nagging God, a pushy God, a “you better get this right,” God. A liberal works-righteousness God who seems, always, to be saying, “Be better. Do more. Divest. Rally. Protest.” This God speaks to us insistently, mostly through theologians and denominational executives and pressure groups who are sure they know exactly what God wants when it comes to a whole list of contemporary issues. And while I often agree with these people, I don’t like the tone, and I don’t like the imagined God behind this tone, very much.

 

            None of these pictures of God ring true for me. Is there another possibility? I think there is. Perhaps God, in some wild but mysterious way offers guidance when we, alone in the car by ourselves, or together with each other as a community, seek that guidance. That is, instead of nagging us, perhaps God is more like Google Maps or the Waze app. Except those kinds of maps are too directive, too sure. So maybe God is more like the author of an old-fashioned paper map. We can unfold it and turn to it for direction, but we need to read it carefully, parse its options, interpret it, and rely on the corroborating (or not) advice of fellow passengers. Only when we turn to God “The Paper Map,” for direction do we receive it—in part and imperfectly. 

 

            But where might God provide such guidance, in real life? Well, I’d say that scripture is where we often—if not always!—find it; and in the cumulative wisdom we’ve built up about scripture as a community, over thousands of years. Scripture, and our reflection on it, is the divine roadmap we have for arriving (“perhaps,” says John Caputo. “We hope,” I add.) at our desired destination.

 

            I’m not saying that scripture is dictated by God, or that it is authoritative (so we better listen to it, or else!), or even that it is divinely inspired. But overall, scripture—including the scriptures of other religions and the Testament we received from the Jewish people—scriptures do represent thousands of years of deep listening on the part of humans to a mysterious divine wisdom that seems to permeate the cosmos and sometimes our own deepest selves, as well. God whispers, sometimes we hear, some of those who heard tried to write it down.

 

We argue about how to understand scripture, we question some of its odd suggestions that belong to another place and time, but overall, in scripture and in the communities that listen to it we are nudged along. In scripture we may find God gently, kindly, offering direction when we seek it, encouraging us to live full lives that benefit each other and help us find our place in the cosmos.

 

            Scripture in this sense is a lamp that prevents our feet from stumbling when all is otherwise dark (Psalm 119:105). Keep in mind that when scripture is described as a light, it isn’t talking about a modern flashlight or streetlight that reveals all. It is a flickering, uncovered olive-oil lamp with a sputtering wick that threatens to go out at any minute, and gives just enough light so that we don’t trip over what would otherwise be obvious rocks and chasms in the path. 

 

            Scripture is this sort of provisional and delicate divine gift. But gifts, to be true gifts, must be given unconditionally. There is no expectation of a return, no nagging about thank-you cards, no obligation to give something of equal or greater value back. If we were given a gift conditional on how we responded to it, it would be merely a financial transaction, a debt to be repaid, rather than a gift. We’d have to interpret it correctly, or else. But no. As a favorite writer of mine once put it: There is nothing you have to do, there is nothing you have to do, and there is nothing you have to do.

 

            The gift of scripture, written by humans, is an invitation, really, to explore meaning and purpose beyond our everyday matter-of-fact experiences. Science, and theories like evolution, explain a lot—everything, really. And yet, for such a world as this, we also have this one thing more, this ancient gift, this old map, for why and how to live a life—not just for survival, but for the love of all things bright and beautiful.