bearing blog

Misremembering beholding.

Have you ever gotten a meditation wrong?  

We have a number of decisions to make right now; some discernment is called for.  I have a busy nature, am always doing something, and so one of the few times that I have for my mind to wander freely is in the pool while I swim; can't listen to music, can't write, so I think.  I was there, swimming, thinking, and casting about for images to meditate on in an effort to bring some insight to my mental processes, and I settled on the Annunciation, and "I am the handmaid of the Lord."

I spent several laps considering "I am the handmaid of the Lord."  I was thinking about how the first response to the angel's greeting is "How can this be?" and then, after a certain explanation, the self-identification, followed  by the assent.   I found it intriguing, the one piece of information that, to the betrothed virgin, is apparently both necessary and sufficient for the identification, the assent.  It was interesting to think about, and then, as I passed from the English to the Latin (Ecce ancilla domini) I realized -- wait, that isn't quite right -- it's not "I am," but "Behold."  

"Behold the handmaid of the Lord."  I knew that, of course, but I misremembered.  

Anyway, Ecce is translated to "Behold" rather idiomatically -- it isn't precisely a command to look upon something, as far as I can tell, and can also mean "Here is..." or something along those lines.

I had to laugh at myself, because I rather think it would have made a difference to us -- perhaps disastrously -- had it come out as "I AM."

The difference between faith and belief.

"I do believe; help my unbelief!" -- Mark 9:24

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Darwin excerpts a cordial discussion between some theists and some atheists about the meaning of the word "faith."

 It's worth reading on its own, and I am not going to respond to the entire excerpt, but just make my own comment and expand on it here.

Some proposed definitions from the excerpt:

• "Faith is knowing by testimony rather than by experience. I believe that the Earth orbits the Sun, because the scientists tell me so, and I believe them. "
• "[F]aith is what fills in the gaps of the probabilities. If, say there is a 70 % probability something is the case then to conclude more than that 70% probability is faith..."

Darwin chimes in to make two points.  First, what "faith" originally means:  

The old Catholic Encyclopedia in its article on faith describes the Old Testament use of the term to be essentially "trustfulness" or "steadfastness".... This usage still informs the way that we use the term in reference to interpersonal relationships. I have faith that my wife loves me. She has faith that I am faithful to her. Etc. 

Second, 

faith is an act of the will.

Darwin's points are both correct, but he does not go as far as I do.  He classifies "faith" as being an act, and this is correct; but it seems that he identifies it too much with "belief," or with being convinced "enough" of something.  Here is the statement of Darwin's that I disagree with:

This usage still informs the way that we use the term in reference to interpersonal relationships. I have faith that my wife loves me. She has faith that I am faithful to her. Etc. 

Obviously, in this sense one can have faith in any number of things or people, and as it notes, faith in this sense necessarily presupposes belief. I can hardly have faith in my wife's love (as in, trust in its existence and steadfastness) if I don't really believe that I have a wife or don't really believe that she loves me. When Christians talk about "having faith" however, they're pretty specifically talking about "having faith in God" -- that combination of believing in God's existence and of trusting in God to remain steadfast and trustworthy in His love for us.

Darwin is failing -- at least clearly -- to make a distinction between "I am faithful to my wife" and "I have faith in my wife."

The first is concrete.  The second is the metaphor.

The faith that Christians are supposed to have is not the same thing as trust that God's love exists and is steadfast to us.  The faith that we are supposed to have, I am certain, is faithfulness *to* God -- fidelity to the laws and precepts that He sets out for us insofar as we are aware of them.  When we are told to have faith,  this is not at all a command to believe something.  (How can you be commanded to be convinced of a truth?) It is a command to do  something:  to live your life, in your body, in your mind, in accord with the will of a God.

Faith is not trust in God's steadfastness; it is a firm determination to remain steadfast to God.  It is as the original Hebrew meant.

And the point that I want to make, the point where I disagree with Darwin, is that faith understood in this way does not presuppose belief.  

Faith understood the way (I think) Darwin is trying to understand this would presuppose belief, because he is identifying faith with belief.  "I can hardly have faith in my wife's love if I don't really believe that she loves me."  Well, of course, if "faith in my wife's love" == "belief that my wife loves me."  

But my understanding of faith does not presuppose belief.  Darwin could choose to remain faithful to his wife -- by which I mean nothing more nor less than the earthy sort of "faithful," i.e., he could remain sexually faithful to his wife, forsaking all others, and not abandoning her or their children -- even if he lost all confidence in her love for him.  Indeed, he could (and should) choose to remain sexually faithful if Darwin became thoroughly convinced that MrsDarwin did not love him at all.

And what if he did not believe that he even had a wife?  Well, millions of still-single people find themselves in that situation every day, not having promised marriage to anyone, and yet they can still be "faithful" to the future spouse they might or might not have by living a chaste life.  Such is faith:  steadfastness.

One may be "faithful" while having severely impaired belief, even no belief at all. (Which raises the question:  Why would someone who did not believe in God ever strive to live according to God's laws?  I will not answer the question here, and maybe will bat that question back to Darwin, but I will simply note that it is not logically impossible to be faithful in this way without belief; whereas if faith == belief, it does become logically impossible to have faith without belief.)

The idea of "faith" as a purely mental or spiritual assent to a theological statement is, I suspect, a highly Protestant innovation.  Because if you understand "faith" to mean "faithfulness" or "fidelity," then there is no distinction, none at all, between faith and works.  The whole concept of "faith vs. works" presupposes that it is even possible to segregate a thing called "faith" away from the daily acts of living and interacting with other human beings and with our God.  I say, it is not possible.

Here is the second chapter of James:

What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him?ⁱ 15If a brother or sister has nothing to wear and has no food for the day, 16and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, keep warm, and eat well,” but you do not give them the necessities of the body, what good is it?^j 17So also faith of itself, if it does not have works, is dead.

18Indeed someone might say, “You have faith and I have works.” Demonstrate your faith to me without works, and I will demonstrate my faith to you from my works. 19You believe that God is one. You do well. Even the demons believe that and tremble. 20Do you want proof, you ignoramus, that faith without works is useless? 21Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered his son Isaac upon the altar?^k 22You see that faith was active along with his works, and faith was completed by the works. 23Thus the scripture was fulfilled that says, “Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness,” and he was called “the friend of God.”^l 24See how a person is justified by works and not by faith alone. 25And in the same way, was not Rahab the harlot also justified by works when she welcomed the messengers and sent them out by a different route?^m 26For just as a body without a spirit is dead, so also faith without works is dead.

 

The Greek word for "faith" in James 2 (the faith and works discourse) is the same Greek word (pistis) translated as "belief" in the passage from Mark that I quoted above.   Does pistis mean "steadfastness" in any way?  Or does it only mean an intellectual assent?  It goes on to use pisteuis in the next verse to mean "believe" as in "You believe that God is one" and then "pisteuousin" in "Even the demons believe, and shudder."   The "faith" mentioned in James is then the same as the "belief" which even demons can have.  

I don't really think of demons as "steadfast."

Anyway, as I said in my comment to Darwin's post, the image of a faithful spouse is apt.  Faith in, and faithfulness to, a spouse are very precisely designed to be an image of faith in, and faithfulness to, God. They are so bound up in each other as to not be separable; but at the same time, it is possible to "be faithful," to "do faithfulness," even in times of doubt or -- God forbid -- abandonment.  

This is what I would like to get across to anyone who says they wishes they could have faith but that it has never come to them. Anyone can, without committing a single act of intellectual dishonesty. It is simply a matter of becoming a faithful servant, or spouse, or child of God. To act faithfully -- the precise nature of the "acts of faith" depends on our state in life and our circumstances -- is to have faith. The ability to act faithfully, the possession of faith, both come from grace, the only thing by which we are saved.

Fasting in Paradise.

Melanie has dug up a quote that suggests the Genesis "don't eat that fruit" rule amounted to a prescribed fast:

"Fasting restores to those who practice it the father’s house from which Adam was cast out… God himself, the friend of man (Wsd 1,6), first entrusted to fasting the man he had created, as to a loving mother, as to a teacher. He had forbidden him to taste of one tree only (Gn 2,17) and if the man had observed this fast he would have dwelt with angels. But he rejected it and so found anguish and death, the sharpness of thorns and thistles and the sorrow of a miserable life (Gn 3,17f.) Now, if fasting is shown to be of value in Paradise, how much more must it be so here below to win us life eternal!". 

(Link: http://thewinedarksea.com/index.php/weblog/on_fasting/ )

It is a fruitful meditation. I wrote about a similar theme some time ago, only I identified the forbidding of the Edenic fruit as a "dietary law" rather than a fast:

"Which takes me to the Garden of Eden. How many times have you read or heard a non-Christian, non-Jewish person complaining of the arbitrariness of that whole "tree of the knowledge of good and evil" nonsense? Why would God care if they ate this one fruit? There's no good reason for it -- whoever wrote it down even made a point of mentioning that the stuff was good to eat, so what's the big deal? Alternatively, you'll occasionally see a well-meaning believer defending the don't-eat-that rule on some practical ground of healthfulness or learning obedience or some such thing.
I think it's easier to understand the story -- and this works both if you take the story as something that really happened, or if you take it as a useful teaching story passed down by one of the world's most influential cultures -- as the story of the first dietary law. The first "We eat this, not that. Just because."Pointing at the fruit of the tree while uttering "In the day you eat of it you shall surely die" is not, inherently, any nuttier than pointing at your tablemate's cheeseburger while muttering, "That shit'll kill you." It doesn't matter that the modern health nut thinks that science is on his side -- it's still a prediction of religious significance -- because in reality the connection between any given cheeseburger and the untimely death of the cheeseburger-eater is practically zero, unless the eater chokes on it, I suppose. And even if a lifetime diet of cheeseburgers will shorten your life, who's to say that's not a reasonable choice for someone who likes cheeseburgers?But let's go back to dietary laws for a minute. It's significant that the breaking of a dietary law should play such a crucial role in the stories I'm speaking of. And it's not something that's alien to human nature either. There are many layers to the story, but I can't help but think that it's in part a lesson that there are limits to our natural inclinations. The tree's fruit was "good to eat," and there is no reason to assume the senses of the man and woman couldn't be trusted. Yet, as the story goes, it was better, in that place and in that time, to choose not to eat it. Resisting, if only on occasion, what we naturally want and can see is a good thing, must itself be something good. And doesn't that fit with our ordinary experience?"

(link: http://arlinghaus.typepad.com/blog/2010/04/dietary-laws.html )

One difference between a dietary law and a fast is that a dietary law is generally lifelong -- see the regulations of keeping kosher or halal, or the philosophy of an ethically committed vegetarian. Fasts, on the other hand, are generally temporary. In Jewish history, the permanence and complexity of the dietary law served many purposes -- among other things, to provide a concrete manifestation of identity among the chosen people, to clearly demarcate them from the peoples that surrounded them.  

Another difference is that fasting can be regarded as a positive act, and when prescribed, as a positive duty similar to the duties of prayer and almsgiving. To adhere to a dietary law is more like a negative duty, a "thou shalt not." Negative duties are by their nature more binding than positive ones.

Does it matter whether we identify the forbidding of the fruit as a dietary law or as a fast? Or is it simply a third example of the same sort of class of commandments? Either way it is instructive to meditate upon the words, "for in what day soever thou shalt eat of it, thou shalt die the death."

   

Translation matters.

Interesting comparison of the translation of certain terms in the KJV and the NIV.  Everybody's got an agenda.

It sort of reminds me of how, in Story of the World, which is mostly a good history book, Catholics are "Christians" when they behave or display intelligence, and "Catholics" when they don't.

And, by the way, is not the masthead/title combo of that blog one of the best you've seen in a while?

h/t Riparians at the Gate

Taking liberties with Jeremiah on St. John's Day: For the mothers.

Do you ever feel like you are fighting your children, and your children are fighting you, all day long?

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From the Office of Readings for today, the Solemnity of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist:

Jeremiah 1:4-10, 17-19

The word of the Lord came to me thus:

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I dedicated you,a prophet to the nations I appointed you.

"Ah, Lord God!" I said, "I know not how to speak; I am too young."

Too young, too old, too tired, too busy, too faltering, too selfish, too confused, too inexperienced, too unprepared, too overwhelmed.

But the Lord answered me,

Say not, "I am too young."

Or whatever. 

To whomever I send you, you shall go; whatever I command you, you shall speak.  Have no fear before them, because I am with you to deliver you, says the Lord.

"To whomever I send you, you shall go." 

Because they come after us, we often think of the children as being sent to us.

But John turns this time-sequence on its head.  John testified:  He who is to come after me existed before me.

And though they didn't exist before us, this paradox recalls that, rather than them being sent to us, it's more true that we are sent -- to each child in turn, and at the same time.

"To whomever I send you you shall go."  

Then the Lord extended his hand and touched my mouth, saying,

See, I place my words in your mouth!

This day I set you over nations and over kingdoms,

(Or perhaps only over one family of children),

To root up and tear down, to destroy and to demolish, to build and to plant.

But do you gird your loins; 

Get out of your pajamas.  Put on your shoes and tie back your hair.  Wash your face.  Chin up.

stand up and tell them all that I command you.   

Be not crushed on their account, as though I would leave you crushed before them; 

And boy, don't I feel that way sometimes.

For it is I this day who have made you a fortified city, a pillar of iron, a wall of brass, against the whole land; Against Judah's kings and princes, against its priests and its people.  

The Lord fortified Jeremiah against Judah.  He expected conflict.  (And got it.)  Conflict, however, was not the purpose of their relationship.  The purpose was guidance, correction, reconciliation, love.  

In Jeremiah on St. John's birthday we are to see the purpose of "preparing a way for Christ" as well.  A road into the heart.

They will fight against you, but not prevail over you, for I am with you to deliver you, says the Lord.

If you had told me a few years ago, when my children were fewer and smaller, that I would read this and immediately identify with Jeremiah (knowing to whom I am sent), I probably would be horrified at the language of antagonism and conflict and power struggle.  Isn't our ideal a little bit more... collaborative?   Shouldn't we turn to language that sounds a bit more... encouraging?  Warm nurturing welcoming nourishing protecting cuddling sheltering blah blah blah?

<ringing sound of sword being unsheathed>

The Lord made my tongue a sharp sword; he hid me in the shadow of his hand.

Both, perhaps?

I am the voice.  The voice of one crying.  The voice of one crying out.

I have placed my words in your mouth.

Do you gird your loins.

It is I who have made you a pillar.

"Make me, I pray you, sweet to my friends and sour to my foes, to these a man reverend to behold, to those a man terrible."

Solon, among a selection of passages from Greek authors at Laudator Temporis Acti on the subject of loving one's friends and hating one's enemies.

The reason for the highlight is, of course, the Sermon on the Mount, which we've been getting in installments in our Sunday readings.  It's hard to keep the Sermon in context, isn't it?  After two thousand years of repeating things like "Pray for those who persecute you," such uterances start to sound like they make sense.   It's really only familiarity that makes us say "Oh, yes, that's nice."    

But it doesn't make sense in any human, natural way, and we all know this.  Check any newspaper for examples of Christians eager for revenge of one kind or another (sure, it may go by the names of "closure" or "justice" or "teach him a lesson.")  Jesus was a man who said a lot of extremely surprising things, and this is one of them.  

Actually, surprising perhaps puts it too mildly.  "Pray for those who persecute you" is downright offensive.   Traumatic.  Triggering, even.  

The Greeks were wise in the ways of man, if not of God.  Here's an interesting tidbit:

Polybius 1.14.4-5 (tr. W. R. Paton) allows an exception to the rule only in the person of the historian who is bound to be impartial:

"...a good man should love his friends and his country, he should share the hatreds and attachments of his friends; but he who assumes the character of a historian must ignore everything of the sort, and often, if their actions demand this, speak good of his enemies and honour them with the highest praises while criticizing and even reproaching roundly his closest friends, should the errors of their conduct impose this duty on him."

The historian's duty is to truth, and truth requires impartiality.   People naturally seek comradeship and deal out retribution, but accuracy -- truth --  is something different and yet worth seeking, and it's simply common sense that, to find it, the historian must squelch his unhelpful (if natural, universal, understandable, and ordinarily even desirable) favoritism.  Everybody knows that, right?  Today we would mention other professions bound by this standard:  reporters, research scientists, judges, and teachers.  The Greeks knew, as we naturally know, that truth is a good that supersedes natural human desires to divide the world into "us" and "them."  Still, the Greeks indulged those desires in everyday life, and most of the time, so do we.  If it's not our job to be impartial, we don't expect it of ourselves.

The really radical aspect of the Sermon on the Mount isn't so much the call for impartiality:  "love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your heavenly Father, for he makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust."  As Polybius wrote, as we know, there are purposes and duties that call for impartiality -- that's obvious!  

The radical part is the suggestion that all times and all purposes call for "serving Truth."

The demon that feeds on fasting.

 

It just goes to show:  Never brag.  A couple of days ago I wrote a weight loss update in which I mentioned that when I tried to drop a pound, I hadn't been able to do it without effort, and (not really wanting to make the effort) I hadn't pushed it.  "But I'm holding pretty steady, and that's okay," I wrote. 

So, a couple of days after I'd been traveling, I suddenly saw my weight SPIKE.  Probably water, most of it; but my experience is that if I don't reverse it quickly, the water weight sticks around and becomes non-water weight.  Maybe a better way of putting this is that I suspect that the first sign I'm beginning to store some fat is a sudden episode of water retention.  Only a hypothesis, and only about me -- but still.  I was alarmed, and even more alarmed the next day when it didn't go away but was higher.

How big a spike?  Well, I've been a stable 113 pounds for about six weeks, but one morning the scale said 116, and the next 116.6 .  Yow!  I haven't seen either of those numbers for a long while.  And I have a philosophy about the scale:  don't bother too much about daily ups and downs, except when I see a number I haven't seen in a while.  I notice those.  The big ones scare me.

Like, really scare me.  Lie-awake-in-bed-sweating scared. 

And maybe here's the right time to mention a significant spiritual struggle.  Gluttony was a real problem for me, and somewhere between my asking and God answering and my work to meet Him where He wanted me to go, it's not a problem for me (much) anymore.  Yay me!  Except:  enter vanity.  I am now seriously, seriously afraid of regaining weight.  I like the way I look and feel now.  I am proud of myself -- not necessarily in a good way.  Am I diligent about getting to the gym... or obsessive?  It's hard to tell the difference. 

It's only natural to be pleased with my success so far.  There is, I am sure, a correct attitude somewhere, where I could be grateful to God for the gift of self-control, diligent in my stewardship of the health I have been graced with, pleased to adorn myself attractively for my husband and to reflect to the world my inward happiness and peace, and still unattached to the world and to my flesh.  I am not there.  I fear that I have made thinness and physical health an idol. 

Maybe it's always been an idol for me, but it was perhaps safer when I couldn't attain it.  Now it's my precious, y'know?  And I think the surest proof that it's really a problem is this:  I pray earnestly, "Please Lord, take away my vanity...." and what pops up in the mind is "...but even more than that please please please don't do it by making me fat again."   Don't make me choose between You and my body, I mean.  But I know darn well that God has already made me choose between Him and my flesh.

"If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters--yes, even his own life--he cannot be my disciple."

Oh yes, I know what THAT means.

And meanwhile I keep looking for a way around it.

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If any of my readers think of gluttony as a big spiritual problem for themselves, then maybe this sounds self-indulgent. Wish I had your spiritual struggle instead of mine, Erin!  But bear with me.  Back when I was fat, it was really obvious that food was a sort of idol for me. Looking back at those struggles back then, they seem so simple compared to these crazy mind games.   Simple, simple struggles of the flesh versus the spirit.  All I had to do was deny the flesh!  Just like it says in the Bible!  It wasn't easy to do, always, but it was easy to understand.  Such a childish little weakness, wanting more cake.  Now I struggle with spirit against spirit -- it's not myflesh that makes war against God's will, but instead my love for my flesh.  So much harder to root out cleanly.

 
Gluttony isn't that complicated to fix (it's tough, but uncomplicated), because you only have to change something visible.  Your attitude doesn't have to change right away.  You can will your fist to put down the plate, and your heart can let go later, when it sees that it is safe feeding on the Lord.  But now I have to change something invisible, while not changing the visible all that much.  Can my heart let go of the idol of health, while my decisions and actions still responsibly preserve it?  What does that look like?  Does it look like anything at all, or is it entirely within?  How?  If I could only drive this demon out by prayer and fasting -- but on fasts, this demon grows sleek and strong.

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Today, vanity or no, I'm controlling calories and experiencing hunger.  I am thankful for obedience, which relieves the heart of some of its responsibility to ferret apart good and bad intentions.  It only makes sense to follow through with my plan to respond to a weight spike with careful attention to my food intake. 

At the same time, I am troubled by the intensity of my worry, and I wonder if I can somehow find peace.  I know, rationally, that the answer is not to set my heart on thinness and health and youth and beauty -- even though these things are often rewards of a disciplined life, I must not love them.  I must love God more.  And He has not yet asked me to choose between Him and those things -- except in the tiniest possible ways, just enough to chide me, to show me where my heart lies. 

I must be willing to lose it all, cheerfully.  I am not willing.   And yet I must be willing.  And I'm not. 

Yet.

"He went away sorrowful; for he had many possessions." 

Yet.

When "incomplete" means "great."

"[G]reat parables tend to be incomplete stories, because one thing that makes a parable great is that the listener has to put himself into the parable. This is one way a parable differs from a myth; a myth tells you what your role is, a parable tells you what roles are available and challenges you to choose the correct one."

A typically concise and excellent post from Disputations.  RTWT.  

(By which I mean, "read the whole thing."  Why hasn't that abbreviation taken off in the blogosphere?  It should.)

Tagged: Ephesians 5. (part 1 - general considerations)

Darwin tagged me yesterday morning, along with several other married women bloggers, in a post asking opinions about Ephesians 5.  For context, read his whole post  -- but the main question is, what are we to think of "Wives, be submissive to your husbands?"

Here are a few points, in no particular order.

No, I don't think this represents a "high" or symbolic or unearthly ideal.  This is a piece of pragmatic advice to husbands and wives living out their relationships in the world.  As evidence I point to the context of Ephesians 4-6:  "Be humble and gentle and patient," "give up living as pagans do," "if you are angry, do not... let sunset find you nursing your anger," "have done with spite and bad temper, with rage, insults and slander," "no coarse, stupid, or flippant talk," no "fornication and indecency of any kind..."  

No, all these injunctions are about Christian conduct in a pagan world, the same in which we largely find ourselves today.  So it is with "Wives, be subject to your husbands."  He is calling Christians to live differently from the wider culture around them.  If it didn't manifest itself in distinctive behavior of some kind, it would not be the uniquely Christian life.

Any relevance to working inside or outside the home, acquiring or eschewing advanced education, or taking responsibility for child care is a red herring.  These (yes, even the child care, when we speak of how its duties are to be divided) are economic activities.  We live today in a vastly different economic system from the one in first-century Ephesus.  The meaning of "men's" versus "women's" work, the boundaries of "the home" with respect to the economy, the nature of education available to people of each gender -- totally foreign system.  If
I may go so far as to interpret the text, it is a practical instruction in Christian conduct, but it is not really speaking of economic activity -- it is giving us no instruction in how we ought best to support our families.  Again, it's telling us how to distinguish ourselves from the pagans:   avoid the sinful excesses that are common among the pagans, and have Christian relationships -- that is, relationships that are marked with the special features unique to Christians.  Husband-wife, parent-child, and servant-master relationships are to be palpably different in Christian households than in pagan ones.

I want to stress this because I see a fair amount of confusion between these two concepts.  Yes, there's probably a big overlap between "people who take this passage seriously" and "people who believe wives, or at least mothers, should minimize work outside the home."  Yes, there's an undeniable tendency to connect the two emotionally, as for many of us the decision to change our lives in response to Ephesians 5 and the decision to abandon a career or an education in the service of our marriage are intertwined in time and in intention.  But they aren't the same argument.   No, Ephesians 5 has little if anything to say about who should bring economic value into the home from outside and who should generate economic value from within it.

That said, I agree with Darwin that casting the wife in the "primary-provider" role probably creates some tensions because it runs against some of the nature of husband-hood and wife-hood, of fatherhood and motherhood.  A stereotypical example of this might be the perennial complaint that working women have to pull a "second shift" of child care when they get home, a workload that seems never to fall on Dad in quite the same way.   But if they exist, these tensions arise because the family's choices (however prudent and correct) run up against the natures of fatherhood, motherhood, and childhood, not because they demonstrate lack of submission on the part of the wife. 

Besides, casting anybody, husband OR wife, as the primary provider creates tensions when either spouse is still very invested in the equality/sameness model of marriage rather than the reciprocity/complementarity model, or when either spouse is still very invested in a vision of one's economic work or education as being largely about self-fulfillment and not about serving the best interests of the family.   

The triple-dipole structure of the chapter is obvious and important.  The three paired injunctions must be taken in the context of each other.  Wives, be subject to your husbands; husbands, love your wives.  Children, obey your parents; fathers, do not goad your children into resentment.  Slaves, obey your masters; masters, do not threaten your slaves.   Is it irksome to see "wives" set in parallel with "children" and "slaves?" Sure.  Doesn't mean we can ignore it.  I think the reason these are set parallel to each other is that these are the three hierarchical relationship-pairings within a household.  Paul is calling for Christian households to be radically different from their pagan neighbors, transformed from within because of their vision of the purpose of human life -- not least because of an equality they know they possess in the eternal sense.

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The specifics of what "Wives, be subject to your husbands" means is worthy of another post, which I'll get to later.  UPDATE.  Here is the second post.

Renouncing everything.

We all know the part of today's Gospel (from Luke 14) where Jesus says you have to hate your father and mother, wife and children,etc., if you want to be his disciple.  We all also know that this is supposed to mean, not so much that you hate them, that you have to be willing to give all those things up.  It's kind of tricky to see how the one is supposed to mean the other.

But have you ever noticed that this bit about having to hate your family is embedded in an analogy to two other situations, sort of like mini-parables, and that Jesus sums it all up by saying, "In the same way,"  --- I presume, in the same way as in the two examples --- "In the same way, every one of you who does not renounce all his possessions cannot be my disciple."

So... to the examples.  The examples, paraphrased, take this form:

A person (A) 

without (B) 

cannot (C). 

So what (A)  does not figure  out ahead of time 

whether he has (B)?

If he finds he does not have (B), 

he won't even begin to (C).

In the first example:

• A = a person who wishes to construct a tower
• B = sufficient money
• C = complete the construction

In the second:

• A = a king marching into battle
• B = a sufficiently strong army
• C = oppose another king with a larger army

And in Christ's main point:

• A = anyone who comes to Me
• B = ("hate" for mother and father, wife and children, sisters and brothers)  AND  (carrying his own cross and following Me)
• C = be My disciple

"In the same way, everyone of you who does not renounce all his possessions cannot be my disciple."

How is it "in the same way?"  First of all, it's not a matter of an arbitrary prerequisite; it's a simple statement of fact.  There's nothing fair or unfair about this declaration; it is part of what it means to be a disciple of Jesus.  If you don't have enough money, you can't finish the tower.  If your army isn't strong enough, you can't oppose the enemy king.  Christ isn't saying "you aren't allowed to be my disciple" if you don't renounce all your possessions, your family, and your life; He is saying there's no way to get around it.   He is not a meanie; He is a realist.

What else makes it "in the same way?"  Apparently, part of this renunciation is a clear understanding of the cost.  Both the would-be builder and the would-be victor have to count the cost and figure out whether their own resources are enough, not just to start, but to carry the work through to completion.  So does the would-be disciple.  Here Christ counts it for us.   Discipleship will require everything we have:  everyone we love, everything we own, our very life.

But wait, you say, we might not actually have to give those things up for Christ.  Some people are asked to choose between their families and Christ, between their possessions and Christ, between their lives and Christ.  Not everyone.  We just have to be ready to do it.  That must be what He means when he says we have to renounce them all.

But:  no.  

Each of these things -- the construction project, the army campaign, discipleship -- is a long process, with costs that are spent all along, that nevertheless has its beginning in the decision of a moment.  The builder, if he chooses to build, will spend the money penny by penny as the tower is built.  The king, if he chooses to go into battle, will lose his troops man by man over the course of the offensive.  And the disciple, if he chooses to follow Christ, will -- he WILL -- lose his family, lose his possessions, and lose his life in the end.  You can't take it with you, right?  Eventually, there will come a point when none of these remain and there is only the disciple and his cross.

The decision of the moment -- whether to start construction, whether to march into battle -- comes after counting the cost and understanding if he has enough to finish the job.

It is worth noting that the would-be disciple doesn't get to keep his family, life, and possessions even if he chooses not to follow Christ.  They will be given up... just not for Him.