Not Gone, Just Thinking

In light of my recent lengthy silence in the blogosphere, let me assure you that I was not called out on assignment with the British Secret Service, nor was I abducted by aliens, nor did my recent work on the theology of technology scare me off of blogging once and for all.  I didn't go anywhere.

It's just that spring was long and late and dreary this year, and I had a lot on the go, and somehow or another, blogging just never seemed to make the cut whenever I made the "A-List" of "Things to Do Today."  It's not you, it's me.

But the break has been good.  I've been thinking through some big-picture stuff regarding this blog, and feeling like it's time for some re-purposing.  When I started terra incognita four plus years ago, it was because I needed a venue for my pent up theological musings; and then it was to chronicle of my new life as a pastor.  These days, though, I have plenty of venues for theological musing that use up a lot of the energy that would otherwise have been devoted to the blog; and my life as a pastor has found enough of a regular rhythm that there doesn't seem as much to chronicle anymore that's all that new.  I don't wish to shut down terra incognita, but, like I say, I'm looking to re-purpose it.

Ideas are still in development, but I'm thinking about making it less a "theological musings" space and more a creative-writing space (think fiction, poetry, story, songs).  This will probably mean fewer posts, but more interesting posts when they come along.  I'm planning to take the rest of May to reflect on what the new face of terra incognita might look like, and then June and July to do some initial writing without the pressure of posting, so you probably won't hear from me for a few more months. 

In the meantime, if for no other reason than to keep the spark glowing, I'm posting a song from my last recording project, echoes.

This is a new arrangement of a song I wrote and recorded almost 10 years ago; the song's called "windhover," and it's based on a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem of the same name.  It's about hope and joy and longing for release.  Enjoy.

Windhover

 

Thinking Theology and Technology III: Technology Among the Powers

Before examining what, exactly, a “redemptive, realistic and intentional” use of technology would look like for Christians, it is perhaps helpful here to note some of the ways it exerts a spiritual influence over us, to show why, after all, we have listed it as one of “the powers” the way we have. Though this field of study is still relatively young, a number of sociologists, psychologists and media theorists alike have begun to examine the impact of internet technologies on our culture, our society, and even our brain anatomy. Their findings suggest that technology does indeed have a significant spiritual dimension. In particular we will look at the impact of these technologies on our social interactions, on our experience of cultural diversity, and on our mind’s capacity for traditional spiritual disciplines like silence, focused prayer or meditation on Scripture.

In her 2011 book Alone Together, MIT technology specialist Sherry Turkle identifies one of the ironies of our relentless use of social media: that “[Americans] brag about how many they have ‘friended’ on Facebook, yet [they] say they have fewer friends than before” (Turkle, 280). “Technology,” she argues, “has become the architect of our intimacies. Online we fall prey to the illusion of companionship, gathering thousands of Twitter and Facebook friends and confusing tweets and wall posts with authentic communication.” In particular, her research suggest that these technologies predispose us towards interactions that are superficial (in that they encourage us to meticulously engineer our online image), inauthentic (in that they encourage us to lie about or experiment with our online identity), insecure (in that they encourage us to craft our online messages carefully, sometimes obsessively, but then to post them as though they were spontaneous), and above all, ambiguous (in that they convince us that such superficial, inauthentic and insecure interactions are actually deep, authentic and safe). Turkle notes, for instance, the way such technologies have conditioned young people to avoid or even to fear face-to-face interactions (191); or the phenomenon of “risk-free” online confessing (236); or the way “we defend connectivity as a way to be close, even as we effectively hide from each other” (281).

Turkle’s work is of special concern for a theology of technology, inasmuch as authentic, deeply connected community is central to our experience of salvation, our spiritual formation, and our ongoing sanctification. We might consider 1 John 1:5-7, as one of many examples where the Bible aligns spiritually healthy community with a deepening life with God. Though Turkle is not specifically interested in Christian spirituality, her work suggests that our growing and unreflective dependency on social media makes the kind of “fellowship with one another” envisioned in 1 John 1:7 increasingly rare and ephemeral. In Turkle’s own words: “in the half-light of virtual community, we may feel utterly alone. Sometimes people feel no sense of having communicated after hours of connection. And they report feelings of closeness when they are paying little attention. In all of this there is a nagging question: Does virtual intimacy degrade our experience of the other kind, and, indeed, of all encounters, of any kind?” (12).

This brings us to a second area where we see the spiritual impact of internet technologies: their tendency to isolate us from perspectives different from our own. Again there is an irony here. Though social media promise to increase the range of our social networks, they actually shrink them, because they feed into our natural tendency to identify only with the like-minded. Sometimes called “the echo chamber,” a number of observers have noted this phenomenon: because it uses similarity as the main criteria for connecting, the internet tends simply to echo our own opinions back to us. Social activist Eli Parsier analyzes this problem extensively in his 2012 book, The Filter Bubble: How the Personalized Web is Changing What we Read and How we Think. He looks in particular at the “personalized filter algorithms” that sites like Google, Yahoo News or Facebook use to customize the information we encounter on the net. These filters draw on a variety of statistical data about individual users to predict what the user’s preferences will be, and then “tailor” their query results to fit them. As an example, Parsier describes the day he noticed that Facebook had systematically removed all the “politically conservative” links in his Facebook feed, based on the types of searches he (as a political liberal) had been making. In a 2012 TED Talk, he suggested that filter-bubbles like these are moving us “very quickly towards a world where the internet is showing us what it thinks we want to see, but not necessarily what we need to see.”

The ethical, and subsequently the spiritual implications of the world-wide “echo chamber” deserve careful theological reflection here, because, as Paliser argues, “the structure of our media affects the character of our society.” A society that never has to encounter ideas that challenge, stretch or contradict it is likely to develop an ethically stunted character; a Christian who never has to encounter ideas that challenge, stretch or contradict him is likely to develop a spiritually stunted character. Indeed, for Christians especially, such “filter bubbles" should raise particular concerns. They feed a natural (but unbiblical) Christian tendency to retreat from the world and surround ourselves with those who think and act just like us (see 1 Cor 5:10 for warnings against such isolation). They reduce our appreciation for the radical gospel vision of unity in diversity, as people from “every nation, tribe and tongue” worship the Lamb together (see Revelation 5:9, 14:6 to catch the vision). And they limit our ability—even perhaps our desire—to genuinely speak the truth to one another in love, by pandering to the false belief that one’s own narrow, individual perspective on the truth is all the truth that needs telling (see Ephesians 4:15).

Along with the fragmentation of community and the creation of spiritual “echo chambers,” a third dimension of technology that deserves special consideration here is the physiological impact it is having on our brain-functioning . In his 2011 book, The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains, Nicholas Carr argues that technologies are never simply “exterior aids” but are also always “interior transformations of consciousness” (Nicholas Carr, 51). He cites a variety of neurological research which suggests that the brain is far more plastic than previously thought, continually adapting itself to the tasks it is called upon to perform; and he refers to a number of studies which suggest that the particular tasks the brain is called upon to perform while surfing the web have begun to change the way the brain learns, thinks, and process information. “The Net’s cacophony of stimuli,” he argues, “short circuits both conscious and unconscious thought, preventing our minds from thinking either deeply or creatively. Our brains turn into simple signal-processing units, quickly shepherding information into consciousness and then back out again” (119). In particular, his research suggests that the internet physically reduces our capacity for deep, sustained, and focused thought; that it develops the habit of scanning superficially for easily digested data-bites while reading; that it actually hinders our ability to concentrate and remember and imagine and reason. “The mental functions that [we] are losing” he warns, “are those that support calm, linear thought—the ones we use in traversing a lengthy narrative or an involved argument, the ones we draw on we reflect on experiences or contemplate and outward or inward phenomenon” (142).

The kind of research Carr cites in The Shallows has huge implications for our theological analysis technology, because so many of the traditional spiritual disciplines of the Christian faith—lectio divina, prayer and meditation, silence, Scripture reading and so on—to say nothing of the more intellectually rigorous disciplines like theology and apologetics—require us to “traverse lengthy narratives,” to “reflect on experiences,” and to “contemplate outward and inward phenomenon”. If Carr is right when he argues that the internet actually discourages these mental functions, wiring our brain instead to be especially good at “locating, categorizing and assessing disparate bits of information in a variety of forms while we are being bombarded by stimuli,” then as ominous as it sounds to say it, it may actually be changing the way we know, and experience and relate to God.

Thinking Theology and Technology, Part II

Whew! This is turning out to be harder than I thought.  Here is the second section in my draft of a "theology of technology."  Still only at the "thinking out loud stage," but here's what I got:

II. Christ and the Powers: Technology Disarmed, Technology Redeemed

From the vantage point we gain when we view “technology” as one of “the powers,” we are better able to see how the Gospel of Christ informs our response and redefines our relationship to it. After all, though the Bible says very little about Facebook, it has very much to say about “the Powers” and the way Christians ought to relate to them.

In Colossians 1:16, on the one hand, Paul affirms the Powers as a part of God’s good created order, insisting that all things (and he specifically includes “the powers and the principalities” in the list) were created by and for Christ. This moves us out of black-and-white, good-or-bad dualisms when it comes to things like developments in social media or the ubiquity of the Internet. It allows us instead to recognize and affirm the positive potential off all such technologies, while at the same time insisting that they are not “ultimate,” that Christ is the Lord of world, even of the world- wide-inter-web. (See also Ephesians 1:21, where Christ is pictured enthroned in the heavenlies, “far above all ‘power’.”)

On the other hand, of course, the Bible is hardly naive when it comes to the fallenness of the Powers. Paul states quite strongly that “the Powers and Principalities” are ranged against us in the struggle of the Christian life (Ephesians 6:12), and he implies just as strongly that in their fallenness the Powers do not recognize the Lordship of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:8). This keeps us from blindly accepting technology as “given” or “spiritually neutral,” and forces us to acknowledge that if they are to serve Christ, “the Powers” must be both dethroned and redeemed.

This brings us, at last, to the Cross of Christ, allowing us to see how the Gospel actually shapes our relationship to things even as seemingly mundane as the text-message. In what is probably the pivotal text for any theology of technology, Colossians 2:15 describes the redemptive work of the cross and then applies it specifically to the Powers. “God has disarmed the powers” he writes. “He made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them through the cross.” The word translated “triumphing” here (thriambeuō) is actually a technical term for one of the special victory parades a Roman General would make through the city of Rome after a successful military campaign. They would lead their troops, their chariots, and especially their prisoners of war in a victorious procession while the citizens cheered in triumphant celebration. Paul applies the potent symbolism of such a parade to the work of the Cross, indicating that through his death and resurrection, Christ has stripped “the Powers” of their idolatrous claim on our lives, nullifying their influence over us, and making them now to serve his purposes for them (in much the same way a defeated prisoner of war displayed in a public “triumph” served the political purposes of the Roman Empire).

Because the “disarming of the Powers” is so abstract but also so essential to any theology of technology, Berkhof’s analysis of Colossians 2:15 is worth quoting here: “Christ has ‘disarmed’ the Powers. The weapon ... is struck out of their hands. This weapon was the power of illusion, their ability to convince men that they were the divine regents of the world, ultimate certainty and ultimate direction, ultimate happiness and the ultimate duty for small, dependant humanity. Since Christ, we know this is illusion. We are called to a higher destiny ... we stand under a greater Protector. ... Unmasked, revealed in their true nature, [the Powers] have lost their mighty grip on men (sic.). The cross has disarmed them; wherever it is preached, the unmasking and the disarming of the Powers takes place" (ibid, 39).

To spell this out in practical terms, we might say it like this: every modern “technology,” by its very nature as a human effort to order our life together, has an unseen spiritual dimension to it that exerts a very real spiritual influence over our lives. This influence is evident, for instance, when we accept new technologies unquestioningly as indispensable to human life, or when we depend on them for meaning and identity, or when we allow them to dictate the terms of our relationships and the means of our social interactions, or when we trust in them for a kind of “salvation” (i.e. to hold society together and keep us from sliding into chaos). In the death and resurrection of Christ, God, has exposed all such claims (technology is ultimate, it’s a source of meaning, it’s a “saviour” from chaos, etc.) as the illusions that they are, showing us instead that Christ is ultimate, that life in him is the source of meaning, and that he alone is saviour. Having thus disarmed the Powers like this, technology among them, the Gospel frees us to relate to the Powers, technology included, in ways that are: 1) redemptive (i.e. affirming their goodness and potential), 2) realistic (i.e. accepting their limits and acknowledging their subservience to Christ), and 3) intentional (i.e. discerning of their “spirit” and wisely selective in how we will use them).

In this way, our redemptive, realistic and intentional use of technology becomes a concrete instance of what Paul was talking about in Ephesians 3:10, when he said, “God’s intent in Christ was that, through the church, his manifold wisdom should be made known to the powers and authorities in the heavenly realms.”

Thinking Theology and Technology

One of the projects I'm working on for the FMCiC's Study Commission on Doctrine is a "theology of technology," which would lay out a theological framework for thinking about technology as a Christian.   As I mentioned earlier, I hope to use this blog as a place to "think out loud" as I work through this project, and to that end, I'm posting here the first section of draft one. I welcome feedback.

One of the challenges we encounter when we try to think theologically about issues related to modern technology is the question of categories. On the one hand, the modern use of that word “technology” is so broad in scope that it is hard to know what exactly we mean by it; on the other hand, most of the things we do mean when we refer to technology—computer science, communication technologies, social media and so on—simply did not exist in the world of the Bible and find neither reference nor parallel in Scripture. If we wish to approach them theologically, then, we must first ask: In which theological category do they belong?

The first and perhaps closest reference we have in Scripture to something that today we would call “technology” is the account of Tubal-Cain in Genesis 4:22. Tubal-Cain, we’re told, was the original “forger of all implements of bronze and iron”; and while a bronze axe-head is admittedly a far cry from an ipod, there is still something instructive for us in this ancient account of the “origins of metalsmithing.” It can’t be accidental that Tubal-Cain, the father of “all” metalurigcal technologies, is also the last son of Lamech, the notoriously vengeful descendant of Cain who will bring the whole of that failed line to its ignoble end. After Lamech boasts of avenging himself seventy-seven times on his enemies (4:23-24), the genealogical record abandons Cain altogether and switches to the birth of Seth (4:26), a brand-new branch on Adam’s family tree, whose line will include Noah, and Abraham, and ultimately Christ. If Tubal-Cain is indeed the father of “technology” (or at least a father of certain kinds of technology), it must be noted that he is also the last of Cain’s fallen descendants. Whatever else we will say about the Bible’s perspective on “technology”, the fact that it first appears as fruit on Cain’s family tree assures us that for all its usefulness, it is still a fallen force in the world.

Biblically, then, technology is useful but fallen. And when we look for a theological category that allows us to talk about it both in terms of its usefulness to human life and its spiritual fallenness, the category that best holds these two aspects together is the biblical concept of “the powers.” Picking up on the many references to “the powers and principalities” in Paul’s writings (see, for instance, 1 Cor 2:8; Eph 1:20, Col 2:15), a number of theologians have suggested that when the Bible refers to “the powers” like this, it is describing the “invisible structures” or “inner reality” of human society (see, for instance, Hendrik Berkhof, Christ and the Powers; Walter Wink, Naming the Powers). As a theological category, “the powers” refer to the spiritual dimension that is inherent to any human effort to order its life together, from political and economic institutions, to cultural, religious or technological ones. All such “organizations” of human society are, of course, useful and necessary; but they are also inevitably “spiritual,” and, owing to the fallenness of human nature itself, inevitably fallen. In their fallenness, “the powers” exert unintended, often unrecognized spiritual influence over us, behaving, in Berkhof’s words, “as though they were the ultimate ground of being and demanding from [people] an appropriate worship” (Berkhof, 30).

We might point to the cult of Roman Emperor worship for an ancient example of “the Powers,” or to the inexorable “givenness” of the global economy for a contemporary one. We might point to the psychological impact of advertising media for a cultural example; and we might point to the way the internet has begun to shape and redefine our social interactions for a technological one. Because, though it is unlikely in the extreme that Paul had the iphone 5 specifically in mind when he said it, technology can and should be listed under that broad category of human institutions he has in mind when he talks about “the Powers.”

A Song for the First Day of Spring

It doesn't feel especially like spring here in Oshawa, what with a gentle snow falling and the temperature hovering a bit below freezing and all, but technically speaking today marks our passing of the Spring Equinox. I've been bogged down with the late winter doldrums these last few weeks, with little energy or motivation for fresh blog posts (what was that warning to Caesar about the ides of March?). However, in the interest of breaking my month-long post-less streak, I thought I'd offer you a song in honour of the first day of Spring.

This is an old e. e. cummings poem I set to music a few years ago. The song's more about wonder and savoring the small stuff and living in the now than it is specifically about Spring, but the imagery is very much spring-y, and the breezy feel of the song, I hope, makes for a fitting "adieu" to Old Man Winter and warm "Welcome in" to Lady Spring.

Enjoy.

i thank you god (for most this amazing)

If the audio player fails to load, you can download the song here.

A Song for Valentine's Day

As part of my theological analysis of the themes of St. Valentines Day, I share this song somewhat hesitantly. The hesitancy has to do with the fact that I wrote the words as a much younger man, and the sentiment seems a bit naive to me today; but it's also because I recognize that the themes of sexuality that the song deals with are far more complex than a 5:10 ditty could handle well, and I don't want to appear flippant or trite when it comes to these matters. I will refer you to this insightful discussion of the "psychology of sexual purity" over at Experimental Theology, if you'd like to do some "deep-sea" fishing with the can of worms I've opened here (so to speak).

In the meantime, I'm still posting "New Song of Solomon" today, the above disclaimers notwithstanding, because like I say: we're theologically analysing the themes of St. Valentine's Day this February at terra incognita, and whatever else it is, this song is about the Bible's vision for sexual wholeness, and how we humans have so often distorted that vision (verse 3 quotes Ophelia from Hamlet, as if to say: this problem is no modern one). Confession songs are rare in the praise-and-worship ethos of modern evangelicalism, but "New Song of Solomon" is actually meant as a prayer of confession, acknowledging the many ways North American Evangelicalism has simply acquiesced to the sexual ethic of the modern world.

Click here to download the song. 

Revisiting A Lesson from St. Valentine

In keeping with the Theological Analysis of Valentine's Day I introduced yesterday, I thought I'd re-post this Valentine's Day reflection I posted back in 2009.

I went through a phase where I was really intrigued with the lives of the saints. I'm not big-C Catholic, of course, but the strange mix of legend and biography, adventure and romance, faith and fiction that is the church's hagiography fascinated me. St. Patrick lighting the paschal fire on Slane hill, St. Brendan saying the mass to the fish in his little skiff on the Atlantic, St. Francis preaching the gospel to his "brother birds": there's some really mysterious and magnificent stuff in there.

I'm saying this because today is the Feast of St. Valentine; or, as we would say in our iconoclastic tradition of Hallmarkangelicalism: Valentine's Day.

There are actually a few saints by the name of Valentinus, but there's general agreement that the Valentinus of Valentine's Day fame was martyred under Emperor Claudius II. A number of stories surrounding Valentine might explain how his name became synonymous with waxy chocolate hearts and timid 3rd Grade card-exchanges. While in prison he sent notes of encouragement and love to his parishioners. He also restored sight to the blind daughter of his jailer, who would later fall in love with him. As legend has it, his last note to her before his execution was signed: "From your Valentine."

But there's one story in this strange mix of legend and history that has always stuck with me. They say that Valentine was martyred because Emperor Claudius had made it illegal for soldiers in his Imperial army to marry. Apparently Claudius was having a tough time recruiting males. Believing it was because married men were reluctant to leave their wives and families, he annulled all marriages and engagements in Rome. Valentine continued to perform Christian marriages in secret, convinced that there was a Lord of marriage whose authority transcended the Emperor's. He was caught, and brought before the Emperor. When he refused to renounce his Faith in the true Lord of marriage, Valentine was condemned to be executed by clubbing, stoning and beheading.

Now here's a little Valentine's Day chocolate food for thought: Valentine died convinced that marriage is not just an end in itself. He was not martyred for marriage, he was martyred for Christ. He stood before Claudius convinced that Christian marriage served a living Lord whose redemptive reign could not be renounced. Marriage is but one of the many human goods that God has given us to bear witness to His loving lordship in Christ.

I'm not big-C Catholic. But in the Evangelical tradition I call home, I think we might learn a small lesson from St. Valentine. Because here the family is an institution of special focus; and I sometimes wonder if, in all our focus on marriage, we inadvertently make it an end in itself. Do we stand convinced that our marriages have meaning-- not because they satisfy our romantic desires-- not because they fulfill our domestic needs-- not because they make us happy-- but because they bear witness to the loving lordship of Christ? Some of the stronger Evangelical rhetoric I've heard defending marriage has seemed more about what's politically or socially expedient than about the good news of Jesus.

The word martyr itself means "a witness." As I reflect on the martyrdom Valentine, I wonder: what would my marriage look like if it were transformed by a spirit of martyrdom-- if I could see my life together with my wife as bearing loving witness to the redemptive reign of Jesus?

On St. Valentine's Day and Ash Wednesday

In case you've yet to purchase a bouquet of roses or some such similar gesture of appreciation for the object of your affection, let me remind you that today is St. Valentine's Day Eve.  It's also, incidentally, Ash Wednesday and the start of Lent, but I try as I might, I couldn't find any "Happy Ash Wednesday" cards at the local Walmart.  Another case of Hallmark commercialism trumping the sacred calendar in our collective reckoning of the year. 

In different post, I'd  maybe tackle the themes of Lent, and lament, perhaps, how little air-time they get in the modern evangelical church; but then, my favorite blogger over at Experimental Theology beat me to it, and with much more ease than I could have done, so I will simply refer you to his "Ash Wednesday" reflection here and turn my attention to our forthcoming celebration of love, passion, affection and eros happening tomorrow. Owing to the unexpected popularity of my theological analysis of Halloween last October, I am planning to do a similar treatment of the themes St. Valentine's Day over the next few days, exploring the theological significance of this red-letter day and especially that most potent of human bonds it celebrates.

To start things off, let me share a sermon on modern love that I preached at the FreeWay a few months ago.  Happy listening, and Happy St. Valentine's Day Eve everybody.

Song of Solomon 4:15-5:1  "A Love Song of Love Songs"

Click here to download the sermon.

Musical Mondays (XIV)

Here's another song from "echoes" to start your week off. By way of explanation, let me say that Zoe is the Greek word for "life" and the lyrics are meant as an ode to life in Christ. By way of credit-where-credit's due, let me say that the mandolin solo towards the end is a medley of two traditional Irish jigs (St. Patrick's Day, and The Priest's Leap). And in the spirit of Ephesian 5:18, let me say that the song (and my performance thereof) is my best effort at writing a worship song that sounds for all the word like an Irish drinking song. Cheers.

Download the song here.

Zoe

Zoe is dancing again in the daylight
She comes to me lovely and full of delight
Skipping and spinning with all of her might
She sets my heart free
Richer than milk and sweeter than honey
Stronger than wine, more precious than money
A blue sky divine, all brilliant and sunny
She dances lovely

Life!  Springing up from the
Ground, like nothing that I've ever
Found, on this sweet earth
Joy! Filling my heart like
Wine! Now that I know that you're
Mine, I'm filled with mirth

Zoe is shining again in the twilight
She's burning like stars in the darkness of night
She's casting off blindness and putting on new sight
To make my heart see
Flowing like water, burning like fire
Sent from the father to like me higher
Anointed with laughter, delight and desire
By Christ my master

Love!  Bubbling up in my
Soul!  Your mercy has made me
Whole, and gave me new birth
Zoe!  Foaming out like a spring
You teach my spirit to sing
To sing your worth

Zoe is running again in the rain
She is leaping and falling and rising again
She's there in the joy and there in the pain
The life Christ gave me
Richer than milk and sweeter than honey
Stronger than wine, more precious than money
A blue sky divine all brilliant and sunny
She dances, lovely

Life! Springing up from the
Ground, like nothing that I've ever
Found, on this sweet earth
Joy! Filling my heart like
Wine! Now that I know that you're
Mine, I'm filled with mirth
Love! Bubbling up in my
Soul! Your mercy has made me
Whole, and gave me new birth
Zoe! Foaming out like a spring
You teach my spirit to sing
To sing your worth

Contending Against the Baal Within

In Judges 6:32, when the Lord's "Valiant Warrior" Gideon destroys the altar of Baal that was in Orphah, he earns himself the nickname "Jerubbaal."  Jerubbaal is a combination of the Hebrew name baal, and the verb rı̂yb-- to contend or strive with.  It means essentially:  Let Baal contend with him, and when you put the name in the context of the story, the meaning is clear.  Gideon has knocked down the altar of Baal, a competitor in the people's hearts for the glory due to YHWH; if Baal is indeed true god, then let him contend with Gideon.  This nickname is a challenge to Baal's legitimacy as direct and as poignant as the contest with the priests of Baal that Elijah had on Mt. Carmel (1 Kings 18:20ff).

And when you consider that the act of vandalism which earned Gideon his nickname was actually his first step in leading the Lord's Army against the invading Midianite horde, it also becomes a profoundly political statement.  If Israel is going to be victorious in its struggle, it will take a radical purge of anything that stands between then and single-minded devotion to YHWH, fancy altars to Baal be damned.

Let Baal himself contend with us, if Baal doesn't like it.

But here's the curious thing I've been mulling over this morning.  Later, after YHWH has trounced and routed the Midianites, the tribe of Ephraim complains that General Gideon didn't call on them to join in the fight (See 8:1).  This is interesting on a number of levels.  First, Gideon is from the half tribe of Manasseh, the half tribe for which Ephraim forms the other half.  So that's curious: there is a close kinship between Gideon and the men of Ephraim.  More curious still is the motive behind Ephraim's complaint.  Judging by the tack Gideon takes in placating them, speaking self-deprecatingly, and then flattering them with that line about how the "grapes of Ephraim"  are better than the "Wine of Abiezer" (8:2)), it seems like the reason they're put out has to do with their sense of honour.  By not including them in the fight, Gideon has shamed them, or at the very least, denied them the opportunity to win glory for themselves in battle.

That's curious to me especially because in 8:1 it says that (again, presumably because of their loss of tribal honour) the men of Ephraim "contended with Gideon vigorously."  And the word translated "contended with" there?  You guessed it:  rı̂yb.  The same rı̂yb that gave Gideon the nickname Jerubbaal-- let Baal contend with him.

In 6:32, Gideon tears down the altar of a competitor for YHWH's glory, leaving his friends dumbstruck and earning himself the title:  Jerubbaal.  "Let Baal contend (rı̂yb) with him."  And then in 8:1, after the battle's been fought and won, Baal does indeed, one might say, contend (rı̂yb) with Gideon-- through the contentious vainglory of his closest countrymen.  At least: if Baal represents those things that compete in our hearts for the glory due to YHWH, then Ephraim's complaint that Gideon denied them a chance to win glory for themselves, whatever else it is, is Baalistic to the core.  When they contend with Gideon for letting YHWH win the glory instead of sharing it with them--whatever else is going on there--that is certainly the spirit of Baal, if not Baal himself, contending with Gideon.

The reason this matters to me is because it suggests that the real enemy in Gideon's fight against the Midianites was not the Midianites at all.  Gideon was actually leading a struggle against the "Baal-within"-- the spirit of Baalism in us, that prompts us to steal for ourselves the glory that belongs to the Lord  alone (read the rest of Chapter 8, if you're not convinced).  When I consider Gideon's war in  this light, the story suddenly rings sharply and prohpetically in my ears.

Could it be that the greatest struggle in the Christian life is actually against the Baal within?

Sometimes Christians can move into "crusade mode" when it comes to things happening in the culture, resisting and entrenching and contending for causes with all the zeal of an Ephraimite after a retreating Midianite horde.  Sometimes churches can.  Sometimes, maybe, you've seen it.  And if this is ringing any bells for you, then let Ephraim's contention with Gideon ring louder and clearer.  The struggle against godlessness "out there" is really a struggle against the Baal within.