(Scottish Universities Theological Forum, November, 2005)
Working toward justice must be grounded in the virtue of hope if it is to bear up under the scrutiny of Christian theology. Otherwise, it gives way to the fickle designs of simple optimism that cannot be sustained within historically situated conditions that give every appearance of immutability. The plausibility of change is too far out of reach. Christian hope, on the other hand, is not susceptible to this kind of limitation. Biblical hope, in fact, is capable of re-imagining the world to such a degree that action is inspired and enacted.
Aquinas rightly analyses hope as a special form of desire that is purposefully focused on the good that is within reach. Its ultimate object is God and as such qualifies as an explicitly theological virtue, in company with faith and charity. Justice in these terms is advancing the good that does, indeed, appear impossible, but is not, under the proviso that God himself is intimately concerned and involved in the cause. Where the good one is due is denied, biblically defined justice demands acts of alteration that refuse to succumb to the immutability of historically based conditions and circumstances.
So far, so good. However, I want to suggest that Aquinas falls short in limiting the good to a theological construct of consummation which aims only at an eventual supernatural mode of union with God. For example, Aquinas contends that “Such a good is eternal life, which consists in the enjoyment of God Himself…Therefore the proper and principle object of hope is eternal happiness.” Limited as such, it advances a notion of eudaimonia (blessedness) that has little, if any relation to the struggle for justice within history. The results of this type of limited hermeneutic are still with us today, witnessed by the fact that we are compelled to justify justice-seeking at all.
I agree with Wolterstorff when he renders it a “theological mistake” to “see hope for consummation as the only legitimate form of Christian hope.” The narrative dimension of Scripture itself argues against it. The numinous episode of the burning bush in Exodus 3 is a vivid example in this story line. After identifying himself, God goes further to declare that he has seen the affliction of his people, heard their cry of despair, and has come down to deliver them. The song of Zechariah in Luke 1 is yet another part of the story. Eulogy is the mode because God has remembered his holy covenant to “grant us that we, being delivered from the hands of our enemies, might serve him without fear.” In either episode, the narrative evokes the promise of deliverance as the reason hope is intoned, not consummation.
Each of these examples (and many others) highlight the credence that is properly given to linguistic function in healthy readings of the biblical narrative. It is meant to expose reality to those who would otherwise continue in the self-deception that the world is well-ordered and as it should be. Further, it assumes the power of language to form and reform experience as it encourages the unthinkable, the unutterable and specifically the unimaginable. In so doing, readings of this kind reveal how untenable is the modern fallacy that ugliness, fear, hurt and darkness can be eliminated as greater knowledge and power are attained.
This does not infer, however, that the language of biblical narrative does not invoke political ideals. To the contrary, the story is riddled with kingdom terminology which unceasingly confronts any locus of power (political, military, economic or otherwise) with the purposes of God as determined by his ruling activity. As Bauckham and Hart suggest, the kingdom of God is, in fact, a political image with reference to the whole of creation. It is assuredly an image that promotes an eschatological vision, but only in so far as that is properly understood as demanding localised anticipation, demonstrated particularly in the advent of God before the ultimate redemption. The purpose of the kingdom, no less, is to break into history in such a way that it results in what Moltmann describes as “unbounded astonishment” at its transforming effect on people.
It is clear, then, that the parameters of justice-seeking, when defined by the biblical criteria of hope, are not limited to a beatific vision that is always in the coming. Nor can they be thwarted by contemporary critics who decry what they think to be utopian aspirations that are all but impossible to achieve. John Caputo, for example, disparages hope itself as a limiting concept that is nothing more than a projection of our unduly optimistic desire for something that never can or will come to be. Movement toward justice in the Bible is hopeful precisely because it rests upon the character of God whose promise of deliverance can be relied upon in the present world and in the future toward which the world is even now moving.
Brueggemann rightly distinguishes it as “God-justice” that does not shy away from a materialist reading of both text and experience. It is grounded upon Yahweh himself, and so “cannot be separated from the actual experience of justice in the social process because Yahweh’s presence in Israel is known through and against the social process. Gorringe suggests that it is missional justice founded on a “re-imagining of the world,” seeking a “built environment” that includes social relations, emotional well-being, spiritual vitality and even in literal architecture that promotes equality in ways that are thoroughly and theologically credible.
Missional justice, for example, ought to raise questions about the fact that New York City annually consumes as much electrical energy as the whole continent of Africa in the same time period. Statistics like this, of course, can be explained in numerous and legitimate ways, but they nonetheless rightly call Christian theology to account and underscore the need for justice that is missionally inspired. As Kuno Fussel correctly surmises, “Such an approach to theology means an end of theology as conceptual representation; it is farewell to spectator theologians.”
Theology as a spectator activity is directly challenged by the prophecy of Isaiah, particularly in texts like chapter 58, verses 1-12. In a passage like this, the ramifications of hermeneutical integrity become readily apparent, demonstrable in the spirituality of the people of God and the way it is expressed in historical contexts. Isaiah’s words are a compelling example of what Gossai means when he refers to “the prophet’s critique of the corrupting influence of affluence and luxury,” in contrast with a spirituality defined by focused attention on the needs of the poor and victims of injustice of any kind. Blomberg rightly recognises how this passage combines with Ezekiel 18:5-9, both of which clearly inform Jesus’ rendering of the sheep and the goats in Matthew 25:31-46.
The text of Isaiah 58:1-12 is ultimately concerned with the aftermath of various approaches to spirituality; that is, what is left in their wake? Is it socially constructive or destructive? Does it detract from the glory of God rather than extol it? The text, in fact, dramatically portends the potential aftermath of that manner of spirituality that leads to unbounded astonishment, as referenced by Moltmann above.
A type of spirituality (dare we even say a level of spirituality) is suggested in the way the text gives such deliberate attention to the matter of fasting, reiterated twice in verse 3, twice again in verse 4, once in verse 5, and once again in verse 6. It is the Hebrew word tsom, literally “to press, tie up or constrain.” It was carried over into the rabbinic teaching of the New Testament era where it continued to be understood as an indication of spiritual fervour. The actual practice of tsom inferred spiritual fervour displayed in so great a desire to know and experience God that one would go without food as a reminder to crave God above all else.
The text commences by describing what might legitimately be assessed as superficial or disingenuous spiritual fervour in verses 3-5:
Why have we fasted and You do not see, they say, and why have we humbled our souls and You do not know? Behold the day of your fasting, you still find pleasure and all your workers you exploit. Behold your fasting results in strife and contention and in striking each other with wicked fists. You cannot fast as you do today expecting your voice to be heard on high. Shall this be the fast which I choose, a day for a man to afflict himself? Is it for bowing your head like a bulrush and for laying out sackcloth and ashes? Is this what you call a fast, a day which gains approval before God?”
The indicators of superficial ardency are numerous in these three verses. The people are complaining, in verse 3, that their seemingly fervent religious observance is going unnoticed by God. “Why have we fasted and You do not see? Why have we humbled our souls and You do not know?”
The Hebrew text significantly alters the tense between these two sentences so as to highlight the depth of consternation. “All of our past devotion is of no account, and even now this God has no knowledge of the sacrifices we have endured in order to please him.” They are more concerned that God take notice than in the discipline itself or their heart attitude behind it. It bespeaks an underlying pride revealed in the perverse notion that they can impress God.
The text goes further in verse 3. “Behold in the day of your fasting, you still find pleasure, and all your workers you exploit.” It is describing the parody of convenient religion, suggested by the fact that though they fast, it is never allowed to interfere with a pleasure-seeking lifestyle. In fact, they do not let their spirituality encroach upon their business profitability. Rather, they work their employees all the harder so as to make up for any loss their religious duty may have cost them. The term translated “exploit” is the simple qal form of the Hebrew nagas, and it means “to press hard.” The text contends that they are exploiting their labour force, pressing them hard for more capital output so that their religious obligations won’t deter or discourage profit. Religious fervour is well and good as long as it is likewise convenient.
Verse 5, finally, expresses God’s disdain for self-righteous religiosity. “Shall this be the fast which I choose, a day for a man to afflict himself? Is it for bowing your head like a bulrush and for laying out sackcloth and ashes? Is this what you call a fast, a day which gains approval before God?”
The text is obviously referring to that type of public righteousness which is bent on drawing attention to itself. This person fasts in such a manner that it makes public how afflicted he is because of his religious devotion. He bows his head like a bulrush broken in a storm. He changes his wardrobe to sackcloth and douses himself in ashes.
Of course, it was precisely this type of spiritual showing off Jesus expressly decried in his historic mountainside sermon. “Whenever you fast, do not put on a gloomy face as the hypocrites do, for they neglect their appearance so that they will be noticed by men when they are fasting. Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full.” (Mt. 6:16)
In Isaiah, the same is depicted as the height of self-righteous religiosity, the summary statement of disingenuous, superficial spirituality, depicted in the pride of trying to impress God, the fallacy of convenient religion and the obnoxious display of oxymoronic religious superiority.
In the midst of it all, verse 4 turns attention back to the prevailing concern for the aftermath of this brand of spirituality. What follows in its wake? “Behold your fasting results in strife and contention and in striking each other with wicked fists.” Strife, contention and infighting. False spirituality of this sort breeds nothing less than relational violence.
Fortunately, the text does not end there, but goes on to explicate God’s understanding of real and authentic spirituality, in verses 6 and 7:
“Is this not the fast I have chosen: to make loose the chains of injustice, to untie the cords of the yoke and to set free the oppressed and to tear apart every yoke? Is it not to share equally your bread with the hungry and the homeless poor to provide a home? When you see the naked to clothe him, and not to hide yourself from your flesh and blood?”
According to the text, the definitive point that distinguishes this type of spirituality is that it is of God’s own choosing. “Is this not this the fast I have chosen?” (vs.6) Over against that show of spirituality which is humanly devised, concerned with rules, rituals, form, fashion and profit interest, true spirituality makes itself public in accordance with God’s preference.
The Hebrew grammar spells this out in its repetitive use of the infinitive, one of the strongest verbal forms linguistically available: “to make loose;” “to untie;” “to set free;” “to tear apart;” “to share equally;” “to provide;” “to clothe.” It is a grammatical call “to do” something, “to take action.” In fact, this long list of infinitives is in the Hebrew piel form, adding significant intensity and requiring the taking of action in a very deliberate fashion.
It suggests that real spirituality is not displayed in what we think, feel, say, or even believe. Nor is it relayed in a particular style of worship or the mastery of various liturgical forms. Neither is it necessarily portrayed in surrender to drastic ascetic disciplines. True spirituality is manifested in what we do, in whether or not we deliberately (in a premeditative way) take action.
More broadly, verses 6 and 7 suggest how deliberate action is to be taken on behalf of people in two general areas of need.
Verse 6, first of all, calls for action on behalf of those in civil need. The language of deliverance is couched in metaphors of civil restraint: “chains of injustice;” “cords of the yoke;” and freedom for the “oppressed.” Each one speaks of the singular reality of structural wickedness under which victims suffer the hampering of and tampering with their civil rights. Thus, Isaiah pictures them as legally encumbered, bound up in slave-like ways, and socially and economically downtrodden.
Verse 7, then, compels action on behalf of those in physical need. The grammatical emphasis is on the first infinitive: “to share equally.” Equality is at the heart of spirituality of this sort and is made visible in the provision of food for the hungry, shelter for the homeless and clothing for the naked. It does not allow adherents to hide from the stark needs of flesh and blood humanity. The Hebrew is literally “to conceal,” suggesting a refusal to participate in the active injustice of covering up social wrongs, rather than simply avoiding the passive behaviour of ignoring human need.
With verse 8, the text broaches the question of ultimate concern: what is the aftermath of this sort of authentic spirituality? What follows in its wake? “Then your light shall break forth like the dawn and your recovery shall spring forth quickly and your righteousness shall walk ahead of you. The glory of the Lord shall gather up behind you.”
The text is speaking of the wake that follows in the path of those who observe this fast which God chooses. It includes the infusion of light into dark places, the speedy advent of social recovery and the advance of communal righteousness. But ultimately, the aftermath of this brand of true spirituality is nothing less than the glory of the Lord. The many-sided Hebraic idea of glory (cabod) incorporates that which reveals the beauty of God. It is an ontological affirmation, referencing the beauty that proceeds out of the very being of God and manifests itself throughout the created order, but especially in that aspect of creation that bears God’s image, human beings. When humanity exhibits true spirituality, such as the previous verses have described, the beauty of God is made visible.
Furthermore, Isaiah contends that socially-active spirituality leads to potency in prayer (vs.9) and the replacement of gloom with bright hope (vs.10). It also portends the ongoing guidance of God and that quality of nourishment that only comes from him (vs.11). So supernaturally directed and enabled, the people of God can take on the task of rebuilding that which has been devastated by social ruin and repairing the breach left in the wake of social decay (vs.12). They make cities inhabitable once again (vs.12).
Isaiah 58:1-12 thus depends on hermeneutical integrity for its fulfilment in terms of eschatological anticipation. It promotes a vision that, in fact, cannot be realised if it is restrained by a limiting focus on consummation. To be sure, it is a vision that un-apologetically moves toward consummation, but in nonetheless concrete terms that seek deliverance in contemporary time and space. The cause of justice is grounded in the theological virtue of hope that is hopeful precisely because it emerges out of a revitalised spirituality that is authentic and true. It advances the plot of a biblical story that is full of promise.
Justice, therefore, that accords with the words of Isaiah cannot be conceived of apart from the adoption of transcultural values that Christopher Wright helpfully refers to as “redeemed economics.” Assumed in a value orientation of this kind is unequivocal impartiality (see Leviticus 19:15 and Exodus 23:3) that rejects the temptation to elevate the disadvantaged and marginalised to special status, even as it requires the advantaged to pursue just distribution. At the same time, it refuses to condone the perpetual social advance of the advantaged at the expense of the marginalised who are due not only compassion, but justice.
One of the implications of anticipated eschatology, however, that does justice to passages like Isaiah 58:1-12, is the need for a radical inversion of the criteria of honour and shame. Jesus is plainly informed by the vision of Isaiah (see Luke 4:14-30) in the kingdom agenda he pursues throughout the gospels, some of which is undoubtedly worked out in his deliberate example of inversion when it comes to both the sinful and the disadvantaged. As Evelyn Thibeaux has admirably argued, Jesus clearly “incarnated inversion” by honouring the wisdom of the simple, preferring the company of the ostracised, proclaiming a gospel for the poor and being disadvantaged himself. At the same time, he delivered lengthy diatribes aimed at shaming the general and overt hypocrisy of the advantaged. In the midst of it, Jesus might be legitimately warned as to the outcome of such dangerous honesty, but he could not be accused of partiality.
Radical inversion must take its cue from a story line that gives due attention to both the eighth-century prophets and to Jesus of the gospels. It must also be practically located within a communal context whereby incarnational inversion is given material content by the church as the body of Christ. For me, all of this urgently suggests that new and existing communities of faith must seriously entertain various callings and approaches to downward rather than upward mobility. If nothing else, it behoves us to ask the relevant questions. How do we demonstrate Christ in this way? How do incarnational models inform our living and lifestyle choices? Who in our midst has special vocations in this regard? Where and for whom do we plant new churches? How can the rich best adopt the practises of downward mobility? How can the rich best be utilised in communal commitments to downward mobility?
As this happens, perhaps the vision of Isaiah and the agenda of Jesus will take shape and emerge more fully in the world. Missional passion will not be lessened, but only broadened and instilled with greater integrity. If Isaiah can be trusted, light will break out, recovery will spring forth and righteousness will advance. And the beauty of God (the glory of the Lord) shall be revealed.