Purging and Refurbishing the Imagination

Why all the imagery in the last book of the Bible, the book of Revelation?

This is one of the questions I try to answer in my forthcoming book.

My answer is three-fold:

  1. the imaginative literature in Scripture helps us value the gift of imagination God has given us;
  2. the imaginative literature in Scripture sparks our growth in godliness; and
  3. the imaginative literature in Scripture introduces us to a theology of our world.

In my book I tackle 1 and 2 and explain why I think Christians should read fictional books to cultivate our God-given imagination. And I explain how developing skills to read fiction literature has in turn helped me read the imagery in Revelation. But due to space in my book, and in hopes of keeping the book as simple as possible, I was unable to deal with 3 and I want to more fully explain this point, with help from a few paragraphs out of Richard Baukham’s The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge University, 1993). In that book Bauckham explains that the Apostle John does not write in the imaginative form to dazzle us with his literary skill, but he writes in imaginative form to exercise theological motives.

The power, the profusion and the consistency of the symbols have a literary-theological purpose. They create a symbolic world which readers can enter so fully that it affects them and changes their perception of the world.

Most ‘readers’ were originally, of course, hearers. Revelation was designed for oral enactment in Christian worship services. Its effect would therefore be somewhat comparable to a dramatic performance, in which the audience enter the world of the drama for its duration and can have their perception of the world outside the drama powerfully shifted by their experience of the world of the drama. Many of the apocalypses could have something of this effect. But Revelation’s peculiarly visual character and peculiar symbolic unity give it a particular potential for communicating in this way. It is an aspect of the book to which we shall return. (10)

He returns to this “symbolic world” point just a few pages later.

We have already noticed the unusual profusion of visual imagery in Revelation and its capacity to create a symbolic world which its readers can enter and thereby have their perception of the world in which they lived transformed.

To appreciate the importance of this we should remember that Revelation’s readers in the great cities of the province of Asia were constantly confronted with powerful images of the Roman vision of the world. Civic and religious architecture, iconography, statues, rituals and festivals, even the visual wonder of cleverly engineered ‘miracles’ (cf. Rev. 13:13–14) in the temples—all provided powerful visual impressions of Roman imperial power and of the splendor of pagan religion.

In this context, Revelation provides a set of Christian prophetic counter-images which impress on its readers a different vision of the world: how it looks from the heaven…The visual power of the book effects a kind of purging of the Christian imagination, refurbishing it with alternative visions of how the world is and will be. (17)

So what’s the point? What is Revelation teaching us today? In the conclusion to his book, Bauckham wraps these points together.

We have suggested that one of the functions of Revelation was to purge and to refurbish the Christian imagination. It tackles people’s imaginative response to the world, which is at least as deep and influential as their intellectual convictions. It recognizes the way a dominant culture, with its images and ideals, constructs the world for us, so that we perceive and respond to the world in its terms.

Moreover, it unmasks this dominant construction of the world as an ideology of the powerful which serves to maintain their power. In its place, Revelation offers a different way of perceiving the world which leads people to resist and to challenge the effects of the dominant ideology. (159–160)

In the previous paragraphs Bauckham helps us answer these important questions: What is the purpose of our God-given imaginations? And what is the function of Revelation’s images?

The book of Revelation engages our imaginations until we see the world in new and radical images. These images help us see past the dominant ideologies of our loud culture, the everyday ideologies that we simply assume and ingest daily like thoughtless breaths of air. The images in Revelation expose us to the world again, but in new and shocking ways, breaking into our imaginations and offering us a new alien way of looking at the world.

God has given us the gift of imagination. The book of Revelation comes alongside us to purge and refurbish that imagination, providing us with a profoundly fresh theological angle on the world that we have grown familiar with.

Reading Classic Literature For Spiritual Edification

How do Christians read classical literature for spiritual edification?

Jim Hamilton provides us with one nice model, not only in how he thoughtfully cites excerpts from literature in his recent book on biblical theology, but more recently in how he connects Mark 12 and the plot of Herman Melville’s novel Moby Dick. See Hamilton’s blog post: “Tenants, Traps, Teaching, and the Meaning of Melville’s ‘Moby Dick.’”

Preachers should take note of how Hamilton enlists classic literature for his sermon illustrations. Too frequently preachers draw their illustrations from entertainment world when classic literature abounds with even better and more useful sermon illustrations, illustrations that simultaneously reinforce the value and importance of reading to his congregation.

Washing Feet

Washing feet in the ancient culture was as common and necessary as brushing teeth is today. But washing someone else’s feet was a task reserved only for the lowest slave. Feet-washing slaves had hit bottom in the socio-economic scale. In fact “in a household without servants,” Richard Bauckham writes, “everyone washed their own feet” (The Testimony, 192).

Jesus assumes the position of a low slave when he washes the disciples’ feet in John 13:1–20. The disciples were embarrassed by his act. It didn’t make sense. But what’s not to understand? The disciples had dirty feet and needed them cleaned. Yet there was meaning to the event that the disciples couldn’t perceive. In the middle of the narrative Jesus says, “What I am doing you do not understand now, but afterward you will understand” (v. 7).

Hold that thought.

If foot washing was the task of a slave, the cross was a unique threat to the slave class. Crucifixion was a Roman convention commonly reserved for rebellious slaves, a useful tool to prevent rebellion among the slave class, and a useful tool to make an example of lawbreaking slaves and any slaves connected to the guilty slave (see the story recorded by Tacitus in The Annals, 14.42-45).

Jesus’ foot washing act begins to make sense. Jesus takes the position of a slave, serves like a slave, washes the disciples feet like a slave, because ultimately he is preparing to die the degrading death of a slave (Phil. 2:7–8).

The disciples could not fully understand this point when Jesus lowered himself to his knees with a basin of water. This single act was significant for many reasons: here we find that no act is beneath the Christian; we find a model of Christian service to others; etc. But most significantly, in the foot washing we find a metaphor for the cross. The disciples could not see this, not here, not now. The full explanation for why Jesus washed their feet would only become clear after the substitutionary atonement of the Savior. Then they would understand that in the cross we find complete cleansing–head to toe–from all our sin.

Reading Newton’s Mail

For the past few months I’ve been writing a blog series titled “Reading Newton’s Mail.” The series features edifying excerpts from the precious pastoral letters penned by John Newton (1725–1807). I muse on the excerpts a bit and then publish my thoughts in a series that runs on Fridays over on C.J. Mahaney’s blog. Today I posted #12:

  1. Reading Newton’s Mail (introduction to Newton)
  2. Aiming High, Missing Low, Aiming High Again
  3. When Humility Is Pride
  4. The Value of Spiritual Simplicity
  5. What to Do When Your Pastor Preaches a Sermon Dud
  6. How NOT to Listen to Sermons
  7. The Weight of Preaching
  8. Pray for Your Pastor
  9. Newton’s Theology of Revolution
  10. Spiritual Depression: An Interview with John Newton
  11. The Worst Sinner in the Room
  12. A Vacationers’ View of the Ocean

Books for the Beach

The blog has been quiet recently. Last week I was busy making final edits to the Lit! manuscript. On Friday I stuffed the manuscript with all my handwritten edits into a FedEx envelope and shipped it back to my editor. The last 18 months have been a lot of fun and I hope to reminisce a bit on the blog later this summer about the writing experience, what I learned, the interesting books I read, the interesting people I met along the way, etc.

This week the blog will be again quiet since I’m enjoying some time with the family at the beach (obx). It has been quite a lot of fun and I have enjoyed quite a lot of time to read on this trip. Anticipating this free time I brought two books with me: Jonathan Edwards’ Charity and Its Fruits (Gerstner edition) and Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables (Rose translation).

Don Carson calls Les Miz “magnificent” and an illustration of how “God’s love so transforms us that we mediate it to others, who are thereby transformed” [Difficult Doctrine of the Love of God, 82].

Edwards and Hugo work nicely together. Edwards expounds love, Hugo models love. The one explains from Scripture the importance and value of love, the other reveals the radical life of one loving man. Edwards encourages me to love because of God’s value on love. Hugo encourages me to love because of Monseigneur Bienvenu’s loving life. Edwards does what great sermons are intended to do: biblically illuminate, convince, and then move to action. Hugo does what great literature can do: delight the reader and then instruct.

Edward is direct, Hugo is indirect, yet both authors are working on my hard heart, softening it one line after another, pulverizing my pride, dulling the edges of my self-centeredness, just like the ceaseless ocean waves rolling and smashing the hardest rocks, broken glass, and the sharpest shells, by first taking off the edges and then breaking them down again into sand with its peaceful violence.

The End of Blood Sacrifices

B. B. Warfield, Works 2:434–35:

Wherever the Christian religion went, there blood-sacrifice ceased to be offered—just as the tapers [thin candles] go out when the sun rises. Christ’s death was recognized everywhere where it became known as the reality of which they were the shadows. Having offered His own body once for all and by this one offering perfected forever them that are sanctified, it was well understood that there remained no more offering for sin. “The death of Christ,” says Harnack—“of this there can be no doubt—made an end to blood-sacrifices in the history of religion.”