One of my graduate school professors said at the beginning of his first lecture in a class in Greek New Testament interpretation: "Gentlemen, you can take the Bible literally, or you can take it seriously." It turns out that he was quoting one of his better-known colleagues in the field. Nevertheless, knowing that has never dimmed the brilliance of the line for me. It really is a choice: you take the Bible literally, and biblical interpretation leads you in one direction. You take it seriously, and it leads you in an entirely different way.
Taking the Bible or any of its texts literally is what has ever caused turmoil in Christianity and among aspiring Christians. It is what gives rise to the conflict between the proponents of evolution and those of "intelligent" design/creationism, i.e., between science and ideologically driven pseudo-science. It is what is causing the schism in the Anglican communion over whether those odd verses in Leviticus and Romans (Leviticus 18:22, 29 and Romans 1:26-27) should be taken literally as applying to 21st century sexual mores or as reflecting those of the eras and cultures from which they came.
In other words, is a consideration of those verses to be a lesson in what is and is not permissible now, or is it a study of past epochs and their assumptions about reality? Is it to be a vehicle for discerning the will and law of an imagined deity, or for figuring out what people in earlier times thought about certain aspects of sexual morality and why?
To gain any helpful understanding of any text of antiquity, its culture and context must be taken into consideration -- whether it is found in Torah, Talmud, the Dead Sea scrolls, one of the Christian gospels, Koran or the Upanishads.
The gospel reading for this coming Sunday (May 3) will reveal to the attentive what appears to have been a late first century CE conflict in a nascent Christian community over who was in and who was out, who was to remain connected and who was to be cut off. It may be that the author of the gospel was pressing the case of an emerging orthodoxy against those who dissented from it. See what you think.
If in real estate and business, it's "location, location, location," in a fuller appreciation of the Fourth Gospel, it's "context, context, context." And that on more than one level. It is important to see the vine-and-branches material in the gospel text at hand in relation to the final discourse lines immediately preceding in Chapter 14. Many who deal with these texts have figured that 14:31a was the original ending of the final or farewell discourse - though as one can see, it seems to go on for another two chapters.
Maybe this prolixity represents reluctance on the part of the author to accept a final departure of Jesus from his literary drama. After all, John can't seem to let Easter go - see 20: 14-17, 19-23, 26-29 and 21: 4-22 - four separate and in no way definitively final post-resurrection appearances.
The vine-and-branches metaphor in the first century CE would have been understood as connoting an on-going relationship of nurture. The "vine" in this case is Jesus who seems to hang around in the post-crucifixion community in a corporeal but not so corporeal way: now appearing through closed doors, then displaying palpable flesh, etc.
In any event, it is this going-away, not-going-away Jesus who is the connective tissue joining and nurturing the branches. Ah, but every branch does not bear fruit. Why? Because it is not nurtured? Here is where the analogy breaks down.
John, of course, is likening the vine to a community organized around the stories of Jesus and, perhaps, his ethical teaching. Some members of the community are more productive than others. Some "bear fruit;" some do not.
The latter are lopped off. Does John believe this is an ordained law of moral judgment or merely a consequence? Any horticulturalist, amateur or professional, will tell you that dead or dying branches impair the health of the vine. They must be pruned away to encourage proper growth.
The context for such ideas may have been those late first century communities that were in flux. Was the argument over what was orthodox and what was not? Was John saying that it was better to cut off recalcitrant branches (or members or groups) for the sake of cleansing the community of clarifying its identity and beliefs? By the end of that first century there seems to have been a great deal of animosity between synagogue Judaism and Jesus Judaism, so the figure of lopping off of non-fruit-bearing branches may have more than a hint of retribution to it.
It is worth saying that neither the Christian religion in general nor any particular aspect of it is a one-size-fits-all entity, and that it is not necessarily everyone's cup of tea. More power to those who relish its beliefs and practices and who encourage others to become part of it. Likewise: power to those who say, "Not for me any longer" or "Not for me to begin with." That goes for any religious belief system.
One can be religious without being a believer. One can subscribe to and practice the ethical tenets of a religion without buying into its theology. That aside, what about us non-believers, whom the gospel reading of this day would classify as candidates for pruning from the vine?
When I explain to an audience that I am an "unbeliever," I am stared at in disbelief inasmuch as I am known to be a priest of the Episcopal Church. I also frequently introduce myself as "an atheist," then, waiting for the collective gasp, add "in that I am not a theist."
And that's what I mean by classifying myself as an "unbeliever." I cannot and I do not embrace the conventional belief system of theistic Christianity. Frankly, I do not know how anyone living in a world of Twitter, the Internet, astrophysics and space travel can. I do not know how anyone living in the knowledge of and benefiting from the epoch-making work of Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Darwin and Einstein can.
I have written elsewhere at length* about the deleterious effects of mandating the recitation of the Apostles' Creed (ca. 200 CE) or the Nicene Creed (ca. 325 CE) during the liturgy, as if a congregation of 21st century persons was actually expected thereby to be giving intellectual assent to the terms of those confessions of faith.
The zealots of the far-right wings of Judaism, Christianity and Islam tend to demonize what they call unbelievers, heretics and infidels. Such demonization is based on the rock-solid certitude that characterizes fundamentalists: they know the truth; all else is falsehood.
I am responsible neither for ultra-Orthodox Judaism nor for militant Islam. For that matter, I am not responsible for Christian �ber-fundamentalism, either. But bearing upon my person the stamp of Christianity by virtue of birth and upbringing, I accept responsibility for the tradition. Part of exercising that responsibility is to be a critic.
The Christianity that can be inferred from the gospels is largely inclusive and non-judgmental ("Judge not, that ye be not judged;" "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone"). It is a religion (from the Latin "religare" -- to be self-restrained) largely of minding one's own business, of turning the other cheek, of forgiving as often as it takes and, yes, loving the enemy. When public witness is indicated, a religion of this sort will make its case, practice what its case requires and let it go at that.
* Christianity Beyond Creeds, 1997, Center for Rational Christianity, ISBN 0-9660728-0-4
