Formative Feasting: Practices and Virtue Ethics in Deuteronomy’s Tithe Meal and the Corinthian Lord’s Supper (Studies in Biblical Literature, 176) [1 ed.] 9781433190032, 9781433190179, 9781433190186, 1433190036

Table of contents :
Cover
Table of Contents
List of Figures
Editor’s Preface
Acknowledgments
List of Abbreviations
Introduction
Part I Constructing a Theory of Formative Practices
Chapter One: Sources for a Theory of Formative Practices: Virtue Ethics
Chapter Two: Sources for a Theory of Formative Practices: Ritual and Liturgical Ethics
Chapter Three: Formative Practices in the Context of Holistic Ecclesial Formation: A Constructive Account
Part II Formative Practices, Holistic Ecclesial Formation, and the Deuteronomic Tithe Meal
Chapter Four: Feasting for Fear of the Lord: Eating the Tithe and Acquiring Virtue in Deuteronomy 14:22–29
Chapter Five: Forgetful Feasting: Meals and Moral Formation in the Frame of Deuteronomy
Part III Formative Practices, Holistic Ecclesial Formation, and the Lord’s Supper in Corinth
Chapter Six: Approaching the Meal: Morally Formative Practices … In Paul?
Chapter Seven: Forward Unto Virtue: The Lord’s Supper in 1 Corinthians 11:17–34 as a Formative Practice
Chapter Eight: Conclusion
Bibliography
Index
Select Scripture Index
Series Page

Citation preview

Advance Praise for

Formative Feasting: Practices and Virtue Ethics in Deuteronomy’s Tithe Meal and the Corinthian Lord’s Supper “Michael Rhodes’s Formative Feasting is a stunning example of the benefits that accompany a truly interdisciplinary and intertestamental approach to the Bible, theology, and ethics. Don’t be fooled by the textual foci, as important as Deuteronomy and 1 Corinthians are. Readers will gain much insight about these texts here, but this book is just as much about virtue ethics, ritual and liturgical ethics, and ecclesial formation. All by itself Part I of this volume is a tour de force that can stand alone and is well worth the price of the book. Rhodes models and then demonstrates what difference the Bible, theology, and ethics can make when they are pressed down, shaken together, and then, run over!” —​Brent A. Strawn, Professor of Old Testament and Professor of Law, Duke University

“A hermeneutic of virtue formation is fresh and much needed in biblical interpretation. It is also demanding. With flair, depth and range Michael demonstrates the fecundity of such an approach to the Bible, with a focus on feasting in both the Old Testament and the New. This work is a major scholarly achievement and will also be of great service to the church. My hope is that Michael’s work will call forth further research in this area.” —​Rev Dr. Craig G Bartholomew, Director, the Kirby Laing Centre for Public Theology in Cambridge “In Formative Feasting, Michael Rhodes offers a rich study on the tithe feast of Deuteronomy 14 and the Lord’s Supper in 1 Corinthians 11. By drawing upon virtue ethics, ritual and liturgical studies, and biblical studies, Rhodes convincingly displays how these feasts were meant to form virtue within the communities of Ancient Israel and early Christianity. Highly recommended, especially for those interested in theological interpretation!” —​Dr. Andrew Abernethy, Associate Professor of Old Testament, Wheaton College

“Rhodes accomplishes a rare feat: He brings together recent analyses of Hebrew Bible and New Testament passages with theological ethics and formation. As a result, the book offers an exciting, cross-​disciplinary conversation that will bear fruit for biblical scholars, theologians, and pastors. And all this in a discussion on food!” —​Dr. Peter Altmann, Postdoctoral Researcher in Hebrew Bible, University of Zurich

“Michael Rhodes’s compelling study is a veritable feast of integrative analysis. Rhodes superbly captures the character-​formative power of the Deuteronomic tithe-​meal and the Lord’s Supper as prescribed by Paul. In so doing, Rhodes brings together virtue ethics, ritual studies, and socio-​economic analysis, all for a theological purpose: to model beloved community.” —​Dr. William P. Brown, William Marcellus McPheeters Professor of Old Testament, Columbia Theological Seminary “This is a truly remarkable book that weaves together an illuminating examination of key biblical texts with a profound analysis of the significance of practices in the formation of individual character and social virtues. Michael Rhodes here offers a brilliant exemplar of theological interpretation of Scripture, which at the same time makes a powerful case for the importance of (eucharistic) meals in ecclesial formation and social engagement.” —​John M.G. Barclay, Lightfoot Professor of Divinity, Durham University

Formative Feasting

Studies in Biblical Literature Hemchand Gossai General Editor Vol. 176

The Studies in Biblical Literature series is part of the Peter Lang Humanities list. Every volume is peer reviewed and meets the highest quality standards for content and production.

PETER LANG New York • Bern • Berlin Brussels • Vienna • Oxford • Warsaw

Michael J. Rhodes

Formative Feasting Practices and Virtue Ethics in Deuteronomy’s Tithe Meal and the Corinthian Lord’s Supper

PETER LANG New York • Bern • Berlin Brussels • Vienna • Oxford • Warsaw

Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Control Number: 2021048938

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek. Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the “Deutsche Nationalbibliografie ” ; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://​dnb.d-​nb.de/​.

ISSN 1089-​0645 ISBN 978-​1-​4331-​9003-​2 (hardcover) ISBN 978-​1-​4331-​9017-​9 (ebook pdf ) ISBN 978-​1-​4331-​9018-​6 (epub) DOI 10.3726/​b18591 © 2022 Michael J. Rhodes Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York 80 Broad Street, 5th floor, New York, NY 10004 www.peterlang.com All rights reserved. Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm, xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited.

To Robby Holt a pastor, mentor, scholar, co-​worker, and friend far beyond my deserving

Oh, take and eat; all the work is done. Stretch out your feet in the Sabbath sun. With this bread old ambitions break, and as we pour the wine, we feel our hungry hearts awake to the meal we could not make, to the meal we could not make. “The Meal We Could Not Make” Son of Laughter

Table of Contents

List of Figures Editor’s Preface Acknowledgments List of Abbreviations  Introduction

Part I  Constructing a Theory of Formative Practices Chapter One:  Sources for a Theory of Formative Practices: Virtue Ethics Chapter Two:  Sources for a Theory of Formative Practices: Ritual and Liturgical Ethics  Chapter Three:  Formative Practices in the Context of Holistic Ecclesial Formation: A Constructive Account  Part II  Formative Practices, Holistic Ecclesial Formation, and the Deuteronomic Tithe Meal Chapter Four:  Feasting for Fear of the Lord: Eating the Tithe and Acquiring Virtue in Deuteronomy 14:22–​29 

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7 37 51

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Chapter Five:  Forgetful Feasting: Meals and Moral Formation in the Frame of Deuteronomy 

133

Part III  Formative Practices, Holistic Ecclesial Formation, and the Lord’s Supper in Corinth Chapter Six:  Approaching the Meal: Morally Formative Practices . . . In Paul?  159 Chapter Seven:  Forward Unto Virtue: The Lord’s Supper in 1 Corinthians 11:17–​34 as a Formative Practice  187 Chapter Eight:  Conclusion 231 Bibliography 243 Index271 Select Scripture Index 281

Figures

Figure 3.1. Moral Formation within a Particular Ecclesial Community Figure 3.2. Ecclesial Formation within a Cultural Context  Figure 3.3. Continuum of Responses to Cultural Formation Outside the Congregation  Figure 3.4. Moral Formation by the Power of the Spirit and with the Grain of the Universe

61 63 64 68

Editor’s Preface

More than ever the horizons in biblical literature are being expanded beyond that which is immediately imagined; important new methodological, theological, and hermeneutical directions are being explored, often resulting in significant contributions to the world of biblical scholarship. It is an exciting time for the academy as engagement in biblical studies continues to be heightened. This series seeks to make available to scholars and institutions, scholarship of a high order, and which will make a significant contribution to the ongoing biblical discourse. This series includes established and innovative directions, covering general and particular areas in biblical study. For every volume considered for this series, we explore the question as to whether the study will push the horizons of biblical scholarship. The answer must be yes for inclusion. In this volume, based on a revised version of the author’s PhD dissertation, Michael Rhodes examines the ethical and theological implications of biblical meals as the basis for Christian practice. Rhodes brings to this examination his personal wrestling with the role of wealthier western Christians and their moral responsibility to attend to the plight of the global poor. In this regard, he addresses the questions by crafting a dialogue between theological ethics and the theological interpretation of scripture. Neither theological ethics nor interpretation of scripture functions in isolation in this respect. In particular, Rhodes centers on two texts, namely the tithe feast in Deuteronomy 14:22–​27 and the communal Lord’s

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Supper in 1 Corinthians 11:17–​34. By focusing on both the Old Testament and the New Testament texts, Rhodes establishes through a copious and detailed exploration the idea that moral formation of meals and the feeding of the poor is biblically pervasive. Given the direction of this study, there is the intentional intersection of Old Testament interpretation, New Testament interpretation and theological ethics. This is an important and timely scholarly examination that will have significant implications for Christians and the Church. The result is a study that is certain to generate ongoing discourse, and will not only further expand the biblical horizon, but will do so in a direction that invites further conversation. The horizon has been expanded. Hemchand Gossai Series Editor

Acknowledgments

The present work is an edited version of my dissertation, completed at Trinity College Bristol/​University of Aberdeen, and defended in 2019. The long journey of writing this book has relentlessly reminded me of two truths. First, all our work is, at bottom, a gift given to us by the lord Jesus, and second, one of the primary ways he gives such gifts is through the gift-​giving of other members of his body. As an act of gratitude, then, it is appropriate to name a few of those through whom God has given me such gifts. I am grateful beyond words for the numerous scholars who generously provided input and encouragement on this project at key points, including Stanley Hauerwas, Joel Green, Gordon McConville, Bill Davis, Rollin Grams, Ryan O’Dowd, Phillip Lasater, Arthur Keefer, N.T. Wright, and Walter Moberly. Brian Brock and Phil Ziegler’s input as internal examiners deepened my understanding of the field of theological ethics immensely. John Barclay, Chris Wright, Julien Smith, and Danny Carroll R.’s generosity in conversation and engagement continues to humble me. Moreover, I am particularly grateful for the sustained, ongoing guidance and friendship I have received from Dru Johnson, Peter Altmann, Kelly Kapic, and Mark Glanville. Special mention also must be made of Brian Fikkert, a mentor and friend whose constant dialogue and encouragement have been indispensable, academically and otherwise. I am also overwhelmingly grateful for Brent

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Strawn’s generosity, first as an external examiner of my dissertation, and afterwards as a friend, mentor, and champion for this book. I am grateful to all the staff, past and present, of the Memphis Center for Urban and Theological Studies (including you, Catlin!), where I served as a faculty member while conducting the majority of the research and writing for this book. My colleagues’ friendship and engagement has been invaluable, not only academically, but also in envisioning a church that embodies the Deuteronomic tithe-​feast and Corinthian eucharist today. I am likewise grateful for my colleagues at Carey Baptist College, whose hospitality from afar has been overwhelming, and whose encouragement (and in Siong Ng’s case, generous library support!) helped get this book across the finish line. Speaking of libraries, I am grateful to Clint Banz and the library staff of Lancaster Bible College and to Bob Turner and the library staff of Harding School of Theology, who made this research possible. Thanks to Justin Lonas for his friendship and willingness to create the diagrams in Chapter Three, based only on my ugly MS Word versions. The staff and faculty of Trinity College not only made Trinity a wonderful place to do PhD research, but also contributed significantly to my thinking; on this count, I should mention specifically Justin Stratis, Jamie Davies, David Firth, and, in particular, Jon Coutts, who, in his friendship, interest, and critical engagement, was like a third supervisor for this project. I am also grateful for Alison Walker, Joshua Heavin, Michael Spalione, Bruce Henning, Jeremy Meeks, Michelle Stinson, Andy Stager, and many other current or former students at Trinity who have become friends these last four years; whether arguing in our (virtual) seminars, watching one another’s work develop and contributing where we can, or staying up far too late every night of conference, our friendship has made the journey more joyful and the work far richer. Portions of Chapters Three and Seven appeared previously and in adapted form in Michael J. Rhodes, “Arranging the Chairs in the Beloved Community: The Politics, Problems, and Prospects of Multi-​Racial Congregations in 1 Corinthians and Today,” Studies in Christian Ethics (2019), 510–​28; and idem., “ ‘Forward unto Virtue’: Formative Practices and 1 Corinthians 11:17–​34,” Journal for Theological Interpretation II.1 (2017): 119–​138. In connection with the Society of Biblical Literature, thanks also are due to Cynthia Shafer-​ Elliott, Dorothea Erbele-​ Kuester, and the leadership of the Meals in the HB/​OT section, as well as Michael Barram and the leadership of the Missional Hermeneutics section for inviting me to present portions of the present research at the 2017 and 2018 annual meetings, respectively. The feedback and engagement I received was both challenging and invigorating.

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I cannot imagine a PhD student more blessed in supervision. D. Stephen Long—​whose work on theology and economics inspired me long before I started this project—​proved to be perfectly equipped to help me get my mind around the immense field of theological ethics and its role in biblical interpretation. In his commitment to scholarship and to the church, Steve has provided a mentor worthy of imitation. And what I shall I say about Craig Bartholomew? Craig treated me like an old friend years before I became his student; welcomed me into his home; relentlessly encouraged me not only as a researcher, but also as a husband, father, church member, neighbor, and friend; provided feedback and guidance of the most essential kind; and welcomed me into a rich, scholarly community associated with the Kirby Laing Centre for Public Theology at Cambridge (you know who you are!). Craig has modelled a generosity of spirit in scholarship, a commitment to friendship and the life of the church, and an intoxicating taste for interdisciplinary work that I expect none of his students will ever forget. Nor will I forget the many long, late night chats on streets outside cafes at SBL. May they continue for years to come! This book, though, is ultimately about formation through practice, about the way that we become who we are through life lived in community. If I have received lavish gifts beyond my deserving in terms of the academic community, I have been equally blessed by my friends outside the academic guild. In particular, I am grateful to the men and women of the Option 105 Winterfest, the annual 4th of the 5th, my South Memphis neighbors, members of our community group there, the staff (past and present) of Advance Memphis, all of those involved with the Chalmers Center, and all of our friends at New City Fellowship-​Nairobi and Downtown Church. I am also grateful to those who have pastored me from these marvelous congregations: Richard Rieves, Michael Davis, Chris Davis, Joe Mutuuki, and the late Shafkhat Khan—​of whom the world was not worthy. Nearly last but certainly not least, I owe enormous gratitude and love to my family: to “Aunt Katie,” “Uncle B,” Waverley, and Lenna; to mom and dad in all of their relentless encouragement and support; and to Isaiah, Ames, Nova, and Jubilee for making the sun shine brighter and the sky bluer. But most of all for Rebecca, who is always, endlessly, overwhelmingly better than I could possibly deserve. In you I have not simply found the proverbial “valiant woman;” I have found an irreplaceable friend, an ever-​curious conversation partner (even when we’re still talking about practices!), a lover in whom I delight, a co-​laborer under the gracious reign of our good king. Finally and at last, this book is dedicated to Robby Holt: pastor, mentor, scholar, co-​worker, and friend. Not because most of my best ideas began with you (which they did!), but because you remain one of my favorite people to work them out with. May we feast often together in the days ahead, and always for the better!

Abbreviations

ABC Anchor Bible Commentary AGRW Associations in the Greco-​Roman World: An Expanding Collection of Inscriptions, Papyri, and Other Sources in Translation. Edited by Philip A. Harland. Available at http://​philip​harl​and.com/​greco-​roman-​assoc​ iati​ons/​. ANE Ancient Near East ANET Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, 3rd ed. Edited by James B. Pritchard. ANTC Abingdon New Testament Commentaries AOTC Abingdon Old Testament Commentaries AV Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 3rd ed. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007. BDAG Greek-​English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, 3rd ed. Revised and edited by Frederick William Danker. University of Chicago Press, 2000. BDB Brown, Francis. S. R. Driver, and Charles Briggs, James Strong, and Wilhelm Gesenius. The Brown-​Driver-​Briggs Hebrew and English Lexicon: With an Appendix Containing the Biblical Aramaic: Coded with the numbering System from Strong’s Exhaustive concordance of the Bible. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1996.

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BECNT BZAW CBR EncJud

Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Currents in Biblical Research Encyclopaedia Judaica. Edited by Cecil Roth and Geoffrey Wigoder. 26 vols. New York: MacMillan, 1971–​1991. Eth. nic. Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by H. Rackham. LCL. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1934. GRA Greco-​Roman Associations: Texts, Translations, and Commentary. New York: de Gruyter, 2011—​. John S. Kloppenborg, Philip A. Harland, and Richard S. Ascough. HALOT Hebrew and Aramic Lexicon of the Old Testament. Ludwig Koehler, Walter Baumgartner, and Johann J. Stamm. Translated and edited under the supervision of Mervyn E. J. Richardson. 4 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1994–​1999. HB Hebrew Bible HTR Harvard Theological Review IDelos Roussel, Pierre, and Marcel Launey. Inscriptions de Délos: Décrets postérieurs à 166 av. J.-​C. (nos. 1497–​1524). Dédicaces postérieures à 166 av. J.-​C. (nos. 1525–​2219). Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-​lettres. Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion, 1937. JPS Jewish Publication Society JSNT Journal for the Study of the New Testament JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament JSOT Supp. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplementary Series JTS The Journal of Theological Studies LCL Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. LXX Septuagint Mem. “On Memory.” In Aristotle. On the Soul. Parva Naturalia. On Breath. Translated by W.S. Hett. LCL. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957. NCBC New Cambridge Bible Commentary NIBC New International Biblical Commentary NICNT The New International Commentary on the New Testament NICOT New International Commentary on the Old Testament NIDOTTE New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis. Edited by Willem A. VanGemeren. 5 vols. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1997. NIGTC New International Greek Text Commentary

newgenprepdf

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NPNF Nicene and Post-​Nicene Fathers NSBT New Studies in Biblical Theology NTS New Testament Studies OT Old OTL Old Testament Library PNTC Pillar New Testament Commentary SJT Scottish Journal of Theology ST Aquinas, Thomas. The Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas. Translated by Fathers of the English Dominican Province. 2nd ed. 21 vols. London, UK: Burns Oates & Washbourne, 1920–​1935. TDNT Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. Edited by Gerhard Kittel and Gerhard Friedrich. Translaed by Geoffrey W. Bromiley. 10 vols. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964–​1976. TDOT Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament. Edited by G. Johannes Botterweck and Helmer Ringgren. Translated by John T. Willies et al. 8 vols. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974–​2006. TLOT Theological Lexicon of the Old Testament. Edited by Ernst Jenni, with assistance from Claus Westermann. Translated by Mark E. Biddle. 3 vols. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1997. T WOT The Theological Wordbook of the Old Testament. By R. Laird Harris, Gleason L. Archer, Jr., Bruce K. Waltke. Chicago, IL: Moody Press, 1980. VGNT Vocabulary of the Greek New Testament. James H. Moulton and George Milligan. Hodder & Stoughton, 1997. WCF Westminster Confession of Faith WJWR MacIntyre, Alasdair. Whose Justice? Which Rationality? Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2003. ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft ZNW Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche

Introduction

Do biblical meals serve as formative practices that shape the character of God’s people, and if so, what difference does that make for theological ethics in our world today? This book seeks to answer this two-​fold question. To do so, we must address at least three further questions:



(1) Do practices shape human character, and if so, how should we describe this theologically? (2) If Scripture portrays certain meals as practices that shape human character, how should we describe both the way these meals do this formative work, and the shape of the individual and corporate character at which such meals aim? (3) How does such an interpretation of biblical meals help the contemporary church hear these texts as God’s address for today?

Before attempting to provide answers, however, it is worth reflecting on the concerns that have driven me to formulate the questions in this way. This project emerges primarily from my experience as an upper-​middle class white male living, worshipping, and working at a non-​profit located in an economically impoverished neighborhood. I came to our community because I had been convinced that Scripture clearly presented God’s command to his church to care

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for the socio-​economically poor and oppressed. Fairly early on, however, I came to believe that the biggest hindrance to the church embodying “good news to the poor” (Isa 61:1a) was not that I and the churches with which I was affiliated had not heard God’s command to “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God” (Micah 6:8). The larger problem was that, individually and corporately, we had not become the sorts of people capable of obeying it. The problem, in other words, was one of discipleship. It was in the midst of wrestling with these problems that I first began to explore strands within theological ethics that focus on moral formation. In particular, I began to ask what it would look like for Christians in the West, individually and corporately, to become a people capable of bearing witness to the gospel that is good news to the poor. Reading James K.A. Smith’s Desiring the Kingdom and studying under Dr. Rollin Grams, an Anabaptist-​leaning professor whose own doctoral work brought Hauerwas’s narrative ethics into dialogue with Pauline missiology, led me to explore formative practices and the virtue tradition as tools for answering these questions. I found the rich theological discussion around character formation through practice promising, but wondered whether such a hermeneutic “fit” the rhetoric and theology of Scripture. This history provides the background for both the goals and methods of this study. Methodologically, I seek to address the questions before us by bringing theological ethics and theological interpretation of Scripture into a deep, mutually informative dialogue. To accomplish this, I will first formulate a “formative practice hermeneutic,” and then test that hermeneutic through the interpretation of the Deuteronomic tithe meal (Deut 14:22–​29) and the Corinthian Lord’s Supper (1 Cor 11:17–​34). In other words, a theological, ethical account of formation through practice will serve the task of theological interpretation, while simultaneously allowing that theological interpretation to test and interrogate the theological, ethical account. This methodology bears some affinity with the work associated with the Society of Biblical Literature’s now-​ended consultation on “Character Ethics and Biblical Interpretation,”1 and especially William Brown and M. Daniel Carroll R.’s application of virtue ethics to the interpretation of the Old Testament.2 The 1 Publications emerging from this consultation include: William P. Brown, ed., Character & Scripture: Moral Formation, Community, and Biblical Interpretation (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2002); M. Daniel Carroll R. and Jacqueline E. Lapsley, eds., Character Ethics and the Old Testament: Moral Dimensions of Scripture (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2007); Robert L. Brawley, ed., Character Ethics and the New Testament: Moral Dimensions of Scripture (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2007). 2 See especially William Brown, Wisdom’s Wonder: Character, Creation, and Crisis in the Bible’s Wisdom Literature (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014); M. Daniel Carroll R., “ ‘He Has Told

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consultation’s work proves the fertility of bringing theological ethics into dialogue with biblical interpretation; I seek to expand and extend their work by applying a similar method to a monograph-​length exploration of biblical meals as formative practices.3 Why focus on the tithe feast of Deut 14:22–​29 and the Lord’s Supper in 1 Cor 11–​34? I was drawn to these two texts initially for three reasons. First, Deuteronomy’s reference to the tithe feast being eaten so that participants would “learn to fear YHWH” and Paul’s condemnation that the Lord’s Supper was for the worse rather than the better raised the question: do these texts explicitly identify moral transformation as the intended goal of these feasts? If so, then the texts themselves put moral formation through meals on the interpretive agenda, and thus might prove particularly fruitful places for theological interpretation in dialogue with a theological ethics of moral formation through practice. Second, the connection between the annual tithe feast in Deut 14:22–​27 and the triennial tithe to provide food for the Levite, orphan, widow, and vulnerable outsider in Deut 14:28–​29 suggested to me that there might be a relationship between the tithe feast and Deuteronomy’s broader socio-​economic agenda. Similarly, Paul’s explicit condemnation of the Corinthians for shaming the “have nots” at the Lord’s Supper suggested socio-​economic ethics might be central to his understanding of that feast as well. Given that my motivations for embarking on this research included a desire to understand how faith communities might develop the character necessary to do justice for the poor, I was drawn to this aspect of these two texts as well. Finally, I wanted to explore a text from both the OT4 and the NT, because I wanted to know whether the phenomenon of moral formation at meals—​if such

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You What Is Good’: Moral Formation in Micah,” in Carroll and Lapsley, Character Ethics and the Old Testament, 103–​18; idem., “Seeking the Virtues Among the Prophets: The Book of Amos as a Test Case,” Ex Auditu 17 (2001), 77–​96. Two important monographs on virtue ethics and the OT were published during the period between my dissertation defense and the publication of the present work: Patricia Vesely, Friendship and Virtue Ethics in the Book of Job (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2019) and Arthur Keefer, The Book of Proverbs and Virtue Ethics: Integrating the Biblical and Philosophical Traditions (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2020). While fully acknowledging that there are problems with referring to this collection of texts as the “Old Testament,” I have decided to use this title in the present work, not least because this book is an exercise in Christian theological interpretation, and the title “Old Testament” is the title most commonly used in contemporary Christian communities. On the other hand, the title “Hebrew Bible” also faces problems, not least the fact that it obscures the fact that these texts are not in fact all written in Hebrew.

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a phenomenon could be demonstrated—​was restricted to a single meal or instead reflected a broader pattern attested across the canon. The book that has resulted from all this is somewhat unusual in the amount of attention devoted to three disciplines often treated separately by scholars (theological ethics, OT interpretation, and NT interpretation). For me, the process of trying to engage and integrate these separate fields, beginning with the theological ethics explored in Part I, was of central importance to the overall contribution I hope Formative Feasting makes to readers of all interests. However, readers who are exclusively interested in moral formation in the Deuteronomic tithe feast or Corinthian Lord’s Supper are welcome to skip straight to Part II or III respectively. My secret hope is that those who do so will find the theological interpretation they encounter compelling enough that they feel compelled to explore the rest of the book as well. For those readers who begin at the beginning, the question facing us is this: do practices shape our character? And if so how?

PA R T I

CONSTRUCTING A THEORY OF FORMATIVE PRACTICES

CHAPTER ONE

Sources for a Theory of Formative Practices: Virtue Ethics

My aim in Part I is to construct a theological account of how practices shape our individual and corporate character. In this chapter, I focus on what is almost certainly the oldest and most theologically-​oriented tradition concerned with formation through practice: virtue ethics. I will explore this tradition by examining the virtue ethics of three prominent advocates across history: Aristotle, Aquinas, and MacIntyre. At the outset, however, it is important to note my agreement with Hauerwas and Pinches that “accounts of the virtues are there to be used by Christians, not built upon.”1 To paraphrase John Webster, the language of the classical virtue tradition is borrowed language that can “serve only when adapted and bent to new purposes.”2 In Part 1, then, I am not so much committing myself to a particular virtue tradition as mining that tradition for usable insights that can be bent to the purposes of a theological account of moral formation through practice. 1

Stanley Hauerwas and Charles Pinches, “Virtue Christianly Considered,” in Christian Theism and Moral Philosophy, ed. Michael Beaty, Carlton Fisher, and Mark Nelson (Macon, GA: Mercer University, 1998), 303. 2 John Webster, “Incarnation,” lecture given at the Carl F. H. Henry Center for Theological Understanding, September 17, 2007. Available at http://​henr​ycen​ter.tiu.edu/​resou​rce/​ imman​uel/​.

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Virtues, Practices, and Formation in Aristotle3 The renewed interest in virtue ethics depends on older traditions. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics remains undoubtedly the most important ancient source for the “classical account.”4 Practices play a central role in the Nicomachean Ethics. Aristotle argues that we acquire a particular virtue by “doing the things that we shall have to do when we have learnt it.”5 Through repeated actions aimed at a particular telos,6 we form in our character praiseworthy habits or dispositions. For Aristotle, a life lived in line with such praiseworthy dispositions, which he calls virtues, is a life lived “in accordance with nature.”7 Yet as immature humans, we are born with desires8 and propensities that are contrary to the virtuous life.9 In light of this conundrum, Aristotle argues that our natural capacity for virtue must be habituated through formative practices until the practitioner has attained maturity.10 Such maturity takes the form of a “second nature” that orients a person’s first nature towards its proper end, rendering them ready, able, and desirous to do the right thing, for the right reason, at the right time.11 Because “frequency creates nature,”

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Aristotle’s account of the virtues stands in both continuity and tension with the Platonic tradition. See Alasdair C. MacIntyre, Whose Justice? Which Rationality? (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2003), 69–​70, 85. 4 Colin D. Miller, The Practice of the Body of Christ: Human Agency in Pauline Theology after MacIntyre, Princeton Theological Monograph Series (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2014), 9. 5 Aristotle, Eth. nic. II.i.4–​7 [Rackham LCL]. 6 Aristotle, Eth. nic. I.i.1–​5. 7 Hellen Cullyer,“The Social Virtues (NE iv),”in The Cambridge Companion to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Cambridge Companions to Philosophy, ed. Ronald M. Polansky (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 135. 8 Tom P. S. Angier, Techne in Aristotle’s Ethics: Crafting the Moral Life, Continuum Studies in Ancient Philosophy (London: Continuum, 2010), 113. 9 Rachana Kamtekar, “The Relationship between Aristotle’s Ethical and Political Discourses (NE x 9),” 370. Note a problematic tension here within Aristotle’s overall account, which asserts both that the virtues are natural and that we come into the world with a nature that is disposed to vice (Aristotle, Eth. nic. X.ix.5–​9; I.viii.13–​17). 10 Aristotle, Eth. nic. II.i.1–​8. See also Angier, Techne, 107. 11 Aristotle, Eth. nic. II.i.1–​7; II.ii.8–​iii.2; II.vi.3–​7; II.vii.1–​6. See also Thornton Lockwood, “Habituation, Habit, and Character in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics,” in A History of Habit from Aristotle to Bourdieu, ed.Tom Sparrow (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2013); Stanley Hauerwas, “Habit Matters: The Bodily Character of the Virtues,” in Ecclesia and Ethics, ed. E. Allen Jones,

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habitual engagement in practices assists the practitioner in forming such a second nature.12 For Aristotle, though, character formation does not occur simply through practice, nor does moral formation occur in a linear movement that begins with habituation through practice. Instead, formation occurs through a feedback loop of mutually reinforcing elements, of which practices are one among others. The virtues are also acquired through intellectual teaching and training.13 Indeed, practice without cognitive teaching fails to make a person virtuous,14 while, paradoxically, teaching fails those not already to some extent habituated into virtue.15 For example, good parenting, child abuse, and good relationships with friends can all hinder or help a person seeking to acquire the virtues.16 In short, Aristotle recognizes that teaching, acting, desire, habit, choice, and character all flow from and back into one another in a feedback loop of mutually reinforcing elements. A good upbringing or a desire for the noble may predispose us towards virtue. However, such upbringing or desire will also make us more likely to be receptive to teaching about virtue,17 and such teaching will further entrench our practice of the virtues and deepen our desire for the noble.18 These lines of causality flow in all directions. While formative practices in Aristotle’s account include isolated actions performed by an individual, his overall view of virtue formation presupposes broader social practices in at least two ways. First, the crafts (τέχνη) provide one of Aristotle’s metaphors for formation through practice,19 suggesting that virtues are often formed through corporate practices and indicating the importance of apprentice-​like relationships in the moral life.20

John Fredrick, John Dunne, Eric Lewellen, and Janghoon Park (New York: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2016), 73. 12 Aristotle, Mem. 452a30. 13 Aristotle, Eth. nic. III.v.20–​vi. 14 Jennifer A. Herdt, Putting on Virtue: The Legacy of the Splendid Vices (Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 2008), 44; Lockwood, “Habituation,” 23. 15 Aristotle, Eth. nic. X.ix.5–​9. 16 Aristotle, Eth. nic. VII.v.6–​vi; X.ix.5. 17 Aristotle, Eth. nic. X.ix.5–​9. 18 See Gottlieb, Virtue, 209; Angiers, Techne, 110. 19 Cf. Aristotle, Eth. nic. I.i.1–​4; I.vii.1–​5; II.i.4–​7. It is important to note, however, that Aristotle explicitly argues that full virtue (phronesis) cannot be a techne because it is aimed at the good life in general, and because, whereas praxis shapes the character of the practitioner, engaging in a techne does not do so in the same way. 20 MacIntyre, WJWR, 110.

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Second, because Aristotle believes the virtues are those dispositions that empower a good person to perform their function well,21 his view of the virtues depends on his anthropology.22 That anthropology is determined by his view that “human beings are ‘animals born for citizenship’ … i.e. that life in a well-​functioning polis is both necessary and sufficient for the attainment of happiness.”23 Moral philosophy articulates the appropriate moral ends that will allow citizens to flourish as citizens. Thus Aristotle’s account of virtue both emerges from his presupposition that the good life is life lived in the polis, and considers participation within the polis one of the primary ends of the virtuous life.24

Practices and Virtues in Aristotle: An Evaluation Aristotle’s robust account of both the nature of the virtues themselves and moral formation more generally has proven of inestimable value to virtue ethicists. Aristotle’s emphasis on habituation through practice, which avoids reducing right behavior to right thinking on the one hand,25 and reducing character development to a mechanistic, non-​cognitive account on the other,26 represents a major contribution to moral philosophy. Furthermore, Aristotle’s description of the virtues as both in line with the natural order and as a “second nature” formed through the disciplining of one’s reason, desire, and moral competency sheds significant light on the process of character formation. The emphasis on the polis as essential for acquiring the virtues helpfully grounds moral formation in the life of particular communities. Despite this wealth of insight, however, from the perspective of theological ethics, there are significant problems with Aristotle’s account. First, his allegiance to the Greek polis proves deeply problematic, leading to “his defense of slavery as a natural institution and his explanation of the inferiority of the practical rationality of women.”27 21 Aristotle, Eth. nic. I.vii.13–​16. 22 Dorothea Frede, “Aristotle’s Virtue Ethics,” in Besser and Slote, Routledge Companion to Virtue Ethics, 27. 23 Ibid. 24 Kamtekar, “Ethical and Political,” 372; Alasdair MacIntyre, Ethics and Politics, Selected Essays, volume 2 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 38; MacIntyre, WJWR, 89–​107. 25 Jean Porter, “The Subversion of Virtue: Acquired and Infused Virtues in the Summa Theologiae,” The Annual of the Society of Christian Ethics (1992), 22. 26 Herdt, Putting on Virtue, 44. 27 Frede, “Aristotle’s Virtue Ethics,” 28.

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Second, Aristotle’s eudaimonism tends in an individualistic, agent-​centered direction. Aristotle describes a “scenario in which one sets out one’s own path for the attainment of one’s desires.”28 While the desires Aristotle presents as worth pursuing are social and include doing things for others, his account is undeniably “agent-​centered,” and as such justifies actions ultimately in a self-​referential way. As Wolterstorff argues, Aristotle’s account cannot make sense of such pivotal Christian themes as Jesus’s command to love others as ourselves.29 Third, many interpreters wrestle with a so-​ called “habituation gap” in Aristotle.30 Aristotle believes “we acquire virtues largely by habituation, that is, by acting as if we already possess them.”31 Such learning can happen, according to Aristotle, because “dispositions arise out of like activities;” thus we can be “enjoined to partake in certain activities in order to attain the appropriate, corresponding motivations.”32 Crucially, though, Aristotle argues the truly virtuous person takes pleasure in performing virtuous action for its own sake,33 choosing it for the right reason and having the right feelings about it.34 Since we begin the process of habituation toward virtue without being fully virtuous, without doing the virtuous acts solely for their own sakes, “we inevitably begin” acquiring the virtues “by doing the right thing for the wrong reason.”35 The question is whether Aristotle explains how people make it through this habituation gap, i.e. how “getting people to take 28 Andrew Pinsent, The Second-​Person Perspective in Aquinas’s Ethics: Virtues and Gifts, Routledge Studies in Ethics and Moral Theory (New York: Routledge, 2012), 89. 29 Indeed, Wolterstorff ’s argument is that no eudaimonistic account can make sense of Jesus’s command (Nicholas Wolterstorff, Justice: Rights and Wrongs [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010], 149–​79). There is debate as to whether Wolterstorff has confused an obviously self-​involving ethic with a self-​centered one; see D. Stephen Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Christian Ethics (New York: Lexington Books, 2018), 53–​63. For an argument for the compatibility of “other-​concern” and “self-​concern,” and indeed that ancient eudaimonism is compatible with a wide variety of perspectives on such issues, see Julia Annas, The Morality of Happiness (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 223–​326. 30 Cf. Iakovos Vasiliou, “Aristotle, Agents, and Actions,” in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics: A Critical Guide, Cambridge Critical Companions, ed. Jon Miller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 173; Angier, Techne, 109; Hallvard J. Fossheim, “Habituation as Mimesis,” in Values and Virtues: Aristotelianism in Contemporary Ethics, ed., T.D.J. Chappell (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2006); Gilbert Meilaender, The Theory and Practice of Virtue (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984), 26–​38. 31 Herdt, Putting on Virtue, 23. 32 Angier, Techne, 109. 33 Aristotle, Eth. nic. II.ii.8–​iii.2. 34 Herdt, Putting on Virtue, 27–​30. 35 Ibid., 23.

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pleasure in noble types of action will bring it about that they come to take pleasure in nobility of action per se.”36 Angier appears to come closest to providing a legitimately Aristotelian answer to the habituation gap by appealing to his statement that “[it is] pleasant for the most part to move towards a natural state of being,” since in the Nicomachean Ethics we learn that virtue itself is a “natural state.”37 Aristotle’s answer, then, may be that our delight in the good as good “crystallizes” as we not only practice moral virtue “but also grasp and feel the good of virtuous activity” because we have entered into a way of life that conforms to nature.38 Such an answer opens up serious, fruitful possibilities for our understanding of habituation. Nevertheless, at least from a theological perspective, this answer cannot explain failures in habituation. If the natural brings pleasure, why does anyone who engages in the appropriate practice fail to “make it through” the habituation gap? Finally, and perhaps most theologically problematic, Aristotle’s understanding of moral formation is almost entirely immanent. “Within Aristotle’s ethics and politics, as within his cosmology, there is no place for a divine creator or a divine lawgiver and no place for any human telos beyond that to be attained by mortals before death.”39 While one does depend on divine gifts for one’s natural disposition40 and certain virtues make one more like the gods,41 the gods offer no hope for transformation, conversion, or forgiveness. Those who for whatever reason lack a good upbringing, as well as apparently the general mass of humanity,42 have very little hope of ever becoming truly virtuous. As Porter writes, “there is undoubtedly something about this view of the moral life that grates on Christian sensibilities.”43 Nor can such a view account for the empirical evidence of moral transformation in adults who lack the sort of family and social influence Aristotle deems necessary.44 Aristotle’s overly immanent account of moral formation through practice can therefore only be seen as sub-​Christian. Scripture regularly reminds us that “none is righteous, no, not one” (Rom 3:10, ESV), that all our righteous deeds are like “filthy rags” (Isa 64:6, NIV), that we require the transforming power of God if we 36 Angier, Techne, 111. 37 Ibid., 160. 38 Ibid., 112. 39 MacIntyre, WJWR, 163. 40 Aristotle, Eth. nic. I.ix.1–​7; X.ix.5–​9. 41 Aristotle, Eth. nic. X.viii.6. 42 Aristotle, Eth. nic., X.ix.5–​9. 43 Porter, “Subversion,” 23. 44 I am thinking here not least of those who have overcome serious addictions to food, sex, alcohol, and narcotics through 12-​step support groups.

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are to ever attain new hearts and new spirits (Eze 36:26). Left only with Aristotle, moral formation through practice leads to a theological dead end. What remains is to explore whether later theorists can salvage Aristotle’s insights for the sake of Christian theology and ethics. The key challenge is to discern whether Aristotle proves “usable”45 in constructing an account of formation through practice that is faithful to the Scriptural witness that transformation depends on the action of God. We turn next, then, to the Christian theologian who made the most thoroughgoing effort to “use” Aristotle by “adapting and bending”46 his insights towards the construction of a Christian ethic: Thomas Aquinas.

Virtues, Practices, and Formation in Aquinas47 Aquinas’s robust account of virtue formation seeks to appropriate the best of the Aristotelian tradition and to integrate it with the best of the Augustinian.48 He is therefore an essential conversation partner for any theological approach to the virtues that seeks to be faithful to Scripture and avoid an uncritical Aristotelianism. One key to Aquinas’s account is his identification of two kinds of virtues, acquired and infused. The acquired virtues are dispositions or habits habituated through actions49 that dispose one either well or ill50 in relation to particular ends.51 Such dispositions are the perfection of any power residing in the soul52 that provide us with the habits necessary to act in line with the good.53 Because our understanding of “the good” provides us with a particular end or telos, these perceived good ends determine the nature of the habits that we require to attain those ends. 45 Hauerwas and Pinches, “Virtue Christianly Considered,” 303. 46 Webster, “Immanuel,” n.p. 47 A key figure between Aristotle and Aquinas is, of course, Augustine, on whose own account of the virtues see MacIntyre, WJWR, 157–​63; Herdt, Putting on Virtue, 2–​69. 48 Indeed, Aquinas’s primary definition of virtue comes through Augustine (Herdt, Putting on Virtue, 75). 49 ST I-​II q. 65, a. 1–​2. 50 ST I-​II q. 49, a. 3–​4; q. 50, a. 1; q. 52, a1. 51 ST I-​II q. 55, a. 4. The diversity of ends at which humans aim demands a diversity of virtues (ST I-​II q. 54, a. 2). 52 ST I-​II q. 55, a. 1. Aquinas’s reference to the soul here need not downplay the embodied nature of the virtues because, for him, the soul has both material and immaterial elements, and body and soul are interdependent. See ST I-​II q. 75, a. 2–​3; Gyula Klima, “Aquinas on the Materiality of the Human Soul and the Immateriality of the Human Intellect,” Philosophical Investigations 32.2 (2009), 170–​1. 53 ST I-​II q. 49, a. 4.

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Furthermore, these ends are also the first causes of actions because they represent “the good desired and loved by [any agent],” and “every agent, whatever it be, does every action from love of some kind.”54 In other words, people are first and foremost creatures who desire. Our desires become the ends we seek and the motivations for action towards those ends. Virtuous habits, then, are those habits we require to act effectively in pursuit of those goods that represent the true telos of our lives. In his treatment of acquired virtue Aquinas essentially follows Aristotle, and with Aristotle agrees that (a) actions in line with a virtue increase the habit in question,55 (b) actions that are careless or half-​hearted diminish a habit,56 and (c) sinful actions can corrupt a virtuous habit.57 Upon closer inspection, however, we find that Aquinas’s theology leads him to use this “tradition of the ‘pagan virtues’ even as [he] subverts that tradition.”58 Aquinas does so not least because Aristotle’s account leaves no room for true transformation by grace. One part of Aquinas’s solution, then, is to argue that humanity’s “happiness is twofold … one [end] is proportionate to human nature … which man can obtain by means of his natural principles.”59 It is virtue ordered to this natural end that people can attain through Aristotelian habituation.60 But humanity’s other happiness, our final and ultimate end, is “the vision of God’s essence,” the “ultimate and perfect happiness”61 which “surpasses the nature not only of man, but also of every creature.”62 That human happiness which is humanity’s “last end,” then, is nothing less than “being united to” God as the “Uncreated Good.”63 And to practice and obtain this last end, humans need habits or dispositions that dispose them “to an end which exceeds the proportion of human nature.”64 That end requires us to love God above all, and through such love to be “perfected and bettered.”65 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

ST I-​II q. 28, a. 6. ST I-​II q. 52, a. 1. ST I-​II q. 52, a. 3. ST I-​II q. 53, a.1. Porter, “Subversion,” 20. ST I-​II q. 62, a. 1. The relation between this two-​fold happiness is contested. Cf. Pinsent, Second-​ Person, 101–​4. ST I-​II q. 62, a.1, q. 63, a. 2. Although crucially even this is “not without Divine assistance,” on which see below. ST I-​II q. 51, a. 4. ST I-​II q. 5, a. 5. ST I-​II q. 3, a. 4. Robert Miner, “Aquinas on Habitus,” in Sparrow, History of Habit, 76. ST I-​II q. 28, a. 5.

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Aquinas, then, recognizes what Aristotle fails to recognize: humans are sinners, dependent on divine grace for the transformation of their character.66 This recognition renders the heart of Aquinas’s ethics completely unintelligible in strictly Aristotelian terms.67 Because of this, while Aquinas recognizes Aristotle’s acquired virtues, he argues that perfect virtue is a “good quality of the mind, by which we live righteously, of which no one can make bad use, which God works in us, without us.”68 Because the happiness which is our ultimate end exceeds our nature, these perfect virtues must be infused virtues. Infused virtues are given to believers by the power of God through “a kind of participation of the Godhead” as they become “partakers of the Divine nature (2 Pet 1:4).”69 Aquinas makes clear that the infused virtues God gives his people include all the moral virtues. Any human habits that are acquired apart from saving faith, then, are to be understood as virtues in an “imperfect” or “restricted” sense only; indeed, on this point Aquinas quotes Augustine with approval: “he that fails to acknowledge the truth, has no true virtue, even if his conduct be good.”70 The acquired virtues, so central to Aristotle, are thus radically subverted in Aquinas. Such an account seems at first glance to leave little room for moral formation through practice, jettisoning completely the role of habituation so central to Aristotle’s account. But such a conclusion falls short of the richness of Aquinas’s thought. For while infused virtues are not caused by habituation,71 they nevertheless act like acquired virtues in several key respects. First, while acts produced by an infused habit do not cause the habit, they do “strengthen the already existing habit” just as a vitamin strengthens the health of an already healthy person.72 “Each act of charity,” an infused virtue, “disposes to an increase in charity;” the virtues we possess through infusion thus take greater root in our souls as we perform actions in line with them.73 Second, contrary dispositions habituated through sinful actions can make practicing infused virtue difficult and unpleasant.74 66 MacIntyre, WJWR, 182. 67 Porter, “Subversion,” 20. 68 ST I-​II q. 55, a. 4 (italics added). 69 ST I-​II, q. 62, a. 1. 70 ST I-​II q. 65, a. 2. For Aquinas, then, infused virtues are the only virtues to be understood as virtues as such (cf. Porter, “Subversion,” 20). 71 ST I-​II q. 63, a. 4. 72 ST I-​II q. 51, a. 4. 73 ST II-​II q. 24, a. 4. Although even this is the result of the Holy Spirit’s work, as Aquinas makes clear in II-​II q.24, a.5. 74 ST I-​II q. 65, a. 3.

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In short, while the infused virtues depend on God’s grace, they involve human agency in a variety of ways, including through practice in line with the virtues in question.75 Aquinas recognizes, as Aristotle did, that character formation through practice is an essential aspect of human moral formation, but he places this insight within a larger Christian account of sin and humanity’s dependence on God for true transformation. This account provides “a rich resource for displaying how training in the virtues might occur” and points clearly to their ultimate “source” in “a special act of God which brings us into relation with God, not only forming but utterly transforming our character.”76 But it raises a problematic question: what happens to the acquired virtues once one receives the infused virtues? Our answer to this question will determine, in part, the extent to which we find Aquinas capable of using Aristotle’s insights within a truly Christian account of moral transformation. One group of scholars, perhaps the majority,77 suggests that acquired virtues coexist with the infused virtues.78 Infused virtue is required to order the acquired virtues to humanity’s final end, but this ordering does not “replace or radically supernaturalize the natural virtues,” allowing them rather to “continue to do their own work.”79 For this camp, some version of the coexistence theory is required because, as Aquinas makes clear, an infused virtue will not be easy or pleasant in the presence of acquired bad habits.80 Moreover, while many emphasize the imperfection of the acquired virtues, insufficient as they are for attaining humanity’s highest end, they nonetheless “remain necessary complements.”81 The infused virtues operate at a higher level, more proportionate to their final end in God, but they do not undermine the ongoing existence of the acquired virtues.82 For Ferry, for instance, 75 ST I-​II q. 51, a. 4. 76 Stanley Hauerwas and Charles Robert Pinches, Christians among the Virtues: Theological Conversations with Ancient and Modern Ethics (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 68–​9. 77 William C. Mattison, III, “Can Christians Possess the Acquired Cardinal Virtues?,” Theological Studies 3 (2011), 559. 78 Angela McKay Knobel, “Can Aquinas’s Infused and Acquired Virtues Coexist in the Christian Life?,” Studies in Christian Ethics 23.4 (2010), 387. 79 Ibid., 390. 80 Jennifer Herdt, “Redeeming the Acquired Virtues,” Journal of Religious Ethics 41.4 (2013), 735; idem., Putting on Virtue, 73; Hauerwas, “Habit Matters,” 81. 81 Leonard Ferry, “Aristotle in Aquinas’s Moral Theory: Reason, Virtue, and Emotion,” Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association 87 (2013), 173. 82 Andrew Pinsent, “Aquinas: Infused Virtues,” in Besser and Slote, The Routledge Companion to Virtue Ethics, 146–​7. Note Pinsent’s thoroughgoing criticism of this metaphor of “higher” and “lower” in idem., Second-​Person, 102.

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the infused virtues “aid” the acquired virtues, while the ongoing presence of the acquired virtues both disposes one to infused virtue and “[preserves] and [fosters]” it once it exists.83 There are several problems facing the coexistence view. First, the passage that many in this camp take to refer to the need for acquired virtue in order to make the exercise of infused virtue pleasant is better interpreted (as above) as referring to the way that actions in line with infused virtue grow that virtue in one’s life.84 More importantly, the coexistence view can lead to understanding virtues acquired prior to conversion as “stepping stones toward the infused virtues,” a view that falls directly into Pelagianism.85 At the same time, allowing acquired virtues to carry on relatively unchanged by the infused virtues can easily create a competitive view of moral formation in which my action is either mine or God’s.86 If the co-​existence theory is accepted in such a way, then it leaves us with an account of moral formation through practice that is, like Aristotle’s, problematic. Other scholars, however, recognizing the problems with the coexistence view, argue that infused virtue dramatically transforms any acquired virtue that might exist prior to conversion. While there is continuity between the acquired virtues and their infused counterparts, the infusion of virtue not only perfects (in the sense of filling up what is lacking), but transforms the imperfect virtues that are there.87 There are at least three strengths to such a view. First, it makes clear that prior to conversion people do make progress in the moral life through practice, while also recognizing the deep inadequacy of such progress apart from the Spirit’s transformation. Second, such a view recognizes our total dependence on God if we are to grow up into the character of Christ (Eph 4:15). Third, because Aquinas describes practices as enabling infused virtue to take greater root in one’s character, this view still makes room for an understanding of moral formation through practice as essential to the Christian life.88 At least under this “transformation” interpretation of the relationship between acquired and infused virtues, then, Aquinas truly does provide an account of moral formation as dependent on and participating in divinely-​given character transformation.

83 Ferry, “Aristotle in Aquinas’s Moral Theory,” 174. 84 Cf. ST II-​II q. 24, a. 4; ST I-​II, q. 51, a. 4. So also Mattison, “Acquired Cardinal Virtues,” 569. 85 Pinsent, Second-​Person, 102. 86 Mattison, “Acquired Cardinal Virtues,” 585. 87 Cf. Meilaender, Theory and Practice, 32–​3; Angela McKay Knobel, “Two Views of Christian Virtue,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 84.3 (2010), 611; Mattisson, “Acquired Cardinal Virtues,” 567–​8. 88 See Mattison, “Acquired Cardinal Virtues,” 576–​85.

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Some worry, however, that the language of infusion is problematically depersonalized,89 reducing God to an “impersonal motive force to be captured and channeled.”90 If true, this would rightly draw the criticism that Thomistic virtue remains ultimately individualistic91 and self-​centered, describing a scenario in which one “sets out one’s own path for the attainment of one’s desires,” only with God’s help.92 Pinsent’s “radically non-​Aristotelian account”93 of Aquinas is helpful at this point. For our purposes, two aspects of his argument are essential. First, he argues that to understand infused virtue we must also pay attention to another of Aquinas’s “categories of … perfective attributes,”94 namely the gifts of the Holy Spirit.95 These gifts are habits one holds through relationship with the Holy Spirit96 that dispose a person to respond to the Triune God’s inspiration.97 Thus the gifts provide the believer with a relational disposition or “stance” towards God.98 Second, Pinsent suggests that the best metaphor for this “stance” is to understand these gifts as “second-​personal dispositions.”99 To make this case, Pinsent draws attention to research on “second-​personal” relationships and the phenomenon of “joint attention” in the study of social cognition.100 For instance, studies explore the way a child prefers to play with and pay attention to objects to which their parents are also paying attention.101 Such “joint attention” is “triadic,” involving a “person-​person-​object relationship in which the object is the focus of attention of both persons.”102 Both child and parent’s attention to the object is changed by the fact that they are attending to it in the presence of another person with whom they have a relationship. In other words, they develop this “joint attention” or “shared 89 I am grateful to Brian Brock for first posing this challenge to me (personal correspondence). 90 Pinsent, Second-​Person, 34–​8. 91 See Wolterstorff, Justice, 207–​8. 92 Pinsent, Second-​Person, 89. 93 Ibid., 22. 94 Pinsent argues that we ought to attend to all four categories of perfective attributes in Aquinas, namely the virtues, gifts, beatitudes, and fruits. However, for our purposes, I will focus only on the virtues and the gifts. 95 See Eleonore Stump, “The Non-​Aristotelian Character of Aquinas’s Ethics: Aquinas on the Passions,” Faith and Philosophy 28.1 (2011), 38. 96 ST I-​II q. 68, a. 3. 97 Ibid. 98 Pinsent, “Aquinas,” 149. Cf. also Stump, “Non-​Aristotelian,” 41–​5. 99 Pinsent, Second Person, 31–​63. 100 Pinsent, Second-​Person, 42. 101 Ibid. 102 Ibid.

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stance” through a “second-​person,” “I-​you” engagement103 rather than through a first-​personal (agent in relation to one’s self ) or third-​personal (agent in relation to an object) mode. Aspects of such joint attention include a shared focus or “meeting of the minds” in relation to an object,104 a shared awareness of “mutual presence” with the other person,105 a “sense of union with the other person,”106 and an ability to be “moved” by the other person.107 This latter point describes how during joint attention “a person appropriates the psychological orientation of the other person” in a way that is neither coercive nor mechanistic.108 Pinsent describes this dynamic in terms of musicians playing together whose “joint attention” to the music does not mean that they “cause one another to play the next note,” but rather that each is moved by the other in relationship to one another and to the music.109 Pinsent suggests joint attention serves as the best available metaphor for Aquinas’s view of the gifts and virtues. Through salvation, God graciously enters a relationship with humans, infusing in them through this relationship “the virtues of cognition of God and desire for union with God” (the theological virtues), the dispositions to “be ‘moved’ by God as by a second person” (the gifts of the Holy Spirit), and the dispositions to “share God’s stance” towards everything else that is not God (the infused moral virtues).110 Thus, what comes by way of the theological virtues and the gifts is nothing less than the desire and ability to engage in a “second-​personal relationship with God,”111 while the infused moral virtues serve as human “dispositions to share in the stance” of God in relation to everything else.112 Pinsent’s summary of the power of the metaphor of joint attention in understanding Aquinas’s virtue ethics is worth quoting in full: First, in the case of joint attention, a sense of union with the other person is the beginning of the interaction rather than its distant goal, even if the relationship is deepened over time. Second, when engaged in joint attention, dispositions toward the second person (corresponding to the theological virtues) and dispositions toward 1 03 Ibid., 47. 104 Ibid., 46–​9. 105 Ibid. 106 Ibid., 68; see also Susan Eastman, Paul and the Person: Reframing Paul’s Anthropology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2017), 66–​79. 107 Pinsent, Second-​Person, 46–​9. 108 Ibid., 49. 109 Ibid., 73. 110 Ibid., 100. 111 Ibid., 61. 112 Ibid., 68–​9.

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other things (corresponding to the infused moral virtues) are complementary, but the former is primary rather than the latter being a means to attain the goal of the former. Finally, Aquinas’s claim that the infused moral virtues perfect the soul in regard to other things besides God, yet in relation to God, corresponds well with the triadic scenario of joint attention, in which a person’s stance toward a thing is modified by appropriating the stance of the second person.113

This interpretation of Aquinas strengthens the power of his virtue ethic considerably by placing the priority on the Triune God’s gracious restoration of relationships with human beings.114 Moreover, while Pinsent does not capitalize on this idea as much as he might, it allows us to frame Aquinas’s understanding of moral formation through practice within a broader understanding of God’s gracious engagement with humanity. Growth and development in the infused virtues occurs coram Deo, before the face of God, and this makes all the difference. Indeed, friendship with God is both the cause of moral transformation in the believer’s life and the goal of that moral transformation. Moral formation through practice depends on God’s gracious, self-​giving and self-​involving love, and deepens our disposition to love God and love and serve his world in ways that emerge from our growth in character through life lived in relationship with him. Divine grace invites us to engage in practices that derive both their meaning, purpose, and power from the reality that they are practiced in relationship with the Triune God.

Practices and Virtues in Aquinas: An Evaluation Under at least some interpretations of Aquinas, then, we find an account of virtue that sees transformation as ultimately dependent on the Triune God’s gracious action,115 while maintaining that God’s grace nevertheless refuses to obliterate human agency. This is true because (1) the infusion of virtue does not occur “without our consent,”116 (2) virtues become more rooted in our souls as we practice acts in line with them,117 (3) contrary habituated dispositions make the exercise of even 1 13 Ibid. 114 It may also solve some of the problem, from a Christian perspective, with the agent-​centeredness of virtue theories. The fact that my good life is inseparable from the life of God, that it is, in other words, a truly “second person” relationship that draws me out of any self-​obsession into the space of shared life, ties the good of agents and the good of others together in a way that does not fall prey to the agent-​centered dangers Wolterstorff helpfully describes. 115 Herdt makes this case even while arguing for a version of the coexistence theory (Herdt, “Redeeming Acquired Virtue,” 734). 116 ST I-​II q. 55, a. 4. 117 ST I-​II q. 51, a. 4; II-​II, q. 24, a. 4; II-​II, q. 47, a. 14.

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infused virtue difficult, and (4) a second-​person account of Aquinas’s virtue ethics allows us to understand moral practices as one grace-​dependent aspect of life lived in friendship with God.118 Aquinas explicitly attempts to account for how virtue can come from the actions of the Holy Spirit while at the same time recognizing that a person’s virtuous actions are truly their own and chosen freely.119 Especially if we understand Aquinas as arguing that the infused virtues transform, rather than merely coexist with, acquired virtue, such an account goes a long way towards appropriating the best of Aristotle’s insights, while rejecting many of his failures. Aquinas gives the Christian tradition further precedent for seeking to understand how the Spirit transforms believers by God’s grace, and yet nevertheless does so in part through formative practices. Nevertheless, Aquinas’s account does contain potential problems. First and foremost, Aquinas legitimately may be understood as positing a strong separation between the natural realm, where people make progress through their own efforts, and the realm of grace, in which people rely on God’s divine intervention.120 This is particularly true for those who interpret Aquinas in line with the “coexistence” theory described above. Moreover, Aquinas’s suggestion that the “moral and intellectual virtues” precede temporally the gifts of the Spirit because “man, through being well subordinate to his own reason, is disposed to be rightly subordinate to God” could be taken to make God’s infusion dependent on our previous natural moral efforts, even though Aquinas himself explicitly denies this elsewhere.121 While Aquinas argues that our natural moral efforts are grounded in God’s grace at some level, this does not go far enough in accounting for our utter dependence on God in the life of virtue. Indeed, perhaps the very idea of two ends, one natural and the other divine, is itself problematic.122 To what extent can we speak of a good, a natural happiness for humans, that does not include a relationship with God? To what extent is it helpful to categorize a “natural end” apart from fellowship with God as

1 18 ST I-​II q. 65, a. 3. 119 ST I-​II q. 68, a. 3–​4. 120 Of course, Aquinas believed in sin and its corruption, maintaining only that nature is not “wholly destroyed by sin” (McInerny, “Ethics,” 213). Nevertheless, it is not clear that Aquinas sufficiently acknowledges the extent of the depravity of human nature apart from grace. 121 ST I-​II q. 68, a. 8. Aquinas’s denial that people can in any way prepare themselves for grace apart from God’s intervention can be found in ST I-​II q. 109, a. 6. 122 Mattison sees the “coexistence theory” as being culpable for a “grace alongside of nature” dynamic, in which “graced nature” directs some activities and “acquired virtue” directs others (Mattison, “Acquired Cardinal Virtues,” 582).

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“happiness” at all?123 As Pieper suggests, if the virtues describe a person who has fully realized their nature, then the virtues require a conception of the “God-​relation.”124 Furthermore, Aquinas’s argument that the human will and reason can be sufficiently directed to humanity’s natural end risks undermining the significance of sin in terms of the human condition and the significance of a relationship with God as humanity’s truly “natural” state.125 Aquinas’s account, then, may wrongfully accept an account of humanity’s “nature” that, on the one hand, falls short of our creational design for relationship with God, and, on the other hand, overestimates fallen humanity’s ability to make moral progress independent of God’s saving grace. Scholars continue to debate whether Aquinas himself fell into this error; what is unarguable is that his work can be interpreted in such a direction. This matters for our account of practices because one of the strongest theological challenges to an account of moral formation through practice is that it tends towards Pelagianism. Christians rightly recognize the danger of Aristotelian habituation as a works-​righteousness that allows humans to improve their character apart from God’s grace. Especially for those who interpret Aquinas in a strongly Aristotelian fashion and view the acquired virtues as relatively unaffected by the infused virtues, Aquinas’s ethic risks falling into this same trap. Despite these potential issues, Aquinas remains enormously important for constructing an account of formation through practice within a larger picture of humanity’s dependence on God for moral transformation. For this reason, his work has driven much of the recent recovery of Christian virtue ethics.

Virtues and Practices in Alasdair MacIntyre Having explored virtues and practices in Aristotle and Aquinas, we turn to one of, if not the central figures in the contemporary renaissance of virtue ethics: Catholic philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre. Practices play a central role in MacIntyre’s virtue ethics, not least because Aquinas and Aristotle loom large in his writing and 123 For a defense of this idea of a natura pura, see Steve A. Long, Natura Pura: On the Recovery of Nature in the Doctrine of Grace (New York: Fordham University, 2010). 124 Meilaender, Theory and Practice, 19. 125 McInerny’s summary of Aquinas’s arguments on this point make clear those aspects of Aquinas that I find theologically objectionable. So, for instance, McInerny writes that for Aquinas “virtue, as second nature, is the perfection of a natural inclination toward the good” and that “the moral order consists of putting our minds to the pursuit of the objects of natural inclinations, such that we pursue them well” (McInerny, “Ethics,” 210–​1).

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thought. In After Virtue (AV), MacIntyre discusses practices as part of his larger argument that modern ethical discussions fail because they ignore the need for a shared telos based on shared narratives and agreement around what constitutes “the good” for people in general. In AV, MacIntyre provides a dense and widely-​ discussed definition of practices as any coherent and complex form of socially established cooperative human activity through which goods internal to that form of activity are realized in the course of trying to achieve those standards of excellence which are appropriate to, and partially definitive of, that form of activity, with the result that human powers to achieve excellence, and human conceptions of the ends and goods involved, are systematically extended.126

In speaking of internal goods, MacIntyre draws a contrast between external goods that come from practicing something (like the money a lawyer might earn for practicing law) and goods that are inherent in the practice itself, and in some ways only in the practice itself (they are “partially definitive of ” practicing law).127 MacIntyre’s account makes at least six significant contributions to our understanding of moral formation through practice. First, for MacIntyre, practices form virtue.128 On the one hand, practices form particular excellencies and abilities that are constitutive of a particular practice, while on the other hand, practices that engage us in a common quest for a common good foster in us the more traditional virtues as well.129 The internal aims of practices, then, include a “double end”130 comprised both of specific goods like catching fish or building houses, and the perfection of the practitioner in virtues like courage and wisdom.131 But second, MacIntyre also recognizes that practices require virtue.132 Indeed, particular practices become the “arena” in which specific virtues are exercised, and even become partially definitive of particular virtues.133 126 Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 3rd ed. (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), 187. 127 MacIntyre, AV, 189. 128 MacIntyre, AV, 154. While MacIntyre emphasizes the way practices require virtues in AV, elsewhere he emphasizes the virtue-​forming power of practice (Alasdair MacIntyre, Ethics in the Conflicts of Modernity: An Essay on Desire, Practical Reasoning, and Narrative [Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2016], 49–​52). 129 MacIntyre, DRA, 92–​5; idem., “A Partial Response to My Critics,” in After MacIntyre: Critical Perspectives on the Work of Alasdair Macintyre, ed. John Horton and Susan Mendus (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1994), 284–​6; Idem., Ethics, 49–​52. 130 MacIntyre, Ethics, 50. 131 MacIntyre, “Partial Response,” 284; Idem., Ethics, 50. 132 MacIntyre, AV, 191. 133 Ibid., 187–​91.

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Third, MacIntyre emphasizes the way growth in the virtues requires the disciplining of desire. The achievement of one’s end includes the “tasks of disciplining and transforming [one’s] feelings” so that one feels as one ought to feel,134 and this formation is nothing less than the acquisition of virtue.135 Moreover, “it is in and through” practices “that desires are educated and transformed.”136 Fourth, MacIntyre’s depiction of practices clarifies the role of rules in virtue ethics and moral formation. Rules “implicit to a practice” must be accepted if a practice will be successful in fostering the excellences and internal goods which are the goal of that practice.137 Rules therefore can help determine what counts as a proper performance of a particular practice. At the same time, while rules protect the community from outright harm as it pursues particular goals, the formation of virtue enables members of the community to pursue those ends proactively, not least in those myriad areas of life in which rules “leave open too many possibilities.”138 Becoming virtuous, then, requires more, but not less, than recognizing and obeying rules.139 Fifth, MacIntyre emphasizes the corporate nature of formative practices, arguing that we are utterly dependent on practices performed with and alongside others in order to become virtuous.140 Indeed, human society requires us to recognize that “at the outset [we] are in debt,” brought into a world in which our survival and our moral formation depend on others.141 The only way we can discharge this debt is by fostering what MacIntyre calls the “virtues of acknowledged dependency.”142 Such virtues are also formed through practices. Finally, MacIntyre takes seriously the way that social contexts play a powerful role in shaping one’s character.143 Formation through practice requires an “education in the virtues” that emphasizes our penchant for failure, particularly in those areas of life heavily influenced by our cultural milieu.144 MacIntyre admirably draws on a vast array of examples of this phenomenon, not least in his reference to social psychological studies on implicit bias.145 1 34 MacIntyre, Ethics, 75. 135 Ibid., 217. 136 Ibid., 131. 137 MacIntyre, AV, 190. 138 MacIntye, Ethics, 135. 139 MacIntyre, DRA, 3. 140 Ibid., 100. 141 Ibid. 142 MacIntyre, DRA, 121, 135. 143 He argues this specifically related to Hume in MacIntyre, Ethics, 79–​93. 144 Ibid., 191–​2. 145 Ibid., 191.

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Practices and Virtues in MacIntyre: An Evaluation MacIntyre helpfully emphasizes the way practices both form and require virtue, the way practices habituate us into practical reasoning through pursuit of a shared conception of the good, the complementary relationship between rules and practices, the role of the discipline of desire in formation through practice, and the social nature of practices. His work provides an essential starting point for contemporary discussions of practices in relation to the virtues. Perhaps no theorist has described the “mechanics” of moral formation better. At least from the perspective of theological ethics, however, there are problems with MacIntyre’s approach.146 His account of virtues and practices downplays normative commitments to particular virtues, instead suggesting that the substantive content of the good emerges through a dialectical process of reflection and practice.147 As a Catholic, MacIntyre believes in both revelation and supernatural transformation,148 but these themes do not receive sustained attention in his account of practices.149 The relative neglect of the infused virtues, for instance, is telling. Because of this neglect, MacIntyre identifies the possibility of virtue far too closely with the quality of one’s early childhood education, writing that where important aspects of such education “are lacking the further development of key virtues will be difficult, perhaps impossible.”150 This is immensely problematic in theological perspective, demonstrating far too much optimism in merely human attempts at character formation and far too much pessimism in relation to the transforming power of God. In the end, this may be due to the fact that MacIntyre interprets Aquinas very much in line with Aristotle. MacIntyre became a Thomist in part due to 146 Willie James Jennings has also challenged the way MacIntyre construes tradition, arguing that the kind of traditioned moral formation MacIntyre celebrates contributed to the colonial project. Because I discuss these matters in chapter three below, I simply note here that I am most interested in MacIntyre’s account of the mechanics of moral formation, rather than his thick description of the nature of tradition. 147 Lutz, Reading Alasdair, 160. 148 Cf. MacIntyre, WJWR, 163 and MacIntyre’s lecture at Villanova University upon receiving the inaugural presentation of the Civitas Dei Medal, entitled “Catholic Rather Than What?” Available at https://​itu​nes.apple.com/​us/​podc​ast/​inaugu​ral-​prese​ntat​ion-​civi​tas/​id38​8957​ 318?i=​100012​4508​350&mt=​2. 149 Note what I take to be a startling statement that “Excellence in [moral philosophy] … does not depend on one’s religious point of view” (Alasdair MacIntyre, “What Has Christianity to Say to the Moral Philosopher,” in The Doctrine of God and Theological Ethics, ed. Alan J. Torrance and Michael Banner [New York: T & T Clark, 2006], 17). 150 MacIntyre, Ethics, 312.

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his conviction that “Aquinas was in some respects a better Aristotelian than Aristotle.”151 MacIntyre’s Thomistic Aristotelianism requires him simultaneously to acknowledge an “inescapably theological” dimension to the idea of a “final end,”152 while also maintaining that the Thomistic Aristotelians of the twentieth century made “secular claims addressed to their fellow citizens of any faith or none.”153 In his description of four human lives that exemplify the virtues and even achieve eudaimonia, he includes individuals who apparently have no relationship to God.154 But such a life, I take it, could not have been considered either truly virtuous or happy in a Thomistic sense. In sum, “to defend virtue first and Christianity later,” as MacIntyre has done, “is always a troublesome strategy for Christians.”155 In his exploration of Romans in conversation with MacIntyre’s ethics, Miller finds MacIntyre’s account both tremendously helpful, and, if not further developed “along theological lines,” ultimately guilty of moving in a “Pelagian direction.”156 My own reading arrives at a similar conclusion.157 But perhaps this theological development that Miller suggests can be accomplished by using MacIntyre’s undeniably brilliant exploration of practices to clarify how Christians grow deeper into the infused virtues they receive in relationship with God, i.e., how the infused virtues nevertheless act in some key ways like acquired virtues. So long as MacIntyre’s insights are re-​framed in this or some similar way, he remains one of the most important thinkers for our understanding of formative practices.

Virtues, Practices, and Formation in Recent Reformed Virtue Ethics Could a Reformed account of virtue provide some of the necessary re-​framing for MacIntyre’s insights? At first glance, this would seem unlikely. Many Reformed 1 51 Ibid. 152 Ibid., 55. 153 Ibid., 106. 154 Ibid., 243–​309. I find it equally bewildering that MacIntyre includes James’s failed marriage, due in part to his affairs, in the context of his praise for James’s discipline of desire and ability to embody virtues of dependability, trust, and fidelity (Ibid., 284, 311–​5). 155 Hauerwas and Pinches, “Virtue Christianly Considered,” 302. 156 Miller, Practice, 5. 157 MacIntyre would object, not least because he would see himself as describing a purely natural end. However, as I have argued above, this understanding is itself problematic, and leads to descriptions of the moral life which, if brought unaltered into Christian ethics, can best be described as some form of Pelagianism.

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scholars demonstrated a “rather hostile attitude” towards virtue ethics in the twentieth century.158 Recently, however, there seems to be a movement of Reformed theologians arguing both for a recovery of historical Reformed accounts of the virtues and, perhaps more ambitiously, readings of both Barth and Bonhoeffer as amenable, rather than opposed, to a virtue ethics framework.159 The challenge for such accounts, according to Nolan, “is to affirm, on the one hand, the depth of human sinfulness and, on the other, the sovereignty of God’s grace so that human virtue is still possible.”160 I have argued that all three figures in the virtue tradition so far explored are open to the charge of falling short at precisely this point. For this reason, it is worth considering some of the major contributions to our theory of formative practices from contemporary Reformed virtue ethics.161 Contemporary Reformed virtue ethicists place a major emphasis on divine agency in both salvation and moral transformation.162 As with any Reformed ethic, theologians are extremely concerned to frame human behavior in a way that does not undermine the centrality of justification by faith and a reliance on grace in ongoing moral growth.163 As we have seen, Aquinas can be read as arguing that our “natural” human habits prepare us for and are necessary for saving grace; in contrast, Reformed theologians suggest that God’s grace “works to justify us even 158 Pieter Vos, “Calvinists among the Virtues: Reformed Theological Contributions to Contemporary Virtue Ethics,” Studies in Christian Ethics 28.2 (2015), 203. This hostility nevertheless represents something of a historical anomaly, given the role and place of virtue in traditional Reformed ethics. Cf. Ibid., 202; David B. Hunsicker, “Westminster Standards and the Possibility of a Reformed Virtue Ethic,” SJT 71.2 (2018), 177; Kirk J. Nolan, Reformed Virtue after Barth: Developing Moral Virtue Ethics in the Reformed Tradition, Columbia Series in Reformed Theology (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2014), 11–​32; Christopher Cleveland, Thomism in John Owen (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2013). 159 So recently Noland, Reformed Virtue, 1–​206; Jennifer Lynne Moberly, “The Virtue of Bonhoeffer’s Ethics: A Study of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Ethics in Relation to Virtue Ethics,” unpublished PhD diss., Durham University, 2009; and Ryan Michael Huber, “Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Ethics of Formation,” unpublished PhD diss., Fuller Theological Seminary, 2017. 160 Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 53. 161 Cf. Matthew Meyer Boulton, Life in God: John Calvin, Practical Formation, and the Future of Protestant Theology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 205. 162 Huber, “Ethics of Formation,” 276. 163 See, for instance, Moberly, Virtue, 244; John Webster, “Communion with Christ: Mortification and Vivification,” in Sanctified by Grace: A Theology of the Christian Life, ed. Kent Eilers and Kyle C. Strobel (London, UK: T & T Clark, 2014), 122; Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 88. While Aquinas recognizes humanity’s need for divine intervention, there can be little doubt that Reformed thought places greater emphasis on the way “the problem of sin has impeded on the full capacity of gracious-​nature in its current fallen state” (Ashish Varma, “Theological Virtue in Union with Christ: A Reformed Dogmatic Account,” unpublished PhD diss., Wheaton College, 2017, 236).

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as we are resistant to it.”164 Thus, on the one hand, “sanctification occurs as a result of justification,” and, on the other hand, the transformation that occurs through sanctification is both real and also “the result of grace.”165 This leads us to another point: Reformed accounts of virtue often ground the relationship between justification and sanctification, as well as the relationship between divine and human agency, in highly relational terms. Nolan argues that for Barth the key to human agency and moral growth is the covenantal context: it is God’s covenanting relationship with humanity166 that establishes human freedom. God demonstrates his willingness to do what it takes to establish a relationship with his people despite their total lack of virtue. This is encapsulated in the OT’s portrayal of the law, in which the “covenantal and relational story of God with his people”167 precedes the commands of the Decalogue. The logic of such a presentation establishes God’s relationship with his people as the crucial context for moral growth.168 Reformed virtue ethicists often sharpen this relational understanding by making union with Christ the key to the virtues.169 Human virtue is understood as occurring “in Christ” and by the power of the Spirit,170 not least because the virtues are “first of all conceived as God’s perfections and not as human moral excellences.”171 The development of Christian habits and virtues occurs as “the Holy Spirit unpacks Christ’s virtues in those united to Christ, making Christians increasingly more like Christ.”172 Writing on Owen, Cleveland argues that God not only initiates “the act of salvation [by] infusing this habit of grace,” but also sustains “it throughout the life of the believer so that it is not lost.”173 Thus, as Webster argues, “regenerate life” is a “form of creaturely being and activity [that] 1 64 Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 108. 165 Hunsicker is speaking of the Westminster Confession at this point, but he could be speaking much more broadly (Hunsicker, “Westminster Standards,” 182–​3). Note Cleveland’s argument that John Owen basically follows Aquinas in making the infused virtues central to sanctification, but rejects Aquinas’s understanding that the infused virtues contribute to one’s justification (Cleveland, Thomism in John Owen, 108–​18). 166 Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 7. 167 Vos, “Calvinists among the Virtues,” 205. 168 Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 64–​89. 169 For Calvin’s treatment of sanctification in relation to union with Christ, see Stephen J. Chester, Reading Paul with the Reformers: Reconciling Old and New Perspectives (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2017), 274–​8. 170 Varma, “Union,” 229–​31. 171 Vos, “Calvinists,” 207. 172 Varma, “Union,” 252. 173 Cleveland, Thomism in John Owen, 108–​9.

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is not autonomous or separate from its author.”174 Moral formation, then, is bound up in the cultivation of a “stance” towards God, “a kind of existential posture ‘facing God’ … in a fundamental bearing of receptivity.”175 This emphasis on a covenantal relationship with God through union with Christ de-​centers the individual agent within Reformed accounts of virtue. As Bonhoeffer argues, “Christ is the only one who forms. Christian people do not form the world with their ideas.”176 But placing Christ at the center creates a real shift in emphasis in the overall shape of such an ethic. With Christ as both the catalyst for and end of human transformation, the goal of our ethical life cannot be the attainment of individual righteousness177 or human happiness.178 Because the telos of human existence is not merely individual reconciliation with Jesus but rather the reconciliation of all things (Col 1:16–​17), a constitutive part of the telos of Christian virtue is a “missional, priestly, and outward focused spreading [of ] God’s glory and love throughout the earth.”179 The end of formation is “sending: to ‘go in peace to love and serve the Lord’ by taking up our cross along with our commission to cultivate the earth.”180 In short, in the place of an overly self-​oriented eudaimonia, Reformed virtue ethics place a relationship with Christ and participation in his kingdom mission of love and service as the telos of Christian life. It is as Christ draws us out of ourselves and towards this telos that humans experience “the restoration of the imago Dei”181 that allows humans to participate in God’s mission in the world. Yet, such theologians argue that this emphasis on divine agency exercised in covenantal union with humanity does not destroy human agency, but instead makes human agency both possible and essential in the life of faith. They often turn to something like an account of the infused virtues to explain how this works. Thus Chester argues that Calvin’s theology stands in significant continuity “with the medieval tradition in regarding [good works] as a pathway of 1 74 Webster, “Mortification and Vivification,” 122. 175 Boulton, Life in God, 81. 176 Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethics, trans. Neville Horton Smith (New York: Touchstone, 1955), 95. 177 Huger, “Ethics of Formation,” 249. 178 Moberly, Virtue, 107. 179 This is Pennington’s summary of this point in conversation with Wolterstorff ( Jonathan T. Pennington, The Sermon on the Mount and Human Flourishing: A Theological Commentary [Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2017], 297–​8). 180 James K.A. Smith, Imagining the Kingdom: How Worship Works, Cultural Liturgies, vol. 2 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2013), 151. Smith’s Cultural Liturgies Project is one of the most substantial attempts at a Reformed virtue ethic in recent years (even if Smith himself might not characterize his account using precisely this language). 181 Vos, “Calvinists,” 210.

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transformation along which the goal of steady growth in sanctity throughout the Christian life is sought.”182 Hunsicker claims similarly that the Westminster Confession of Faith (WCF) recognizes that the “true holiness” effected by the Spirit in sanctification “grows through [human practices] strengthened by grace.”183 Indeed, one aspect of this growth occurs as the Christian “stirs up” that grace that has already been received in justification. The Westminster divines understood this aspect of sanctification as “the work of the Holy Spirit infusing a habit of holiness in the believer at effectual calling.” Thus “sanctification can be construed as the human pursuit of holiness subsequent to justification.”184 Similarly, Webster, quoting both Aquinas and Owen, argues that the “gift of the new nature includes a gift of powers and habits.”185 Indeed, Cleveland maintains that Owen adopts the Thomistic view of infused virtue—​including an understanding of human agency in growing in infused virtue—​as an explanation for “how sanctification works.”186 Reformed accounts of virtue, then, make clear that the infused virtues believers receive in a moment of “initial passivity tied to the triune God’s decisive act of grace”187 lead to and require believers to engage in morally and spiritually formative practices. They argue for this even while recognizing that such “disciplines can be properly carried out only by the luminous, empowering presence of the Holy Spirit in and with disciples.”188 How do Reformed accounts of virtue describe these practices and disciplines? First, for Calvin and the WCF, the so-​called “third use of the law” is one way that Christians practice and grow in holiness.189 Here the divine law is a summons that elicits character-​forming practices of obedience.190 Nolan suggests Barth’s view is similar: “Hearing [God’s] command and responding with the appropriate actions results in increasing practical wisdom on our part to the extent that it involves a deepening of relationship.”191 Second, the sacraments also serve as “sanctifying practices” that “human beings do,” but which they do “neither alone nor as the act’s primary agent. Rather, in and through the practice, they participate in divine work.”192 Thus Calvin says 1 82 Chester, Reading Paul, 265. 183 Hunsicker, “Westminster Standards,” 182. 184 Ibid., 184. 185 Webster, “Mortification and Vivification,” 125. 186 Cleveland, Thomism in John Owen, 101. 187 Varma, “Union with Christ,” 266. 188 Boulton, Life in God, 51. 189 Hunsicker, “Westminster Confession,” 186–​9. See also Vos, “Calvinists,” 209. 190 Husicker, “Westminster Confession,” 187. 191 Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 86. 192 Boulton, Life in God, 223.

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that at the Lord’s Supper “we must certainly consider him truly shown to us, just as if Christ himself present were set before our gaze and touched by our hands.”193 Yet precisely because of this, the Supper serves to “exercise us in the remembrance of Christ’s death” and to “quicken and inspire us to love, peace, and concord.”194 Similarly, Smith describes sacramental practices in “worship as that ‘suite’ of disciplines that are habitations of the Spirit, into which [we are] invited in order to learn how to imagine the kingdom.”195 Third, Reformed accounts of “mortification and vivification” also are best understood as habit-​shaping “actions that enable Christians’ growth in virtue by forming their imagination according to the pattern of Christ’s death and life.”196 Mortification and vivification include practices of “[resisting] and [doing] away with the remnants of the old ‘earthly’ nature” and active engagement in “those habits of life in which renewed creatures made alive and empowered by the Spirit amplify their new nature, actively disclosing, confirming, and exercising it.”197 This “takes the form of a regime of training, discipling and forming bodily, intellectual, affective, and social life so that regenerate conduct eradicates the vestiges of the old nature and amplifies the new.”198 It is within such an understanding that, according to Vos, “characteristic Calvinistic virtues are articulated such as justice, frugality, temperance, humility, gratitude, simplicity, purity, and neighbor love.”199 Moreover, while some Reformed theologians downplay or reject imitation as a category of formative practice within sanctified life,200 Webster rightly recognizes that, despite the danger the language of imitation may still serve to indicate that Christology is both dogmatic and moral … Acquitted by Christ and conformed to him, the regenerate are summoned to creaturely reduplication of the moments of his redemptive work, without compromising its uniqueness and finality.201 193 John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, 1536 Edition, trans. Ford Lewis Battles (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995), 103. 194 Ibid., 109. For Bonhoeffer’s similar emphasis, see Huber, “Ethics of Formation,” 5, 235, 269; Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 4 (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2001), 216. 195 Smith, ItK, 189. 196 Varma, “Union with Christ,” 262. See also Chester, Reading Paul, 276–​9. 197 Webster, “Mortification and Vivification,” 133. 198 Ibid., 135. Cf. also Boulton, Life in God, 119–​120. 199 Vos, “Calvinists,” 210. 200 Bonhoeffer speaks of formation as “not a vain imitation or repetition of Christ’s form” (Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 84). Cf. Moberly, Virtue, 144–​5. 201 Webster, “Mortification and Vivification,” 131–​2. As we shall see, imitation is an important biblical category for moral growth in the Christian life. Wherever theologians—​including some

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Imitation, then, also serves as an important practice of vivification for at least some Reformed accounts. Fourth, Reformed virtue ethicists rightly emphasize those practices and virtues least likely to be celebrated by the classical tradition: practices of confession and repentance and the attendant virtue of humility that such practices require and foster.202 Thus for Bonhoeffer formation is possible “only on the basis of the form of Jesus Christ present in Christ’s Church,”203 and the Church is nothing less than “the place of the recognition of guilt.”204 In the confession of guilt “there begins the process by which man is conformed with Christ.”205 Moreover, Reformed theologians emphasize that such repentance and confession is not a one-​time event. Instead, the entirety of the Christian life is a “temporal process involving repeated confession and absolution.”206 Werpehowski argues that, for Barth, moral growth occurs through “an ongoing practice of repentance, renewal, and perseverance.”207 This emphasis on repentance and confession, as well as a sober account of the Christian’s ongoing battle with sin, explains why humility becomes a central Christian virtue for Calvin and other Reformed theologians in a way that it does not, and perhaps could not in other traditions.208 Such an emphasis not only guards against a perfectionism at odds with Scripture and human experience, but also makes clear that moral formation is not a smooth, straightforward journey, but rather an ongoing life of struggle with sin.209 This emphasis, combined Pauline interpreters explored in Chapters Six and Seven—​downplay the importance of imitation, we see dogmatic commitments overshadowing Scripture, blunting its hard edges. I take it as the task of Christian theology, however, to be true to the rhetoric of Scripture, and imitation is undoubtedly at home in that biblical idiom. For further reflections on divine and human agency in imitation and moral formation, see Michael J. Rhodes, “Becoming Militants of Reconciling Love: 1 John 3:1–​3 and the Task of Ethical Formation” Journal of Theological Interpretation 15.1 (2021). 202 Cf. Boulton, Life in God, 67–​9. 203 Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 89. 204 Ibid., 111. 205 Ibid. See also Huber, “Ethics of Formation,” 269. 206 Webster, “Mortification and Vivification,” 128. 207 William Werpehowski, Karl Barth and Christian Ethics: Living in Truth, Barth Studies Series (Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2014), 147. 208 Long argues that ecclesial ethics, too, should see humility as “the beginning of virtue in the Christian tradition,” an insight that helps us avoid self-​deception and recognize “that the virtues are not our achievement alone.” For him, this is also why “the Christian life is a life of repentance” (Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 178). 209 Cf. Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 77.

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with the relational account of the virtues prevalent in this tradition, also rules out any account of moral formation that sees the virtues as enabling the independence of moral agents who claim some form of “ownership” of their transformed character.210

Practices in Contemporary Reformed Virtue Ethics: An Evaluation The strengths of a Reformed account of virtue, then, are clear. Reformed accounts of virtue prioritize divine agency, the infused virtues, and human dependence on the Spirit for moral growth in sanctification in ways that protect such an ethics from any charge of Pelagianism. Moreover, some Reformed theologians rightly distinguish between justification and sanctification, seeing both as constitutive aspects of God’s “double grace.”211 At the same time, Reformed accounts do not neglect formative practices, especially through emphasizing the third use of the law, the sacraments and spiritual disciplines, mortification and vivification, and specifically the disciplines of repentance and humility. The emphasis on these latter disciplines provide important correctives to perfectionist tendencies in some virtue and ecclesial ethics.212 Indeed, the turn towards practices inevitably brings with it the threat that we conceive of sanctification as our own work based on our own striving and technique. Any turn toward practices in Christian theology therefore must be accompanied by a clear, constant, humble, and humbling critique of works righteousness, self-​justification, and spiritual pride—​and this kind of critique is precisely what the Reformed theological tradition, at its best, has to offer.213

There is also significant overlap between some Reformed accounts of virtue and the interpretation of Aquinas explored above. Perhaps most striking are similarities between a second-​personal interpretation of Aquinas and the emphasis 210 Cf. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 84; Huber, “Ethics of Formation,” 122; Vos, “Calvinists,” 203; Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 64, 88. 211 See Cleveland’s description of this as a differentiating element between Aquinas and Owen (Cleveland, Thomism in John Owen, 91–​120), and Boulton’s argument that Calvin’s “work on sanctification can be understood as, among other things, a strategy for inheriting the church’s practical treasury while at the same time cordoning it off—​again, at least in principle—​from the idea that such practices justify their practitioners” (Boulton, Life in God, 222). 212 For this critique of ecclesial ethics, see Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 17. 213 Boulton, Life in God, 221.

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on relational categories like covenant and union with Christ. All of this makes Reformed accounts extremely useful for constructing an account of formative practices. There are, however, two substantial problems. First, whereas Aquinas might overemphasize the life of moral growth as simply “more and more,” i.e. a simple, linear movement towards holiness, some Reformed theologians, and perhaps especially those in the Lutheran tradition,214 emphasize exclusively the “again and again” of moral progress.215 In other words, actual moral growth disappears and sanctification becomes simply a perpetual return to an acknowledgment of justification. On this understanding, “sanctification is not a change in nature,” but rather only the process whereby we gain an increased “awareness of God’s presence.”216 But this neglects the important theological and biblical theme that God’s action changes human lives by “altering the conditions they exist under,”217 freeing God’s people for genuine moral and spiritual growth. To be a new creation in Christ is to be changed beyond simple growth in awareness of God’s presence.218 Nolan is probably right to suggest that Aquinas’s emphasis on the “more and more” of formation and Barth’s emphasis on the continual “again and again” are two sides of the same coin.219 If this is so, the challenge is to maintain, rather than resolve, the tension between these two concepts. The most promising Reformed accounts therefore acknowledge the genuine possibility of moral progress, while also recognizing that, at our best, we all have “a very, very long way to go,” and indeed that such recognition is one aspect of growth in Christian character.220 In any case, this first problematic element within Reformed virtue accounts can be overcome. 214 This is in part because, according to Chester, Luther makes “scarcely any distinction [between] justification and sanctification.” Calvin’s emphasis on justification and sanctification as two aspects of God’s “double grace” is “more linear,” emptying “good works of merit,” but making progress in such works “central to his vision of the Christian life” (Chester, Reading Paul, 316–​7). Calvin’s view is both better suited to an account of moral formation and has stronger exegetical backing (Ibid., 315). See also Boulton, Life in God, 222–​8. 215 Cf. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 43–​44. 216 Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 52–​3. 217 John Webster, “Eschatology, Ontology and Human Action,” Toronto Journal of Theology 7.1 (1991), 13. 218 Scripture describes believers as receiving a radically new situation, “not simply [a new] ‘perspective’: the Christological statements concern not just a way of looking at reality but a new reality itself ” ( John Webster, “ ‘ Where Christ Is:’ Christology and Ethics,” in Christology and Ethics, ed. F. Le Ron Shults and Brent Waters [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010], 49). 219 Nolan, Reformed Virtue, 89. 220 Boulton, Life in God, 173

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The second weakness is simply a frequent inattentiveness to how formation occurs, and more specifically for our purposes, how formative practices do what they do.221 Fortunately, this is precisely where Aristotle, Aquinas, and MacIntyre can be so helpful inasmuch as their descriptions of formation through practice suggest how it is that Christians transformed by grace can grow in sanctification through formative practices. Our account of formative practices, then, will seek to draw together into a coherent picture the best of the Thomistic with the best of the Reformed traditions on moral formation.

Conclusion Aristotle and MacIntyre’s account of formative practices and the cultivation of virtue proves extremely illuminating, especially in terms of describing the telos-​ shaped process of habituation. At the same time, left on their own, both risk a Pelagian works-​righteousness. Aquinas, on the other hand, radically re-​frames this tradition’s understanding of the virtues by making the infused virtues the only true, perfect virtues. Aquinas nevertheless maintains a strong place for formative practices by arguing that these infused virtues act like acquired virtues in several key ways. Moreover, when interpreted through the metaphor of second-​personal relationships, Aquinas powerfully emphasizes the relational nature of moral formation in the Christian’s life with God. Nevertheless, Aquinas’s account contains problematic aspects that leave his ethics open to the charge of overstating fallen humanity’s moral capacities. Recent Reformed accounts of virtue ethics contribute a clearer argument for the priority of divine agency in character transformation, while creating space for an account of human formation through practice within that scheme. The insights generated by our study of the virtue tradition will drive our construction of a formative practice hermeneutic in Chapter Three. First, however, we must explore contributions to a formative practice hermeneutic from two other areas of study.

221 James K.A. Smith is a notable exception here, but he depends in his work on precisely the sorts of traditions outside the mainstream Reformed tradition that I have drawn on here for my own account.

CHAPTER TWO

Sources for a Theory of Formative Practices: Ritual and Liturgical Ethics

So far, we have considered how virtue ethics contributes to a theory of formative practices. In this chapter, we will consider ritual studies and liturgical ethics as additional sources for such a theory. The reason for drawing on these particular fields is two-​fold. The first is simply that, besides the tradition of the virtues, ritual and liturgical studies have most influenced theological ethicists interested in formation through practice. Second, and at a deeper level, these fields of study highlight aspects of formation through practice that are overlooked or underappreciated by virtue ethicists. Thus, ritual studies analyze empirical observations about human formation and provide thick, sociological descriptions of the communities within which such formation occurs. While such empirical observations do not ensure any ultimate “objectivity” in methods or conclusions, they do provide an important supplement to the normative accounts of virtue explored above. Liturgical ethics, on the other hand, combines aspects of both ritual studies and virtue ethics, while simultaneously locating the primary site of moral formation within the practices of the church. Because of this, liturgical ethics also make an essential contribution to our account of formative practices within the ecclesia. In this chapter, then, I will explore both ritual and liturgical ethics in search of insights that can contribute to our theory of formative practices.

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Ritual Theory and Formative Practices How might sociological and anthropological discussions of ritual contribute to our understanding of how formative practices do their morally formative work? Catherine Bell suggests that certain practices are “ritualized.” By ritualization, she refers to the way “certain social actions strategically distinguish themselves in relation to other actions … [privileging] what is being done in comparison to other, usually more quotidian, activities.”1 For instance, Bell argues that ritual practice produces a “ritualized body” that leads to a “cultivated disposition.”2 Thus the “act of kneeling does not so much communicate a message about subordination as it generates a body identified with subordination.”3 Practices, then, are embodied actions that form and shape embodied selves; moreover, such practices often operate at least partially outside the domain of direct “discourse or systematic thinking.”4 Drawing on Bell’s pioneering work,5 Dru Johnson argues that the Bible presents rituals as embodied practices that move practitioners “along the continuum from not knowing, to familiarity, recognition, and then discernment.”6 In other words, we practice rituals in order to know.7 This epistemological role for rituals in knowing and discerning is not secondary to more cognitive thought. Drawing on a broad range of philosophical discussion, neuroscience, and metaphor theory, Johnson suggests that all abstract thought depends on our “embodied engagement of reality.”8 Because of this, we cannot decide whether our thinking will be informed by ritual; we can only attempt to “assess which ritualized practices we ought to participate in and hence, allow to shape our”9 inevitably habituated bodies. Thus . … . there is something that it is like to know a perfect golf swing, a resolved family conflict, or an impending sense that a team project is about to fall apart. These somethings, 1 Catherine Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford University Press, 2009), 74. 2 Ibid., 98. 3 Ibid., 100. 4 Ibid., 93. 5 And overcoming some of Bell’s reductionisms, such as her tendency to over-​distinguish ritual from cognitive activity, as well as her apparent rejection of the possibility of a truly transcendent element to ritual. 6 Dru Johnson, Knowledge by Ritual: A Biblical Prolegomenon to Sacramental Theology (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2016), 6. 7 Ibid., xix. 8 Ibid., 108. 9 Ibid., 112.

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whatever they might be, are a type of knowing that we have because we have habitually practiced, recognized, and can now discern patterns of complex realities.10

Most important for our purposes, Johnson explores how this theory of ritualized practices illuminates the OT. He argues that passages such as Gen 15’s covenant cutting ceremony11 or YHWH’s command to Israel to keep the Sabbath “that you may know that I, YHWH, have sanctified you”12 present “sequentially embodied practices” that form “specific dispositions to interpret history, place, and new events correctly” in those who practice them.13 Johnson further demonstrates that rituals derive their formative power in part by the way they are both similar to and different from other culturally available rituals. In relation to Gen 15’s covenant cutting ceremony, for instance, Johnson suggests such a practice would have been familiar to Abraham, but that YHWH’s passing through the carcasses while Abraham stands to the side may represent a novel ritualization of the normal cultural practice. Such ritualization would highlight the uniqueness of this God and this covenant. This example highlights the importance of understanding practices within their socio-​cultural context and in relationship to other related practices within that context.14 Furthermore, because practices can be ritualized for different strategic ends, much of the question around ritual practices concerns which authority and which script govern a practice. Johnson perceptively notes, then, that in Israel, the major question is not whether Israel will be habituated through ritual practices, but rather whose rituals and whose scripts will Israel allow to shape her ritual practices.15 In negotiating the way such scripts operate, Pierre Bourdieu provides a particularly significant account of the role practice plays in relation to both cultural norms and what Bourdieu calls the “objective” order of a community.16 Central to his account is the way that practices form a particular habitus within practitioners. By habitus, Bourdieu refers to “systems of durable, transposable dispositions” that enable a person to strategically improvise effectively in a wide variety of situations given the cultural constraints of the community within which such a person lives.17 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Ibid., 114. Ibid., 146. Ibid., 151–​2. Ibid., 137, 140. Ibid., 147. Cf. Ibid., 44. Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology, trans. Richard Nice (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 78–​9. 17 Bourdieu, Outline, 72–​80.

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On the one hand, the idea of an embodied habitus allows Bourdieu to explain why peoples’ actions are not mechanistic, inevitable responses to stimuli. Indeed, to have habitus is to have “practical mastery” through an embodied, sub-​cognitive knowledge. Like the embodied knowledge of an athlete who acts intuitively to score a goal, habitus allows individuals to act strategically and intuitively in a variety of social contexts.18 On the other hand, such habitus both results from the often unacknowledged “objective” structures of a society and recreates those “objective structures” within a society. For instance, class distinctions create an objective situation in which certain groups are discriminated against. Living in such conditions habituates agents to believe that these objective strucutures are “natural” and “just the way things are.” This results in a habitus that, while allowing individuals to act strategically within the limits of their subjective, culturally determined context, also reproduces the objective conditions behind that subjective culture and thus ensures the perpetuation of those conditions.19 For Bourdieu, then, it is the “economic bases”20 of a social group that determine what must be “unthinkable”21 in order for the social structure to remain as it is. But the practice of reproducing the status quo, of “history turned into nature”22 and “political mythology” turned into “a permanent disposition,” is itself part of the socially subjective habitus engendered by the objective structures of society.23 For Bourdieu, even simple commands like “stand up straight” carry an embodied, objective intention to shape agents in particular ways that lie well beyond any particular agent’s conscious intention.24 Indeed, life within the objective conditions of a culture provide practitioners with a “structural apprenticeship which leads to the embodying of the structures of the world.”25 For Bourdieu, as for Bell, practices function the way they do at a subconscious level. They can even be described as involving intentional misrecognition, and thus are most often understood as oppressive and manipulative.26 Smith, however, rightly argues that Bourdieu’s discussion of habitus dovetails and extends Aristotle’s more positive account of virtue as a habit. Both Bourdieu and Aristotle 18 Ibid; Nick Crossley, “Pierre Bourdieu’s Habitus,” in Sparrow, History of Habit, 294–​8. 19 Cf. Bourdieu, Outline, 77–​95. 20 Ibid., 83. 21 Ibid., 77–​8. 22 Ibid. 23 Ibid., 93. 24 Ibid. 79, 94. 25 Ibid., 91. 26 Crossley, “Habitus,” 297; Bourdieu, Outline, 79.

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recognize that the “second nature” or “practical sense” acquired through habituation is neither simply “natural or deliberative,” but rather a “between.”27 Habitus is thus a useful construct for understanding how communities can and should incorporate new members into the embodied, affective, practical knowledge required to effectively pursue that community’s ends.28

Ritual and Formative Practices: An Evaluation Clearly, ritual theorists provide further insight into the way formative practices work. In particular, such theorists rightly emphasize the epistemological and socio-​cultural role that practices play, the way practices work through the bodies of practitioners and the structures of society, the way one practice can be “ritualized” for use in another context, and the way the dispositions acquired through habituation allow practitioners to “improvise” strategically towards certain ends in various situations. There are, however, problems with attempting to integrate some aspects of ritual studies into our account. Most notably, ritual theorists often approach practices in what might be deemed a deconstructionist mode. In other words, they describe rituals and practices primarily in terms of power, strategy, domination, misrecognition, etc. Thus many of Bourdieu’s competitive, martial metaphors for habitus29 imply an ideological belief in society as essentially competitive and even violent. This deconstructive tendency also results in an inappropriate materialistic and possibly deterministic account that makes economic “objective” arrangements ultimately determinant for all of social reality.30 This misses the “normative aspect” of habitus, and fails to acknowledge the possibility of a more positive embrace of the concepts Bourdieu so clearly identifies.31 Indeed, the failure to create a more positive, normative account for practices leads to a dead end, because, as Bourdieu and others demonstrate, we cannot escape the ritualized nature of our experience and knowledge.32 There is no point in simply criticizing the fact that rituals influence 27 Smith, ItK, 83. 28 Ibid., 83–​109. 29 Such metaphors include fencing, dog fights, military metaphors, and competitive games (cf. Bourdieu, Outline, 11). 30 Cf. John M.G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 507, fn. 25. 31 Crossley, “Habitus,” 304. 32 This point is well articulated by Stephen Buckland, “Ritual, Bodies and ‘Cultural Memory,’ ” in Liturgy and the Body, ed. Louis-​Marie Chauvet, trans. John Stephen Bowden (London: SCM Press, 1995), 55.

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us, because there is no other way to be human. A robust formative practice hermeneutic must draw on the gains of ritual studies while avoiding reductionism.

Liturgical Ethics and Formative Practices Liturgical ethics provides us with resources for embracing the best of ritual studies while rejecting its reductionistic tendencies. This is so in part because liturgical approaches often draw both ritual studies and virtue ethics into an exploration of the church and its core practices as the primary site of transformation.33 Because of both this dynamic and the important role that liturgical ethicists have played in the current interest in formation through practice, liturgical ethics serves as another indispensable tool in constructing a formative practice hermeneutic.

Liturgy as Politics: John Howard Yoder One crucial and deeply problematic34 figure in liturgical ethics is John Howard Yoder. For Yoder, liturgy and ethics are “virtually identical,” in part because Yoder understands liturgy through the lens of practices.35 Thus, like MacIntyre, Yoder makes practices central to his account of the moral life. Nevertheless, Yoder explicitly distances his view of practices from MacIntyre’s,36 describing practices less in terms of character formation and more in terms of the practices of the Christian community “as a political reality.”37 “The church,” he writes,“ has the character of a polis … . … namely, a structured social body;” practices constitute its “ways of making decisions, defining membership, and

33 For a typology of accounts of liturgical ethics, see Benjamin Allen Kautzer, “The Works of Mercy: Towards a Liturgical Ethic of the Everyday,” unpublished PhD diss., Durham University, 2015, 11–​7. 34 On which see below. 35 Kautzer, “Works of Mercy,” 13. 36 John Howard Yoder, “Concluding Observations: The Shape of God’s People as Word to the World” (lecture presented in Taipei, Taiwan, 1994), 7. Heidebrecht rightly sees this as a deficiency in Yoder’s understanding (Paul C. Heidebrecht, Beyond the Cutting Edge?: Yoder, Technology, and the Practices of the Church [Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2014], 205). Wells and Quash argue it is Hauerwas who has best combined the insights of Yoder and MacIntyre (see Samuel Wells and Ben Quash, Introducing Christian Ethics [Malden, MA: Wiley-​Blackwell, 2010], 188). 37 John Howard Yoder, Body Politics: Five Practices of the Christian Community before the Watching World (Scottdale, Pennsylvania: Herald Press, 2012), viii.

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carrying out common tasks.”38 Such ecclesial practices do not signal a retreat from the world in Yoder’s view, because they offer the world a “paradigm for the life of the larger society.”39 Yoder explores five “mandatory”40 New Testament practices: binding and loosing, breaking bread, baptism, the fullness of Christ, and the rule of Paul.41 Explicitly positioning his discussion in relation to larger questions of liturgy and ethics, Yoder argues that these practices are both social processes and liturgical acts.42 As such, Yoder argues that, on the one hand, these practices should not be deconstructed as symbols, able to be rationally separated from a meaning that the symbols supposedly communicate.43 On the other hand, they also should not be taken to a “sacramentalist” extreme that separates sacrament from social process, divorcing these practices from their place in daily, communal life.44 Instead, Yoder argues these liturgical, social practices actually affect, even create, a new reality. “To take the floor in a community dialogue does not mean that you are part of the group,” Yoder claims by way of example. “It is operational group membership.”45 And yet, although such practices are “wholly human” and “empirically accessible,” they are at the same time acts of God. “God does not merely authorize or command them. God is doing them, in, with, and under the human practice: ‘What you bind on earth is bound in heaven.’ ”46 Yoder’s discussion of the practice of breaking bread is particularly suggestive. He argues that sharing bread is neither merely a symbol nor merely preparatory for actual acts of economic sharing. Instead, sharing bread at meals “is economic sharing.”47 “Not merely symbolically,” Yoder argues, “but also in fact, eating together extends to a wider circle the economic solidarity normally obtained in the family.”48 This makes the eucharist, if practiced as an actual meal at least, 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid., x. 40 John Howard Yoder, “Sacrament as Social Process: Christ the Transformer of Culture,” Theology Today 48. 1 (1991), 36. 41 This language comes from Yoder’s Body Politics. However, it should be noted that he uses a variety of terms for the same practices in other publications, including “Sacrament as Social Process,” which is quoted extensively in what follows. 42 Yoder, “Sacrament,” 36. 43 Ibid., 37. 44 Ibid., 38. 45 Ibid., 38. 46 Ibid. 47 Ibid., 20. 48 Ibid.

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“an economic act,” and the right practice of eucharist a matter of “economic ethics.”49 But such a practice also says something to the wider world about Jesus and his purposes in human history. These practices are evangelical; they “communicate news.”50 The practice of sharing bread shows the world its rightful end and speaks a word to every political economy because the fact that in the Messianic age the hungry will be fed is a real, although “distant” criterion for “political economics beyond the circle of faith.”51 Indeed, the church embodies the world’s own destiny by “pioneering a paradigmatic demonstration of both the power and the practices that define the shape of restored humanity.”52 Yoder seeks to hold together both the observable, social message of such practices and the power of God at work within them. Moreover, Christians engaging in this political practice of sharing bread will find that it demands “some kind of sharing, advocacy, and partisanship in which the poor are privileged.”53 The shape of such activity must be a matter for communal discernment; that such activity is required is undeniable, not least because of the way the practice of eucharist shapes the polis that is the church.54 It is astounding that, given this rich account of practices in which God works “in, with, and under” human activity, Yoder explicitly downplays the idea that practices form the character of those who participate in them. Heidebrecht criticizes Yoder at just this point, arguing that he fails to “talk about the way these same practices come to impact those who make up the church” in terms of moral character.55 Yoder instead prefers to refer to moral transformation as simply a miracle.56 He “can explain what church looks like when it happens, but does not bother to describe how it comes into being over time.”57 49 Ibid., 21. 50 Ibid., 43. 51 Yoder, Body Politics, 21. 52 Yoder, “Sacrament,” 44. 53 Yoder, Body Politics, 22. 54 Ibid., 25. This emphasis on liturgy as politics has also been taken up by Hauerwas, not least in his famous remark that the “the church is, rather than has, a social ethic” (Stanley Hauerwas, A Community of Character: Toward a Constructive Christian Social Ethic [Notre Dame, IN: Univ. of Notre Dame Press], 10). See also Stanley Hauerwas and Samuel Wells, eds., The Blackwell Companion to Christian Ethics, 2nd ed, Blackwell Companions to Religion (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2011), 6–​7; Stanley Hauerwas, The Peaceable Kingdom: A Primer in Christian Ethics (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983), 95–​9. 55 Heidebrecht, Cutting Edge, 205. 56 Ibid. 57 Michael Cartwright, “Sharing the House of God: Learning to Read Scripture with Anabaptists,” Mennonite Quarterly Review 74.4 (2000), 610.

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Because of this, Yoder leaves unexplored the formative potential of practices on human character, ignoring the resources for just such an account in his notion that God works “in, with, and under” human activity. Cartwright connects this failure with Yoder’s inability to attend to “spiritual formation,” not least through what other traditions would call the “ordinary means of grace.”58 This failure to take seriously the way practices ought to shape the character of practitioners may not be completely tangential to Yoder’s own personal and persistent moral failures. Indeed, Yoder is simultaneously one of the most important figures in the “ecclesial turn” in Christian ethics, and its most problematic representative. Having made nonviolence and the witness of the church central to his overall project, Yoder went on to commit more than a hundred documented acts of sexual violence against women within the church and the academy.59 The nature and number of his abuses are simply horrifying. But another disturbing aspect of Yoder’s sexual abuse is the way that he “had a habit of seduction that allowed him to use his theology to serve it.”60 In other words, Yoder justified his abuse through his theology. In relation to our hermeneutic of formative practices, Yoder’s most telling failures include an apocalyptic ethic far too unhinged from “mundane,” creational realities; a stark church/​world distinction paired with an understanding of the church as a diasporic, oppressed minority; his near total failure to integrate issues of social-​stratification and power dynamics into his work;61 and his relegation of the process of moral growth to the simply miraculous.62 These are serious failures, and it will be vital for my argument to present an account of Holistic Ecclesial Formation that overcomes them.63 Indeed, given the 58 Ibid., 612–​3. Drawing on Aristotle and Aquinas, we might suggest that Yoder fails to attend to the ways that sacraments as Spirit-​empowered social processes form Christian habits and virtues in practitioners. My thanks to Stanley Hauerwas for pointing out this absence of habit in Yoder’s account of practices (personal communication). 59 According to the Mennonite Church’s study of Yoder, “More than 100 women experienced unwanted sexual violations by Yoder” (Rachel Waltner Goosen, “The Failure to Bind and Loose: Responses to Yoder’s Sexual Abuse,” The Mennonite, available online at https://​theme​ nnon​ite.org/​feat​ure/​fail​ure-​bind-​loose-​respon​ses-​john-​how​ard-​yod​ers-​sex​ual-​abuse/​). 60 Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 105. 61 These points are derived from Long’s important, and far more detailed treatment (Ibid., 107–​8). 62 Long does not include this final example in his list, but does note that Yoder had “little time for developing a virtue ethics” (Ibid., 112). 63 In particular, by engaging with ritual studies and especially the work of Bourdieu in Chapter Two; treating the problem of failure in formative practices and the porosity of the church/​world distinction in Chapter Three; and arguing for a stronger connection to wisdom/​creation within an “apocalyptic” ethic in Chapter Six, I seek to overcome the underlying theological errors in Yoder’s program.

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extent of Yoder’s abuse, one could argue that his work should simply be eliminated from scholarly discussion. I have nevertheless preserved discussion of Yoder’s works despite his theological and moral failures here for two reasons. First, it is a historical fact that Yoder’s work contributed much to the “ecclesial turn” in Christian ethics, and it seems therefore a matter of intellectual honesty to acknowledge that. Second, at their best, scholars working within that “ecclesial turn” have drawn on Yoder’s ideas to make genuine contributions to our understanding of how practices shape the political structures of the congregation as an outpost of the kingdom of God and communicate to the wider world the good news of that kingdom.64

Liturgy as Ethics If Yoder neglects the power of liturgy to transform character, others have made this the central feature of liturgical ethics. For these scholars “liturgy is a divine pedagogy which shapes moral character, forming believers in the habits and virtues of Christian discipleship.”65 In The Blackwell Companion to Christian Ethics, Hauerwas and Wells move from discerning worship as a political act to recognizing that “the liturgy offers ethics a series of ordered practices that shape the character and assumptions of Christians, and suggest habits and models that inform every aspect of corporate life.”66 They suggest that participation in the “rules” of the liturgy inculcates in the worshipper a “set of rules” that allows the worshipper to judge other “sets” in the world outside the ecclesia.67 Such an argument obviously applies MacIntyre’s insights about practices to the worship of the church. Saliers similarly suggests that the relationship between liturgy and ethics centers around the way that communal prayer and ritual action have the power to form “certain affections and virtues” in particular “selves” within the worshipping community.68 Worship therefore does not simply express certain beliefs or orientations but rather forms such orientations and beliefs within worshippers.69 Smith claims

64 Long makes a similar argument in Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 109. Long rightly notes that it is neither Yoder nor Aristotle who provides the ecclesial approach with its emphasis on the church as polis, but Scripture, and especially Matt 5:14 (Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 220). 65 Kautzer, “Works of Mercy,” 14. 66 Hauerwas and Wells, Blackwell Companion, 6–​7. 67 Ibid., 4. 68 Don E. Saliers, “Liturgy and Ethics: Some New Beginnings,” Journal of Religious Ethics 7.2 (1979), 175. 69 Ibid., 175, 178.

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that the liturgy forms worshippers’ habits, thus shaping the community’s affections towards a particular telos. Ecclesial practices shape both hearts and bodies through this process of liturgical habituation.70 Smith and Saliers further argue that liturgical practices are intimately bound up with narratives. Practices are often “compressed, performed narratives that recruit the imagination through the body.”71 In other words, narratives do not just provide the community with practices, but rather the community’s practices are embodied invitations into the community’s story. Bound up in such core communal stories, practices serve as “construal training” that shapes the way we see the world.72 Through the “deliberate rehearsal”73 of worship, we train our hearts to desire, our eyes to see, and our minds to imagine the world in ways that define the scope of our lives and the nature of moral action for agents who construe the world in just this way. Such liturgical formation fits Yoder’s description of liturgical practices as “observable” in the sense that we can identify practical ways that such practices shape character and serve as construal training. And yet these scholars, like Yoder, recognize that in the liturgy God also acts decisively and mysteriously to transform his people. Liturgical practices can and do become “habitations of the Spirit.” Thus in worship, God’s grace is “made available to Christians in a special way.”74

Ethics as Liturgy Thus far, the scholars discussed in this section have argued that the church’s liturgy simply is ethics. Others raise the question of whether ethics can be understood as liturgy. In other words, can ethical practices outside the ecclesia somehow be interpreted as themselves liturgical? Smith argues that the rituals and practices of our daily lives, some of which are chosen subconsciously, become everyday liturgies that form our character and dispositions.75 He distinguishes between “thin” practices (that do not shape our identity, like brushing our teeth) and “thick” practices (that do shape our identity, whether these be practices like going to church or working out).76 These latter

70 Smith, Desiring the Kingdom: Worship, Worldview, and Cultural Formation, Cultural Liturgies, vol. 1 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009), 58. 71 Smith, ItK, 20. 72 Ibid., 51. 73 Saliers, “Liturgy and Ethics,” 180. 74 Herdt, “Virtue of the Liturgy,” 536. 75 Smith, DtK, 82. 76 Ibid.

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practices have the potential to be de-​forming, particularly if not set within the context of Christian formation through practice. Even the practice of inhabiting social media can become a formative exercise, since such technology “comes loaded with a Story about what matters, and who matters.”77 Other scholars argue that explicitly ecclesial liturgies flow out into everyday life and are either validated or invalidated by the extent to which they shape the moral life of worshippers in the world outside explicitly religious spaces. For Rahner, the eucharist “assigns the everyday to us as our task” as “the Church carries [the grace of the eucharist] into effect and lets it appear in its deeds.”78 Ecclesial worship, in other words, must “pass over” into concrete, ethical acts of love and service.79 And yet, at a deeper level, ethical acts can also become sites of sacramental encounter with God in what Kautzer refers to as the “liturgy of the neighbor.”80 Drawing on such biblical precedents as Paul’s description of his poverty-​alleviating fundraising as leitourgia, he argues that practical love for the poor “is liturgy.”81 For Kautzer, if acts of love are “rooted in the sacraments through the Spirit,” then they become a site of divine, transforming encounter.82 Such a view depends in part on an account of the world as “enfolded or interwoven” with God’s wisdom and grace.83 There is thus a mutually reinforcing experience of grace in the life of the believer, such that one’s life is transformed through sacramental encounters with the holy in Scripture, the liturgy of the church, and the liturgy of the neighbor.84 The Lord’s Supper hallows the everyday world, allowing us to encounter the transforming power of the Spirit in the liturgy of the everyday.85 Kautzer’s “liturgical ethic of the everyday” significantly advances our understanding of formative practices in light of liturgical ethics. In general, our discussion of liturgy as ethics reveals how God’s Spirit-​transforming power is particularly operative in specific formative practices within the unique context of ecclesial worship. But Kautzer opens up the possibility that all sorts of everyday ethical acts of love and service might become Spirt-​empowered transforming acts of worship inasmuch 77 Smith, ItK, 148. 78 Karl Rahner, Theological Investigations: Man in the Church, trans. Karl-​H. Kruger (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1963), 123. 79 Kautzer, Works of Mercy, 49. 80 Ibid., 133. 81 Quoting Benedict XVI, italics original. Ibid., 112. 82 Ibid., 133. See also Ibid., 49. 83 Ibid., 47–​52. 84 Ibid., 135. 85 Smith, DtK, 199.

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as they authentically flow out of the church’s eucharistic life and enable those who practice them to experience the presence of Christ in the act itself. Such a view supplements any view of virtue that is overly-​immanent, such as Aristotle’s, in that it recognizes God’s mysterious presence in the power of moral formation through practice. Moreover, it reinforces the conclusion of the previous chapter that moral formation occurs in a “second-​person” relationship with the Triune God. It should be clear that liturgical ethics advances our understanding of the role and operation of formative practices in the moral life. There are of course challenges to the approach of liturgical ethics, most notably the apparently commonsense empirical observation that the liturgy does not seem always or even predictably to produce faithful disciples of Jesus. Smith locates at least part of an answer to this problem through his understanding of the role of intentionality in liturgies, whether ecclesial or cultural. So, for instance, working out to “look good naked” in order to sleep around would be a de-​forming, vice-​inspiring practice, while working out to live longer and support one’s family could be a virtue-​forming practice.86 One’s intention affects, partially at least, the formative power of liturgical practices. Furthermore, one can argue that liturgical ethics occasionally falter because of its presentation of ecclesial practices in a sort of formal idealization of those practices. Such an idealization ignores varying performances of the liturgy, performances which may well affect the liturgy’s ability to welcome us into God’s story or shape our habits and affections for faithful work in God’s world. Saliers thus rightly calls on future research to explore what specific “patterns of worship are most conducive to moral maturity and social wisdom.”87 From this perspective, one primary goal for exploring in detail the Deuteronomic tithe feast and Corinthian Lord’s Supper is to allow these biblical meals to serve as paradigms for considering what sorts of “patterns of worship” best lend themselves to moral transformation. Third, an emphasis on the formative power of the liturgy risks instrumentalizing liturgical practices, turning them into techniques for human development. This is always a danger. However, if we remember that it is the second-​personal encounter with God that provides the telos and transforming power of the liturgy, this last danger can be avoided. In conclusion, then, liturgical ethics complements and extends our understanding of formative practices by identifying the way that the liturgical practices 86 Ibid., 83. 87 Saliers, “Liturgy and Ethics,” 187 Cf. also Herdt, “Virtue of the Liturgy,” 543–​6; Katie Walker Grimes, Christ Divided: Antiblackness as Corporate Vice (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2017), 221.

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of the church constitute the politics of the community, the Spirit-​empowered site of transformative encounter, and the foundation for an understanding of the ethical life as involved in the “liturgy of the neighbor.”

Conclusion To construct a robust theory of formative practices, we need to move beyond a simple dependence on the virtue ethics tradition. In this chapter, I have argued that ritual and liturgical ethics serve as indispensable sources for understanding how practices shape our character. The ritual theorists explored make clear the social, epistemological, and bodily dynamics of formation through practice, while also identifying the interplay between the structures of a society and the formation that occurs within that society. Meanwhile, liturgical ethics contribute to our understanding of how ecclesial practices shape practitioners, constitute the politics of the community, and flow out into moral formation and action outside the bounds of the ecclesial community. Such liturgical ethics draw on the ritual theorists explored in this chapter and the virtue ethicists of the previous chapter. But they also hold such an account of practices together with the conviction that liturgical practices shape us in such ways because they are practiced coram Deo and by the power of the Spirit. In the next chapter, I will draw together insights from this chapter and the previous one to construct a working definition of “formative practices,” before exploring how practices so-​defined serve the process of moral formation within particular communities and in light of God’s reign over the created world.

CHAPTER THREE

Formative Practices in the Context of Holistic Ecclesial Formation: A Constructive Account

Formative practices, as we have seen, play an essential role in both the contemporary recovery of virtue, and in ritual and liturgical ethics. Yet the diversity of perspectives explored in the previous chapters, and the tensions and unexplored connections between them, call out for a clear theory of formative practices. To that end, in this chapter, I draw the threads of the previous two chapters together to offer my own constructive account of formative practices. I then turn to a theological analysis of how formative practices operate within a broader model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation.1 This latter task requires us to ask whether, and under what circumstances, an account of moral formation through practice remains truly theological, up to the task of speaking faithfully about both divine and human action, formation as both gift and task, the world as we understand it and the world as it really is. This question is essential for our purposes, because only a truly theological account can assist us in understanding moral formation in Scripture and pursuing moral formation in the world today. The model I offer here will play a critical role in the theological interpretation of the Deuteronomic tithe meal and Corinthian Lord’s Supper offered in the chapters that follow. 1

By “ecclesial” I refer to formation within the shared life of particular congregations, both as they are gathered together for worship and as they are sent out to love and serve Christ in the world around them.

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Formative Practices: A Constructive Proposal In light of our discussion in the previous chapters, I argue that formative practices are best understood as telos-​shaped, embodied, social actions that carry an embedded intention to shape the character of the individual practitioner, the politics of the community, and the world “out there.”2 Let us explore each element of this definition.

“telos-​shaped” The shape of a particular formative practice is determined by the telos or end at which a given practice aims. “Every practice or undertaking seems to aim at some good,”3 and the good at which one aims will determine the nature of what one practices in order to attain that good. This is true in several senses. First, formative practices help us acquire particular skills or dispositions by engaging us in doing the things we will have to do once we have acquired them.4 Second, to suggest a particular practice is shaped by the end at which it aims implies that formative practices are informed by the narratives that give meaning to that end.5 The narratives that a community tells orient its members towards particular goals, and it is these goals which determine the shape of practices.6 The narratives, and the ends provided by them, are what allow particular practices to “have a home,” in Pinches’ memorable phrase.7 As Peter Kreeft reminds us, the “telos of a journey (e.g. home) is present to every step of the journey as its determining, guiding principle, making it this journey rather than that.”8 The telos that shapes particular practices is what makes any practice intelligible from start to finish. And the narratives themselves, rather than just providing the end at which practices aim, can also deeply influence the shape of particular practices. 2 Portions of this chapter appeared originally in Michael J. Rhodes, “  ‘Forward unto Virtue’: Formative Practices and 1 Corinthians 11:17–​34.” Journal for Theological Interpretation II.1 (2017): 119–​138, albeit in substantially compressed form. 3 Aristotle, Eth. nic. I.i.1–​4. 4 Aristotle, Eth. nic. III.v.8–​14. 5 On which, see below. 6 MacIntyre, AV, 211–​6. 7 Charles Pinches, Theology and Action: After Theory in Christian Ethics (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2002), 138. 8 Thomas Aquinas, Summa of the Summa: The Essential Philosophical Passages of St. Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologica, ed. Peter Kreeft (San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press, 1990), 353.

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“embodied” Formative practices are embodied both in the sense that they shape us through bodily actions and in the sense that what gets shaped is our embodied selves.9 Through “bodily postures, repeated words, ritualized cadences,” and other mechanisms that dispose our physical bodies in relation to the world around us, practices act “to restructure bodies in the very doing of the acts themselves.”10 This happens not least because formative practices invite us to enter into the cadence of particular narratives that provide organizing structures for our engagement with the world. Our bodily orientation is shaped through practice as the story enters “through all the pores of [our] skin”11 and “seeps into our bones … . … [becoming] the orienting background of our being-​in-​the-​world.”12 Such a description might seem to fit most comfortably with formative practices that are obviously “narrated,” such as certain religious rituals or liturgical practices. However, Bourdieu’s argument that the objective structures of a society foster a subjective habitus within individuals and groups reminds us that the overarching story of a community’s life plays out in unnoticed power dynamics and systems of organization and control.13

“social actions” Formative practices are social actions in at least three ways. First, formative practices are often, though not always, practiced with others. You simply cannot practice the Lord’s Supper or friendship or chess or justice alone. Even practices that can be performed alone typically engage us in traditions that MacIntyre describes as “historically extended, socially embodied” arguments about precisely what counts as a good performance of that pracitce.14 One implication of all this is that we begin any practice in debt from the outset to those who have come before us.15 By recognizing that our social practices flow out of this debt, we name the importance of having moral authorities within the 9 See Ibid; Bell, Ritual, 73. 10 Bell, Ritual Theory, 100. 11 Chauvet, “The Liturgy in its Symbolic Space,” 31. 12 Smith, ItK, 16. 13 Bourdieu, Outline, 79, 94. 14 MacIntyre, AV, 222. 15 MacIntyre, DRA, 100.

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community; we need teachers and exemplars in the moral life.16 Such authorities often provide us with the scripts necessary to perform practices well, scripts that novices in new practices often must accept without fully understanding them.17 Second, what ecclesial ethicists call the “politics” of a community include social practices by which that community organizes its common life. Even when individuals make apparently solitary decisions, such decisions are influenced by a habituated sensibility acquired in part through living in a community that organizes itself in a particular way, and actions in line with that habitus serve to reinforce the politics of the community which created it.18 The power of practices to work in this way, though, depends in part on their social character. Third, once we recognize that practices emerge from particular communities and through training with specific people, we begin to recognize that practices are also social actions inasmuch as they engage us in practical acts of allegiance. Because we are often presented with alternative “scripts,”19 because alternative ways of organizing and making decisions are available, because we gravitate towards this mentor or that one, and because every community embraces certain practices as especially constitutive of membership within that group, practices require practitioners to make choices around which communities hold their ultimate allegiance.20 In summary, formative practices are not only social actions in the sense that individuals often practice them with others, but also in the sense that they emerge from and depend on the ongoing existence of the particular communities that embrace them.

“that carry an embedded intention” By speaking of an “embedded intention” in formative practices, I seek to combine two insights from various theorists that otherwise stand in strong tension. On the one hand, many scholars rightly suggest that intentionality plays a significant role in formative practices. For Aristotle, for instance, virtue requires more than simply repeated acts of courage. One must act courageously for the right 16 On this point see, Ibid., 91–​2; Hauerwas, Peaceable Kingdom, 45. 17 Johnson, Knowledge by Ritual, 17. 18 Ibid., 77–​83. 19 Johnson, Knowledge by Ritual, 44. 20 This also opens up the possibility of the fragmentation of the self when one attempts to follow rival scripts simultaneously, or of retreating into a “role-​based” ethic in the face of such rival scripts (cf. MacIntyre, Ethics and Politics, 186–​201).

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reason, not under compulsion, but for the sake of the end at which the practice of courage aims.21 MacIntyre similarly emphasizes intentionality when he suggest that practitioners must accept the standards of excellence and rules implicit in practices.22 Furthermore, everything said above about the telos which gives actions their “home” could also imply the necessity of an intentionality in formative practices.23 And yet the issue is not so straightforward. Aristotle argues one must do the right thing for the right reason, but he also suggests that both parenting and the law of the city-​state may, seemingly without the full consent of the governed, help children and citizens become good.24 MacIntyre’s famous example of bribing a child with the external good of candy to play chess so that they might learn the internal goods of the game indicates that, if truly virtuous practice requires intentionally doing the right thing for the right reason, practices can nevertheless get a person on the road towards formation without the full intentionality of the practitioner.25 Indeed, Bell’s discussion of the “strategic” nature of ritual and the intentional “misrecognition” that occurs within it indicates that at least some aspect of unintentionality lies at the heart of formation through practice.26 The language of practices “carrying an embedded intention” seeks to navigate this tension by asserting three things. First, the idea of an embedded intention recognizes that practices are shaped by an intentionality towards particular ends, but that a complete understanding of the mechanisms of these practices in accomplishing this formation always eludes us. Practices shape us in ways that are beyond cognition and irreducible to cognitive explanation.27 To put the same thing another way, we can never adequately and completely “decode” formative practices, because formative practices shape us to see and know in ways that we cannot completely explain in non-​ritual or non-​practice terms.28 This is because 21 Aristotle, Eth. nic. III.viii.4–​9. 22 MacIntyre, AV, 190. See also James William McClendon, Ethics: Systematic Theology, vol. I. (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 1986), 167. 23 All of these ways of speaking about intention fit Anscombe’s assessment that intentional action refers to an action “to which a certain sense of the question ‘Why?’ has application” (G.E.M. Anscombe, Intention, 2nd ed. [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000], 11). 24 Note Aristotle’s suggestion that the disposition towards unnatural pleasures can be formed through abuse in childhood (Aristotle, Eth. nic. VII.v.6–​vi). Aristotle acknowledges that there is debate about whether purpose or performance is most important in virtue (Aristotle, Eth. nic. X.viii.6–​8). 25 MacIntyre, AV, 189. 26 Bell, Ritual Theory, 82. 27 Bell, Ritual Theory, 73. 28 Cf. Johnson, Knowledge by Ritual, 4–​11.

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particular practices have, as Bourdieu suggests, an “objective intention” which “outruns [a person’s] conscious intentions.”29 In other words, the intention of a practice is embedded in the shape of the practice itself, rather than residing solely in the consciousness of the practitioner. The shape of a practice intends to form practitioners in ways that go beyond the acting agents’ conscious intentions; there is at least some sense in which such agents “do not, strictly speaking, know what they are doing.”30 As we learn from liturgical ethics,31 in at least some cases this is because God works mysteriously through human practices. Thus while Bourdieu would situate the embedded intention of practices in the arbitrary “objective conditions” of particular communities, from a theological perspective, we can suggest that God himself acts in and through certain human practices.32 This does not, of course, mean that we cannot recognize or explain how practices form us, only that a full cognitive explanation eludes us and that an individual’s intention cannot be the sole determinant in whether a practice will be formative or not.33 Second, by referring to an “embedded intention,” we also draw attention to the important insight that formative practices are most effective when they are practiced by participants who intentionally engage in the practice and aim at the ends of that practice.34 We really can be shaped by engaging in the practice of chess for the wrong reason (a reward of candy), but full formation in the practice is only available to those who eventually engage in the practice with greater intentionality. Indeed, there is a real sense in which the child’s incentivized participation in chess is only meaningful if it leads that child to an ever-​greater experience of the “internal goods” of the game, i.e. those experienced when the game is played with greater intentionality. Such examples also make clear that our level of conscious intention may change over time as we move towards mature performance. Third and finally, the recognition that practices carry an embedded intentionality reminds us that while our own lack of intentionality might not render a practice totally ineffective, our resistance or rebellion against the embedded, objective intentionality of the practice might. Indeed, such resistance or rebellion against the telos-​shaped, embedded intentionality of a practice might not even be conscious. Self-​deception could erode a practice’s ability to shape us,35 while certain 29 Bourdieu, Outline, 79. 30 Ibid. 31 See the discussion on liturgical ethics in the previous chapter. 32 On which see the discussion below. 33 Cf. Bourdieu, Outline, 80–​2. 34 McClendon, Ethics, 167. 35 See Saliers, “Liturgy and Ethics,” 180.

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performances of a practice may prove less-​adequate than others at shaping us towards the intended goal of the practice.36 If a guitar student practices scales with bad technique (possibly under the instruction of a bad teacher), this performance may actually foster bad habits that erode the player’s ability to achieve their telos. In other words, poor performances, performances that go against the embedded intention of the practice, are often de-​forming. This dovetails with the tradition’s recognition that practices do not merely produce virtue, but also depend on virtue.37 At this point, we must also address the question of whether all actions are formative practices and, if not, how do we distinguish between those that are and those that are not? Ritual scholars have made a clear and compelling case that everyday rituals like using a smartphone or obeying table etiquette are formative. On the other hand, it should be clear that some practices have a greater impact on us than others. It is dubious whether we can speak of, for instance, raising your right hand instead of your left to draw the attention of a professor as a formative practice in any meaningful sense.38 Smith suggests that practices that do not touch on our identity are “thin” and practices that do are “thick.”39 While this is helpful, what is not clear is how the apparent phenomenological thickness of a particular practice (a Christmas Eve midnight service, for instance) affects the thickness or thinness of a particular practice in terms of its formative impact (the fact that our approach to Christmas may be more shaped by the apparently thin practice of shopping online than by the midnight service). Perhaps we can simply acknowledge two facts. First, actions range along a spectrum, from having little to no formative impact to being deeply formative. Second, while the extent of the impact of a practice is influenced by its empirically observable “thickness” or “thinness,” there are practices whose formative impact far surpasses what we might expect from merely analyzing their external features. Thus far we have emphasized the way formative practices shape us. But what does moral formation form through practice? The final three phrases of our definition provide three aspects of our answer to this question.

36 Cf. Michael G. Cartwright, Practices, Politics, and Performance: Toward a Communal Hermeneutic for Christian Ethics [Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2006], 105. 37 MacIntyre, AV, 187. 38 Thus MacIntyre speaks of the question of human agency as bound up in intelligible actions situated in context, rather than action treated atomistically (MacIntyre, AV, 210). See also Pinches, Theology and Action, 13–​16. 39 Smith, DtK, 82.

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“to shape the character of the individual practitioner” Formative practices carry an embedded intention to shape the character of practitioners.40 Such character formation includes the development of the acquired virtues, and, in a Thomistic account, growth in the infused virtues. As we have seen, the virtues are habituated dispositions that empower a person to work towards a particular telos. More than simply an inclination towards good behavior, such virtuous dispositions embody a “perfection of power” within one’s character that allows one to competently pursue the good.41 Such virtues include what Smith calls a “precognitive [tendency] to act in certain ways and toward certain ends.”42 Such a description points toward the habitual side of the virtues by reminding us that they operate on both the conscious and subconscious level, predisposing us toward particular ends in an embodied way. In other words, virtues are those qualities that make it difficult for us not to act virtuously because they have become a part of who we are.43 In this way, virtues actually reduce freedom, if by freedom we mean having the most choices. For a person with the virtue of honesty, for instance, lying is in some senses no longer an option. Instead, having the virtue of honesty grants us a different kind of freedom, the “freedom for excellence.”44 Understood thus, creatures receive ever greater freedom as they grow ever more dependent on God.45 This does not mean, however, that someone who has a particular virtue can neither grow nor diminish in that virtue. Aquinas rightly argues that action in line with virtue is necessary for that virtue to take greater root in our character, and that actions opposed to the virtue, or even a failure to act in line with the virtue, can weaken it.46 In other words, practices must, for the most part, be practiced repeatedly to foster ongoing growth. Furthermore, poor performances or de-​forming practices can undermine existing virtues and replace them with vices. 40 Cf. MacIntyre, Ethics, 50. 41 ST II-​II, q. 55, a. 2. 42 Smith, DtK, 55–​7. 43 Hauerwas, Community of Character, 113–​120. See also MacIntyre, AV, 144. 44 Miner, Aquinas, 82. See also Isaiah Berlin, Four Essays on Liberty (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969). Berlin suggests negative liberty is concerned with the absence of constraints, whereas positive freedom is about the self ’s power to achieve its own ends, and thus includes issues of self-​mastery in reference to one’s passions, etc. (Ibid., 1–​9). 45 John Webster, God Without Measure: Working Papers in Christian Theology, vol. I God and the Works of God (New York: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2017), 139, fn. 47. 46 See ST II-​II q. 51, a. 3–​4; q. 52, a. 1–​3.

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Nor should virtue be understood mechanistically, as if having a virtue forced an agent to act in the exact same way regardless of circumstances. Instead, virtues, like the skills of a craft, give us “the ability to respond creatively to the always unanticipated difficulties involved” with our ever changing situations.47 To possess a virtue is to have acquired a “flexible state or disposition of [character] that predisposes its possessor to act and feel a certain way” in a variety of contexts related to the sphere natural to that virtue.48 To return to our earlier example, the habitual, disciplined practice of playing the guitar inculcates the virtue of guitar playing to such an extent that improvisation becomes a possibility.49 The fact that guitar practice always occurs in a community whose musical culture influences what is practiced means that such improvisation will enable the player to participate effectively within that musical culture. Nor can virtue be reduced to actions and choices. Virtues also include emotions and affections. To be habituated into a virtue is not simply to be predisposed or competent to do the right thing, but also to want, desire, and take pleasure in doing the right thing.50 So practices do not simply cultivate and train us to be disposed to act; they also dispose us to feel.51 Habit-​forming practices are “strategies of desire”52 inasmuch as they recruit, channel, and shape our desires for particular ends associated with the stories and community out of which such practices emerge. In short, formative practices shape practitioners to habitually feel, think, and act competently in line with the virtue in question, and in pursuit of the communal telos that emerges from the community’s narratives.

“the politics of the community” In speaking of “politics,” I am not referring first and foremost to politics as the administration of force, the ordering of society by a government or nation state, etc. Instead, I am using ‘politics’ to refer to the public acts of particular communities: their “ways of making decisions, defining membeship, and carrying out common tasks.”53 All social bodies have a “politics” in this sense, and to speak 47 Hauerwas, Community of Character, 115. 48 Lockwood, “Aristotle,” 29. 49 Lockwood, “Aristotle,” 29. 50 MacIntyre, AV, 162; Smith, ItK, 139; Hauerwas, Peaceable Kingdom, 117; Aristotle, Eth. nic, II.ii.8–​iii. 51 Aristotle, Eth. nic. II.iii.3–​7; MacIntyre, DRA, 122; MacIntyre, AV, 149; Miller, Practice, 10. 52 Hauerwas, “Habit Matters,” 78. 53 Yoder, Body Politics, viii.

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of formative practices as shaping the politics of the community is simply to acknowledge the insight that the practices of a particular community embody and inform its politics.54 Formative practices, in other words, shape both the character of individuals (the virtues) and the structures of communities (politics).

“the world ‘out there’ ” By speaking of formative practices as shaping the world “out there,” I am referring, somewhat imprecisely, to the reality that formative practices aim at really accomplishing something outside the character of the individual and community who participate in them.55 While formative practices may take the shape of “practice for” (in the sense of “I am practicing my free throws for the upcoming basketball game”) they are always also necessarily “practice of ” (in the sense of “I practice law” in reference to the normal work of being a lawyer). For a baker to become excellent at baking bread, he or she must practice baking bread by actually attempting to cook excellent loaves. The courageous acts that shape our character towards courage must be true acts of courage in the real world. To return to Yoder’s example of breaking bread in the early church, such a practice shaped the politics of the community and said something to the world. But when the church gathered across lines of socio-​economic status to share bread, such a practice also accomplished something by feeding those who otherwise might have gone hungry.56 When, in the ordered set of practices that constitute a worship service, we acknowledge fault, submit to the authority of leaders, and mourn with those who mourn in prayer, we are becoming a certain kind of community made up of a certain kind of individual.57 But this formation occurs because we actually enter into actions with real results beyond just formation: we really do repent, submit, console. If we are more competent to walk in humility and love alongside our neighbors after the service than before, it will be partially because we actually have practiced that humility and love within the formative practice of worship. In conclusion, then, formative practices are best defined as telos-​shaped, embodied, social actions that carry an embedded intention to shape the character of the individual practitioner, the politics of the community, and the world “out there.”

54 Ibid., iv. 55 They are thus constrained by their relationship to the created order. On this, see below. 56 Cf. Yoder, “Sacrament,” 38; Yoder, Body Politics, 20–​1. 57 Hauerwas and Wells, “Christian Ethics,” 6–​7.

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The Role of Formative Practices in Holistic Ecclesial Formation Practices, then, play a key role in moral formation. But as we saw with Aristotle, they are not the exclusive means of moral formation. How then do practices operate and interact with other elements in the process of moral growth? To answer this question, I will first describe how practices operate within a broader account of community formation. We will specifically consider this model as it relates to ecclesial communities, by which I mean the shared life of particular congregations or churches, both as they are gathered together for worship and as they are sent out to love and serve Christ in the world around them.58 Second, we will consider how such formation within the ecclesia relates to the formation occurring in the broader culture. Finally, we will consider how understanding the “moral space” within which formation occurs as decisively determined by the Triune God’s own presence and action radically reframes our model. This final task will require us to consider the Triune God’s agency in human formation, an account of sin and moral failure, and a description of how ecclesial formation relates to creation. Taken as a whole, this entire section presents the constructive model for understanding Holistic Ecclesial Formation that I will draw on again and again in my interpretation of the Deuteronomic tithe feast and Corinthian Lord’s Supper in the chapters that follow.

Figure 3.1:  Moral Formation within a Particular Ecclesial Community

Adapted from Brian Fikkert & Michael Rhodes, “Homo Economicus vs. Homo Imago Dei,” Journal of Markets & Morality, Vol. 20, #1, 106.

58 The decision to focus our model on the ecclesia is in line with the so-​called “ecclesial turn” in Christian ethics, as well as the liturgical ethics explored in the previous chapter.

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In any community, moral formation occurs through the interplay of the community’s shared stories, formative practices, politics, and character. These various elements operate in a “feedback loop” within which formation occurs (Figure 3.1). Let’s consider this in greater depth. Focusing on an ecclesial community’s stories, we can see that the narratives that shape the community determine its shared telos, influence what counts as virtue and what counts as vice,59 inform the way members of the community see the world, are embodied through the community’s formative practices, and provide the answers to the questions that will shape the politics of the community (“Who are we?” “What makes us who we are?” “What are the conditions of membership and the grounds for expulsion?”). At the same time, the feedback loop depicted in Figure 3.1 reminds us that we should not understand formation as beginning with a narrative and moving in a linear fashion through the other elements. Indeed, we can begin with any element in the diagram and explore how it influences and is influenced by all the others. Beginning with character, we require certain individual and corporate character traits and skills to tell our stories faithfully.60 We also require character to effectively perform practices, which depend in part on the virtues of practitioners.61 The politics of the community also depend on our character, understood both as the presence or absence of virtue and in terms of our moral vision or way of seeing the world. Focusing on practices allows us to see that they both depend on and cultivate character. While practices emerge from the community’s story, here again the influence runs in both directions, because practices can and do re-​shape the community’s understanding of its stories. Furthermore, practices definitively shape the politics of a particular community; indeed, some practices are partially constitutive of the community’s politics. Finally, if we begin with politics, the politics of a community will render that community more or less capable of telling its story faithfully. This is true in part because, as Hauerwas argues, the acceptance of the story of Scripture depends on a community whose politics make that story “habitable.”62 The shape of the ecclesia’s political life provides the infrastructure within which the community’s practices

59 On the way narratives inform the content of the virtues, see Robin Parry, Old Testament Story and Christian Ethics (Carlisle: Paternoster Biblical Monographs, 2005), 43–​7. 60 Hauerwas, Peaceable Kingdom, 95. 61 MacIntyre, AV, 191. 62 Hauerwas, With the Grain of the Universe, 214.

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are able to be performed effectively.63 In terms of the relationship between character and politics, the politics of the ecclesia form an essential part of the “objective structures” experienced by members of the community, and such “objective structures” play a significant role in fostering habitus. In short, the stories, practices, account of character, and politics of a particular community are interdependent and mutually influential. Moral formation within the church occurs as we engage in this morally formative feedback loop operative in an ecclesial context.

Figure 3.2:  Ecclesial Formation within a Cultural Context

At the same time, particular ecclesial communites experience formation in the midst of the broader culture of which they are a part (Figure 3.2). This cultural context includes countless other communities, including the neighborhoods, extended family networks, political groups, businesses, associations of all sorts, and more in which Christians can and should participate. Each of these communities has their own stories, politics, accounts of character, and practices that shape participants towards ends that are more or less, but rarely quite synonymous with those of the ecclesial community. Because of this reality, every aspect of formation within the

63 Hauerwas, Peaceable Kingdom, 95.

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ecclesia always occurs in implicit dialogue with and under some influence by the formation occurring in the broader culture.64 This is true in at least two ways. First, because particular ecclesial communities are embedded within a culture, explicitly ecclesial practices of preaching, prayer, acts of mercy to the poor, sacraments, and more will be shaped in some way by the broader cultural context.65 The life of ecclesial communities does not occur in some rarified space impermeably separated from a culture that exists “out there.” Moral formation in particular churches occurs in necessary dialogue with and under some influence by the larger society.66 But second, inasmuch as the church participates in Christ’s mission of reconciling all things (Col 1:20), the broader culture constitutes the arena of Christian mission, both in terms of evangelism and discipleship, and in terms of bearing witness to the kingdom of God in every area of life.67 Christians engage in a variety of communities within the culture outside the life of the congregation, seeking justice, extolling beauty, discerning truth, collaborating for peace, working to alleviate poverty, and more. Indeed, our participation in “daily quotidian life in all spheres”68 is often a vehicle for transforming encounters with God, encounters that assist in the reformation of the ecclesia itself. We should not be surprised when, in our daily lives, we find ourselves saying with Jesus “not even in Israel have I found such faith” (Luke 7:9). In this interplay between ecclesial communities and the broader culture we could describe a continuum of engagement with rejection on one end and cooption on the other (Figure 3.3).

Figure 3.3:  Continuum of Responses to Cultural Formation Outside the Congregation

In other words, on some occasions, certain aspects of the politics, stories, character, and practices of an ecclesial community will stand in utter contrast to those 64 Cf. James K.A. Smith, Awaiting the King: Reforming Public Theology Cultural Liturgies, vol. 3 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2017), 169. 65 Cf. Johnson, Knowledge by Ritual, 147. 66 Grimes argues this both in terms of the porousness of Christ’s ecclesial body and the fact that worshippers “bring their habituated bodies with them when they enter liturgical space” (Grimes, Christ Divided, 208–​24). 67 Cf. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 200. 68 Brian Brock, “Discipleship as Living with God, Or Wayfinding and Scripture,” Journal of Spiritual Formation & Soul Care 7.1 (2014), 23.

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of its surrounding culture (rejection). Christians in such circumstances may resist the influence of the culture within the ecclesial community, and actively avoid participation in some aspects of the larger culture. The inclusion of humility in some of the NT’s virtue lists, for instance, is a rejection of the Greco-​Roman conception of humility as a vice.69 As an example of adaptation, as we have seen, rituals from the broader culture can be “ritualized” for use in new contexts.70 As we will see, both the Deuteronomic tithe feast and the Corinthian Lord’s Supper derive their power, at least in part, from offering God’s people feasts that are both like and unlike the festal practices available outside the community of faith. As an example of collaboration, we might consider practices that Israel might have shared with their Babylonian neighbors as they sought to seek the peace of the city to which YHWH had sent them ( Jer 29:7), or biblical figures such as Daniel and Nehemiah who creatively engaged, and occasionally collaborated with the politics of the surrounding culture. Finally, we can suggest there are times when the surrounding culture’s formation coopts the ecclesia’s stories, practices, politics, or character. Aaron declared that the golden calf was Yahweh who brought Israel out of Egypt (Exod 32:4) or, as we will see, the Corinthian church became unable to practice what Paul considered a true “Lord’s Supper” because of the extent to which their gathering had been coopted by the Greco-​Roman culture’s practice of socially stratified meals.71 Our understanding of this dynamic deepens when we recognize that both the ecclesia and the wider culture embody a politics or set of “objective structures,” to use Bourdieu’s language. Even while avoiding Bourdieu’s reductionism, which risks reducing all formation to the outworking of material, economic conditions, we still must reckon with the way that the structures and conditions of both the broader culture and the ecclesial communities within that culture affect the habitus fostered among members of these communities. An ecclesial community, then, may reject, adapt, collaborate with, or be coopted by the practices, politics, character, and stories of other communities and the culture as a whole. An ecclesial community will navigate these options both in its attempts to remain faithful within the community and to participate faithfully in the culture at large. Such faithfulness will require the church to navigate the

69 James Thompson, Moral Formation according to Paul: The Context and Coherence of Pauline Ethics (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2011), 106–​7. 70 Johnson, Knowledge by Ritual, 147. 71 On which see in detail below.

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tension between loving and serving the nations on the one hand, and serving as a counter-​cultural community “against the nations” on the other.72 Our model’s emphasis on the formation that occurs in an ecclesial community, then, seeks to recognize (a) that to be a member of the church of Christ is to give primary allegiance to Christ and his kingdom, (b) that moral formation in line with such allegiance puts a strong emphasis on life in the local, gathered body of believers as the primary place where we experience transformation for participation in that kingdom, and (c) that such ecclesial formation is always influenced by the formation occurring within the broader culture, both because the ecclesia exists within that culture, and because the church’s mission draws God’s people into creative engagement with it. But does this emphasis on the life of the ecclesia entail an over-​emphasis on the church? Might this model entail ecclesial overreach, with the church inappropriately overwhelming other aspects of life, or denying other spheres73 their appropriate role in moral formation and mission? Because this is an important challenge facing any ecclesial ethics, it’s worth exploring the relationship between the church and the broader culture further. To do so, I will briefly consider how ecclesial ethics might helpfully construe the relationship between the politics of the church and the church’s engagement with politics outside of it.

Politics Inside and Outside the Ecclesia Cavanaugh argues that in contemporary political theology the relationship between the church and the nation-​state is often considered through the lens of such binary oppositions as sacred versus secular or society versus the state.74 In such a scheme, political theology treats the nation-​state as a “given, within which the church and the government must maneuver for space.”75 But the nation state is not secular, and the church is not sacred, at least as those terms are usually understood. The allegedly secular nation-​state provides citizens with rituals designed to foster primary 72 See Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 66–​7. 73 This question is raised differently within different traditions: the Reformed tradition with its emphasis on sphere sovereignty or “orders of creation,” Bonhoeffer’s consideration of the so-​ called “mandates,” and the Catholic church’s teaching on subsidiarity. For a brief account of these diverse ways of talking about such social diversity, see Robin W. Lovin, Christian Realism and the New Realities (New York: Cambridge University, 2008), 76–​81. 74 William Cavanaugh, “From One City to Two: Christian Reimagining of Political Space,” PT 7.3 (2006), 302–​3; Smith, AtK, 14–​18. 75 Cavanaugh, “Christian Reimagining,” 308.

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allegiance to the state,76 and the allegedly “sacred” church is deeply concerned with so-​called “secular” issues. Indeed, the church’s politics as exemplified in its life and liturgy aim at equipping believers to live all of life under the reign of Christ.77 Because of this, a growing number of scholars from various theological traditions argue that a theological account of politics must attend first and foremost to the ecclesial community as a political entity in its own right.78 In the church, the world encounters a glimpse of God’s rule and reign, because the church stands as an outpost of the kingdom of God. In other words, the church, when it is faithful to its calling, embodies God’s kingdom within its own life, not least for the sake of those outside the church. Drawing on Augustine, Cavanaugh suggests that the “city of God” encountered in the ecclesia embodies the “already” of the kingdom in the midst of the earthly city’s embodiment of the “not yet.”79 Because of this, the church uniquely embodies the world’s own destiny by “pioneering a paradigmatic demonstration of both the power and the practices that define the shape of restored humanity.”80 In its life as a “city on a hill” (Matt 5:14), the wisdom of God is made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly realms (Eph 3:10). The church’s members are a part of the very body of Christ in the world (Col 1:24b), and a living, breathing temple in which his Spirit dwells (1 Cor 3:16). The church, then, is the “special object of God’s care because … . … in the church the end of creation is being reached.”81 This political existence as God’s people gathered is in some sense prior to and essential for any subsequent consideration of how communities ought to engage with the various governing authorities of our world, as well as with the various communities which make up the broader culture. And while there is considerable disagreement among the aforementioned scholars about the details, all agree that the rule of Christ embodied in the church speaks a word to the world about its future and thus provides guidance for Christian engagement with rulers, authorities, and civil society more generally. As with politics, so also with the rest of the elements of the ecclesial community’s formation. In other words, for Holistic Ecclesial Formation, participation in the culture will be deemed faithful to the extent that such engagement flows out of the logically prior commitment to the stories, practices, and accounts 76 William Cavanaugh, Migrations of the Holy: God, State, and the Political Meaning of the Church (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 116–​19. 77 Ibid., 119–​22. 78 See Yoder, Body Politics, ix. 79 Cavanaugh, “From One City to Two,” 312. 80 Yoder, “Sacrament,” 44. 81 Webster, God Without Measure, vol. I, 138.

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of character of the ecclesia itself. This is true not because of any innate goodness in the church, but rather because the church, in its life, is given the gift of bearing witness to the reign of Christ within the world. At the same time, this commitment is logically prior, rather than temporally prior. I am not suggesting, in other words, that Christians go first to the church, bunker down there, and then consider how to engage the culture. Such a suggestion is both impossible (since we are all already caught up in our culture and a vast array of communities within it), but also theologically problematic, because we encounter God’s transforming presence in all of life. Furthermore, we are given no biblical justification for delaying the work of mission and cultural engagement until we have gotten “our own house in order.” The emphasis on logical priority simply asserts that faithful engagement in the world depends on the extent to which such engagement flows out of the normative shape of Christ’s lordship experienced, albeit imperfectly, in the community of faith.

Holistic Ecclesial Formation by the Power of the Spirit and with the Grain of the Universe

Figure 3.4:  Moral Formation by the Power of the Spirit and with the Grain of the Universe

Adapted from Brian Fikkert & Michael Rhodes, “Homo Economicus vs. Homo Imago Dei,” Journal of Markets & Morality, Vol. 20, #1, 116.

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Ultimately, however, both a particular ecclesial community and the surrounding culture stand in ultimate relationship to the world as it really is, created by the Triune God and under his active lordship (Figure 3.4). Whether they acknowledge it or not, churches and cultures only exist in the real world: created good by God, under the ever-​encroaching reign of Christ, and pervaded by the Spirit. Colossians 1:15–​29 presents a picture of Christ, the “head of the church,” as the one by whom, through whom, and for whom all things were created; the one in whom all things currently hold together; the one in whom God has reconciled and is reconciling “all things” to himself. The world-​as-​it-​truly-​exists, then, is the world with God on the throne as the creating, sustaining, reconciling, and ruling King. This brings into sharp focus the need to frame our understanding of formation within a broader account of the Triune God’s own action, whose creating, sustaining, and saving work not only creates the world and its human inhabitants, but guides all of creation towards the eschatological fulfillment of the Kingdom.82 Indeed, “the acts by which [the church] realizes itself are acts whose description requires constant deployment of language about God.”83 Thus, according to Webster, theological ethics will talk of the self and its agency by offering an account of the “field” or “space” of moral selfhood and action … [and] it will set its moral anthropology in the framework of an account of the drama of human nature, origin and destiny, a drama presided over by the triune God who will bring it to its consummation at the appearing of the Lord Jesus. That drama is the space of our action, the field within which what we do is possible and meaningful.84

Webster therefore pushes us to situate our discussion of moral formation within a larger theological frame, one that considers the relationship between the actions of the Triune God, human actions, and the shape of the created world.85 82 For a discussion of how best theologically to describe God’s own agency in both creation and his ongoing providence, see Craig G. Bartholomew, God Who Acts in History: The Significance of Sinai (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2020), 232–​52. For a stimulating discussion of divine agency, providence, and public theology, see Philip G. Ziegler, “The Use of Providence in Public Theology,” in Providence of God: Deus Habet Consilium, ed. Phiip G. Ziegler and Francesca Aran Murphy (New York: T & T Clark, 2009), 307–​25. 83 Webster, God Without Measure, vol. II, 188–​9. 84 John B. Webster, Word and Church: Essays in Christian Dogmatics (New York: T & T Clark, 2001), 283. 85 I outline more fully an argument for integrating moral formation and moral ontology through a close reading of 1 John 3:1–​3 in dialogue with Webster in Rhodes, “Militants of Reconciling Love.”

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Such an account recognizes that the “moral space” comprised of creation and human action is definitively shaped by and understood primarily within an account of divine presence and action. “The moral field is … the arena of God’s activity as creator, reconciler and perfecter, the one who brings all things into being, upholds them against all threats and enables them to attain their proper end.”86 Indeed, the very presence of Jesus among us is “the determination … of our situation: not an offer of a set of possibilities but a decision about what creatures are.”87 At the same time, an essential aspect of what creatures are is our creaturely “potency pressing for realization, a divine gift which is also a vocation.”88 Thus, the movement of particular churches and cultures towards the telos of God’s kingdom depends on the prior and ongoing presence and action of the Triune God in his created world. “The acts of the church are characterized by the fact that their motive power is not inherent within themselves. They are modes of action whose movement is itself moved.”89 A more complete Figure 3.4, then, would require a 3-​ D aspect, akin to the Z-​axis in a graph, that represents the telos-​oriented actions of God that surround and encompass creation itself and all cultures and communities within it. Placing all creation and human agency within the realm of God’s own action, however, does not lead to some sort of “omnicausalism” in which neither creation nor humanity can be said to have any independent, free existence.90 Instead, God’s agency “is the very condition of the possibility for creation’s contingency in general and human freedom in particular,”91 with contingent, yet genuinely free human existence an intrinsic aspect of what it means to be human.92 Drawing on God’s command to “Let the earth bring forth … . .” as representative of the way that God’s action elicits free response, Horton argues that God’s divine freedom is the ground of that dependent liberty that God gives freely to creatures … God allows creatures to exist in a mode of freedom that, although 86 Ibid., 234, italics added. 87 Webster, “Where Christ Is,” 41. 88 John Webster, God Without Measure: Working Papers in Christian Theology, vol. II Virtue and Intellect (New York: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2015), 3. 89 Webster, God Without Measure, vol. II, 188. Note that this is almost precisely the same language used by those scholars exploring second-​personal relations in formation. 90 Horton argues this is true even in Reformed theology (Michael Horton, “ ‘Let the Earth Bring Forth … . .’ The Spirit and Human Agency in Sanctification,” in Sanctification, ed. Kelly Kapic [Downers Grove, IL: Indiana University Press, 2014], 128). 91 Miller, Practice, 16. 92 Cf. Webster, God Without Measure, vol. I, 138–​40.

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dependent, is entirely their own. Even when acting in the same sphere, or even in the same event, divine and human agency do not collide, because God is not simply one agent among others.93

As Long puts it, because “God and creation do not occupy the same ontological ‘space,’ ” our actions and God’s do not “compete in a monocausal ontological plane.”94 Such dogmatic articulations stretch human conceptions and language to their limits and beyond. But they also capture essential elements of the biblical witness to a sovereign God who has freely and mysteriously granted agency to his good creation and his human creatures.95 This has several further important implications. First, the recognition that formation occurs ultimately in relation to God’s creation acknowledges that there are normative, creational criteria by which to judge the practices, stories, accounts of character, and politics of any human community. “Only reality obliges us,”96 and thus what we need, says Hauerwas, is not “no story, but a true story.”97 Based on our discussion thus far, we can also say that what we need are true practices, true conceptions of character, and true politics. The hope of ecclesial formation is that by God’s grace the body of Christ can truly, albeit imperfectly, embody narratives, practices, politics, and character that go with the grain of God’s universe. O’Donovan argues that it is in the resurrection of Christ that the created order and the ethical life of the believer come together. For O’Donovan, “the very act of God which ushers in his kingdom is the resurrection of Christ from the dead, the reaffirmation of creation.”98 Because of this, our lives should conform to the created order as we “progress towards a life which goes beyond this order without negating it.”99

93 Horton, “Spirit and Human Agency,” 128. 94 D. Stephen Long, The Perfectly Simple Triune God: Aquinas and His Legacy (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2016), 391. Long also helpfully acknowledges that Aquinas and Augustine’s accounts (on which he draws) do not provide complete systems nor could they (Ibid., 392). 95 See Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics, ed. G.W. Bromiley and R.J. Ehrlich, trans. G.W. Bromiley and T.F. Torrance (New York: T&T Clark, 1960), III.3.48. 96 Webster, “Where Christ Is,” 43. 97 Hauerwas, Community of Character, 149. 98 Oliver O’Donovan, Resurrection and Moral Order: An Outline for Evangelical Ethics (Grand Rapids, MI: Grand Rapids, 1986), 15. 99 Ibid.

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But this does not lead O’Donovan to affirm that this objective world reality that stands behind and before our existence and frames our ethical lives100 can be known apart from “God’s own disclosure of himself and of his works.”101 Because we are sinful, we lack open, clear access to the shape of the world as it is. The solution, of course, is revelation; the “fear of YHWH is the beginning of wisdom” (Prov 9:10). The culmination of this revelation is the unveiling of God’s divine purpose in directing all things towards their true telos through Jesus in his life, death, resurrection, ascension, return, and renewal of all things.102 Thus we can see how moral formation occurs as a response to the Triune God’s work in two ways: true formation occurs with the grain of God’s world and humans require God’s self-​ disclosure to recognize and respond to the shape of God’s creation. Second, however, what we need is not simply revelation, but also the transformation of our character and renewal in the Spirit.103 Both justification and sanctification, salvation from sin and moral transformation, depend on God’s gracious action.104 The realities of human sin and divine grace “provide the comprehensive rubrics under which all … human moral knowing and acting [must] be ranged,”105 and as a result, descriptions of the moral life must relentlessly refer back to God’s own intervening action. And yet, even in this miraculous transformation God does not neglect our created, embodied selves, but rather works incarnationally through his Holy Spirit. Thus, as we have seen, the infused virtues, which are God’s gifts, nonetheless take greater root in our character as we practice them in the context of a Spirit-​enabled relationship with God. This relational context, as we explored in connection to both Thomistic and Reformed accounts of virtue, is essential. In salvation, the Spirit unites us to Christ and graciously gives us a relational, second-​personal “stance” towards God, as well as a moral disposition to share God’s moral stance towards our neighbors and our world. 100 O’Donovan, Self, World, and Time: Ethics as Theology, vol. 1 (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2013), 10. 101 O’Donovan, Resurrection, 19. This, as we have seen, is a potential error in some Thomistic accounts. 102 Ibid., 55. 103 O’Donovan, Self, 42. 104 This reality is seen both in NT passages like Romans 3:23–​24 and in the theme of God’s new covenant in the OT, with its promise that God would write the law on the hearts of his people ( Jer 31:27–​34; cf. also Ezek 36:23–​29). 105 Philip Ziegler, “Completely Within God’s Doing: Soteriology as Meta-​Ethics in the Theology of Dietrich Bonhoeffer,” in Christ, Church, and World: New Studies in Bonhoeffer’s Theology and Ethics, ed. Philip Ziegler and Michael G. Mawson (New York: T & T Clark, 2016), 105.

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At the same time, both our relationship with God and the extent of our shared stance with God towards his world grows through our ongoing relationship with God, and not least through formative practices. Such practices are second-​personal practices, because they emerge from our relationship with God and are practiced in the context of that relationship. This is yet another way of maintaining with Aquinas that true virtue is worked “in us, without us,” and “yet not without action on our part.”106 The result is that through moral formation, we actively engage our human agency and simultaneously receive the Triune God’s gift of transformation in the context of a second-​personal relationship with him. Because of this, a theological account of moral formation must find ways to speak of such formation as the transforming grace of God, and, at the same time, bound up in true human acts performed in relationship with him. Sonderegger does this by describing formative practices as occurring in the “middle voice,” suggesting that such grammatical language “teaches us to respect and pursue the ambiguity [between grace and agency], the rich mixture, that is the Spirit’s Self-​Presence in the believer.”107 Formative practices, then, are middle voice actions, performed by us, yet utterly dependent on and made possible by God’s actions. While such practices include liturgical practices like the sacraments of baptism and eucharist, they also include a whole host of everyday practices beyond the bounds of the ecclesia that flow out of our encounter with Jesus.108 Such moral formation is not “spiritual self-​ management but rather the creational means that our gracious God deigns to inhabit for our sanctification.”109 Formative practices are “habitations of the Spirit,”110 God-​ordained avenues for formation through the Spirit’s transforming activity in the context of our covenantal union with Christ. Through formative practices, we engage in intentional “joint attention” and activity with the Triune God, to use Pinsent’s metaphor. In doing so, we intentionally draw our life towards love of God and love of neighbor and find ourselves further habituated into the patterns of such divine love in the process.

1 06 ST I-​II q. 55, a. 4. 107 Katherine Sonderegger, Systematic Theology, vol. I: The Doctrine of God (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2015), 416. 108 For a popular-​level attempt to consider what such practices might look like in relation to our economic lives, see Michael Rhodes and Robby Holt, with Brian Fikkert, Practicing the King’s Economy: Honoring Jesus in How We Work, Earn, Spend, Save, and Give (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2018). 109 Smith, ItK, 15. 110 Ibid. The phrase is Craig Dykstra’s.

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Moreover, it is partially through this formation through Spirit-​empowered practices that we discern the true shape of the created order. When our practices are in line with the Spirit’s transforming work, they bring us into contact “with the grain of the universe.” Such practices are thus essential for us, because we are not fully initiated into the stories, practices, politics, and character that allow us to act in “the world as it is rather than as it merely appears to be.”111 Formative practices that align with creational norms shape us to recognize that which, without such practices, we simply cannot discern.112 Here again we see something of the relationship between the ecclesial community and the broader culture: formation within the church shapes us to discern the world. In summary, Holistic Ecclesial Formation happens when we, as a result of our relationship with the Triune God, become capable of hearing and telling the true story of the world aright; of embodying that story through formative practices that shape our character to be able to see, act, feel, and reason well in light of our ultimate telos; of beginning to construct communities whose life together embodies in micro the true nature of human community as it was intended by God and as it will be in full when Christ returns; and of carrying that kingdom reality out into the world as participants in Christ’s mission of reconciling all things.113

The Problem of Formation Failure Because we remain not yet totally healed, however, none of us can ever fully embrace these aspects of formation completely or embody them perfectly. Even if we are God’s children now, we do not yet know fully what we will be (1 John 3:2).114 Our vision, character, stories, practices, and politics all fall short of the glory of God and of his world fully redeemed. This is true both as individuals who participate in a variety of communities, ecclesial and otherwise, and of our experiences in actual churches. Indeed, perhaps the “central problem in ecclesiology is the tension between what the church claims to be and what it actually is.”115 What are we to make of this moral failure, which confronts our account of formation with the empirical reality of sinful Christians and sinful churches? 1 11 Hauerwas, With the Grain of the Universe, 183. 112 Johnson, Knowledge by Ritual, xvi. 113 Yoder, Body Politics, ix, 21. 114 On this passage, see Rhodes, “Militants of Reconciling Love.” 115 James H. Evans, Sr., We Have Been Believers: An African American Systematic Theology, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2012), 156.

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Theologians concerned with issues of race in contemporary America sharpen this question considerably.116 Consider, for instance, the “stinging critique”117 raised by Willie James Jennings’ masterful The Christian Imagination. Jennings provides a compelling account of the relationship between “theology and the origins of race” in the modern world. He argues that in the colonial era the “commercial interests” of empire were “hidden inside” the church’s theological interests.118 In other words, the missionary impulse of the church demonically embraced and was embraced by a colonialist logic that placed people on racial hierarchies for the purposes of both economic exploitation and would-​be Christian formation.119 Important for our purposes, Jennings highlights the way imperial missionaries like Jose de Acosta Porres had themselves experienced and carried with them into the New World that “traditioned Christian existence” and moral formation championed by MacIntyre.120 But this tradition proved both powerless to confront the heretical nature of colonialist racism,121 and, even worse, adapted to a new form of would-​be Christian formation and pedagogy that shaped both the colonialists and those colonized into a racialized hegemony built around “whiteness” that infects our theologizing and practice until the present day.122 The creation of such a theology and attendant suite of moral, pedagogical, and spiritual practices was, according to Jennings a theological operation … a matter of creation and recreation, an act of power as awesome as any rite of Christian baptism … It would be a mistake to see the church and its ecclesiastics as entering the secular workings of the state in the New World, or to posit ecclesial presence as a second stage in the temporal ordering of the New World. No, the church entered with the conquistadors … The reordering of Indian worlds was born of Christian formation itself.123

In short, the Thomistic tradition of virtue formation became encased within a deeply unchristian colonialist logic. When Jennings narrates the story of Equiano, a Christian slave, pleading futilely with his master not to sell him because both he 116 Portions of this section first appeared in Michael J. Rhodes, “Arranging the Chairs in the Beloved Community: The Politics, Problems, and Prospects of Multi-​Racial Congregations in 1 Corinthians and Today,” Studies in Christian Ethics (2019), 510–​28. 117 See Smith’s dialogue with Jennings at precisely this point (Smith, AtK, 170–​9). 118 Willie James Jennings, The Christian Imagination: Theology and the Origins of Race (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010), 27. 119 Cf. Ibid., 27, 35. 120 Ibid, 65–​118. 121 Ibid., 71. 122 Ibid., 68–​83. 123 Ibid., 81.

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and his master are baptized believers, we see the challenge this history poses to our account of practices. Indeed, we see the symbol of Christianity’s fundamental limitation, the inefficacy of baptism in the presence of a racial calculus. As performed in the slaveholding Christian West, baptism enacted no fundamental change in the material conditions of Christian existence.124

One response to such failures would be to reject the entire project of moral formation through practice that I have articulated thus far, positing that precisely such moral categories have failed us.125 This, in my view, would be a serious mistake. Indeed, I suggest that Jennings’ work actually demonstrates precisely how our account of formative practices illuminates the deep-​seated issues of moral de-​ formation on the one hand, and the possibilities of a recovery of truly Christian formation on the other.126 Grimes’ discussion of Catholic “antiblackness” as “corporate vice” brilliantly explores precisely this dynamic. Arguing from the virtue tradition’s recognition that formation and intention take place through physical bodies, she argues that both the ecclesial structures of the Catholic church in America and the structures of society at large have served as a “habitat for vice.”127 Formation that occurs 1 24 Ibid, 182. 125 This is close to the position taken by Draper in his work on Jennings. Nevertheless, he rightly recognizes that Jennings “is not against virtue per se” (Andrew T. Draper, A Theology of Race and Place: Liberation and Reconciliation in the Works of Jennings and Carter [Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2016], 128) and even that Hauerwas’s account (which Draper strongly critiques) “is helpful in demonstrating how virtue is formed in the life of Christians” (Ibid., 133). What Draper fails to describe adequately is the way that the sort of formative practice theory offered here—​influenced by Hauerwas and MacIntyre—​might actually illuminate aspects of how “racial formation follows a path of discipleship.” Indeed, I suggest that both he and Jennings’ constructive ecclesial and practical theology might be strengthened by formative practice theory. Jennings himself has made overtures in this direction, not least by contributing a chapter on race and baptism to the 2nd edition of the Blackwell Companion to Christian Ethics (Willie James Jennings, “Being Baptized: Race,” in Hauerwas and Wells, Blackwell Companion, 277–​89). 126 Jennings himself criticizes Hauerwas’s Resident Aliens for ignoring “decisive racial, class, and gender formations and [giving] little help in seeing their interplay” in ecclesial formation. Because of this, he suggests “its vision of practice was impotent in helping grasp the social conditions within which practices are always embedded” ( Jonathan Wilson-​Hartgrove et. al, “State of the Colony: Resident Aliens at 25,” The Christian Century 131.20 [2014], 23–​4). This important critique, it seems to me, calls for a different deployment of key insights from a Hauerwasian account of formation rather than a rejection of such an account. Moreover, as indicated above, I believe that Bourdieu’s account of habitus is one resource for pursuing such a deployment. 127 Grimes, Christ Divided, 87.

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within such structures puts all people, “but especially whites, on a trajectory of antiblack habituation.”128 The strengths of her argument for our purposes are at least threefold. First, she brings to light the way historic ecclesial practices served to habituate Christians into the vice of antiblackness. This occurred through, for instance, altering catechisms for slaves so as to provide theological support for slavery,129 racially-​segregated seating arrangements in church, the offering of “First Communion” to black and white children “during separate masses held on separate days,”130 and deploying baptism as a way to dislocate black bodies from their historic identities in order to claim their new identities for white masters.131 Second, Grimes describes how white Catholic practices outside the bounds of the church, and especially “voluntary spatial isolation from black people”132 in housing and education, not only went unchallenged by Catholic ecclesial theology and practice, but indeed became intertwined with such theology and practice. So for instance, decisions about parish location became complicit with patterns of white flight and voluntary racial segregation in housing decisions made by Catholics.133 But such racial segregation in the parish and the neighborhood led to a de-​formation of ecclesial practice: “neither baptism nor the Eucharist [bring] parochially segregated black and white Catholics together.”134 The result of these failures is devastating: “the vices of antiblackness supremacy” formed through the church’s sins of both omission and commission “render white people inept at the practice of racial justice and skillfully adept at the pursuit of racial injustice.”135 Third, however, she charts an account of “sacramental realism” that places formative practices as a key element of the “rehabituating” of the “corporate body 1 28 Ibid. 129 Cf. Jennings, The Christian Imagination, 238–​9. 130 Grimes, Christ Divided, 115. 131 Ibid., 190–​2. 132 Ibid., 88. 133 Ibid., 124–​30. 134 Ibid., 200–​1. Grimes’ description of the “porosity” of the ecclesial body in relation to the broader culture is helpful. She rightly argues that world and church are “interpenetratively co-​constitutive. The church’s sacramental practices help comprise its ethical character just as the church’s ethical character helps to shape its sacramental practices. Both are shaped by the habituating power of antiblackness supremacy. For these reasons, it is not enough to reform the church from within” (Ibid., 203). While Long is right that Grimes overstates her case and caricatures the position of Hauerwas and Cavanaugh (Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 121, including fn. 81), it seems to me incontrovertible that the rhetoric of some ecclesial ethicists has contributed to this caricature. In any case, her point is important. 135 Ibid., 93.

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of Christ.”136 This means attending to the concrete shape of ecclesial practices, recognizing that, for instance, who is at the eucharistic table and whether the eucharistic celebration includes a real or merely symbolic meal affects the shape and power of the practice.137 Such sacramental realism also requires attention to the way that “habits and practices that are usually considered to be extra-​ecclesial or ecclesiastically irrelevant, such as living in a predominantly white suburb” can be both morally deforming in their own right and undermine the power of ecclesial practices to do their work.138 The failures Grimes describes include, to draw on our discussion above, the practitioner’s intentionality running against the “embedded intention” of sacramental practice; in such cases moral formation is thwarted or undermined through poor performances of practices. Equally, we could describe her account in terms of the ongoing reality of cultural cooption of ecclesial practices and of deformation through engaging in cultural liturgies that do not go with the grain of God’s world. Moral failures of this sort are precisely the kind that our account of formation should easily diagnose, and in so doing, prescribe one aspect of the cure.139 In the chapters that follow, I will explore the meals of Deut 14:22–​29 and 1 Cor 11:17–​34 as formative practices in part to contribute to our understanding of how to pursue the sort of re-​habituation Grimes so eloquently describes. Grimes, however, gives far too little a role for the Holy Spirit in her prescribed cure for the church’s participation in vicious habituation.140 Here again, Jennings is helpful. It may be that Jennings “tends to think of ethics in a Barthian modality of receptivity to the divine command.”141 Nevertheless, he also relentlessly argues that the Spirit draws out the body of Christ into new practices and social arrangements that embody what he refers to as “joining.” By “joining,” he envisions relationships that “invite new patterns of life,” patterns that embody what was conspicuously lacking in the “colonialist moment … the social reality that constituted a new people in the body of Jesus.”142 This reality involves the “[building] of actual life together, lives enfolded and kinship networks established through the worship of

1 36 Ibid., 221. 137 Ibid., 224. 138 Ibid., 227–​9. 139 See Smith’s discussion of the way ethnography can serve ecclesiology (Smith, AtK, 191–​2). 140 She fails to integrate the insights presented in her “theological note” on infused and acquired virtues in conversation with Herdt adequately, and even in this short passage does not do justice to the centrality of the Spirit’s agency and action (Grimes, Christ Divided, 183–​6). 141 Draper, Race and Place, 128. 142 Jennings, Christian Imagination, 249.

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and service to the God of Israel in Jesus Christ.”143 This building of shared life, though, includes formative practices: in particular, living in places “where we must not,”144 “[capturing] the power of consumptive practices to form collectives,” and speaking in tongues not our own.145 Indeed, Jennings’ theological commentary on the book of Acts takes this commitment to Spirit-​empowered practices further. Jennings discovers in Acts the urgent need for imagining and enacting forms of life together that transgress the boundaries we all know so well—​racial, ethnic, economic, social, gendered, and nationalist. Acts clarifies … the depth of change necessary for enacting the life of the common in the Spirit146

I suggest, therefore, that Jennings drives us to deepen, rather than reject, an account of moral formation through practice, albeit one that intentionally abandons the aspiration to “white self-​sufficient mastery” that has haunted much of the discourse on formation. 147 Because, as Jennings reminds us, the gospel does not invite us into a storied “tradition” trapped in the echo chamber of any one homogenous group. Instead, the Spirit invites us into the “stories of people enfolded in the story of God’s love founded in the resurrected Jesus and the stories of peoples enfolded in one another.”148 This Pentecostal “tradition,” I suggest, embodies the possibility of a truly shared life, a life that includes striving towards moral and spiritual formation through Spirit-​empowered stories, practices, politics, and accounts of character, while nevertheless remaining ever-​open to further transformation through the Spirit’s work of joining God’s people in love to others.149 1 43 Ibid., 287. 144 Ibid. 145 Ibid., 266–​7. 146 Willie James Jennings, Acts, Belief (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2017), 256–​7. 147 In his most recent book, the title of which is an allusion to MacIntyre’s After Virtue, Jennings suggests that MacIntyre’s work on tradition has most often been used as a (corrupting and coercive) invitation to formation oriented towards “white self-​sufficient mastery” (Willie James Jennings, After Whiteness: An Education in Belonging [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2020], 44). 148 Jennings, Acts, 256–​7.. 149 Not least because each individual and each groups’ glimpse of what it means to strive towards the life to which God has called us is, to use Jennings’ language, “fragmentary” ( Jennings, After Whiteness, 23-​46). Indeed, our understanding of moral virtue and our striving towards it is fragmentary because of our nature as creatures designed for dependence on God and one another (cf. Jennings, After Whiteness, 34), our nature as fallen creatures, and our nature as redeemed creatures awaiting transformation at Jesus’s return (on which, see below). From my perspective, however, this only underscores the need for an account of moral formation.

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Considering formation failure further, however, our understanding of Spirit-​ empowered formation must also include the recognition that Christian discipleship occurs among sinful humans whose transformation will never be fully complete until the return of Jesus. “Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect,” Paul declares, “but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me” (Phi 3:12). The objective reality of our existence as children of God is ours to claim now, even though we can never attain full conformity to the image of Christ, nor even a full picture of what such conformity will look like, until he returns (1 John 3:1–​2). Yet it is the very hope of our eschatological transformation that calls forth effort and unleashes power to imitate Christ and grow in virtue in the present time amidst our failures: “everyone who has this hope in [ Jesus] purifies himself, just as [ Jesus] is pure” ( John 3:3).150 In trying to work out how the church can be both sinful and holy in the meantime, Cavanaugh suggests that since the story and practices of the church include repentance and humility [w]‌hat the church makes visible to the world is the whole dynamic drama of sin and salvation, not only the end result of a humanity purified and unified. In the drama, the church plays the part of sinful humanity … But the church also plays the part of that humanity that lives in the hope of redemption … the visibility of the church lies in its repentance.151

While the visible transformation of individual believers and particular ecclesial communities bears witness to the world and embodies God’s kingdom reign in more positive ways, Cavanaugh is right that the shape of Christian practices is such that our moral failures are “incorporated into a larger drama of salvation.”152 Indeed, as Bonhoeffer reminds us, the church is nothing less than “the place of the recognition of guilt,”153 and only in this confession of guilt can “the process by which man is conformed with Christ” begin.154 We cannot, then, blame moral failure solely on the church’s assimilation to the “world” or the cooption of our liturgies by outside forces; life in the church brings sinful humans into the searing light of a relationship with God. Life lived in that light will expose the depth of human guilt and sin in God’s people first and foremost, in order that such sin

1 50 On this aspect of 1 John 3:1–​3, see Rhodes, “Militants of Reconciling Love,” 87–​8. 151 Cavanaugh, Migrations, 162, 167. 152 Ibid., 162. 153 Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 111. 154 Ibid. Cf. also Huber, “Ethics of Formation,” 269.

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might be dealt with by the grace of God received and participated in through practices of truth-​telling, repentance, and humility.155 Drawing on our model for ecclesial formation and chastened by the legacy of white supremacy in Christian formation, then, it is clear that this happens through practices such as repentance, forgiveness, reconciliation, and repair; through pursuing the virtues of humility and self-​criticism, as well as a moral vision that looks first for the log in one’s own eyes before attending to the speck in others (Matt 7:3–​5); a politics that welcomes those others see as morally reprehensible and pursues practices of church discipline that take sin seriously and seriously seek to restore siblings in Christ; and a story that never ceases talking of the overwhelming grace of God: “while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8).156 At the same time, our model implies that one way we individually and collectively bear fruit in keeping with the practice of repentance is precisely by seeking to move towards the character and community that reflect God’s kingdom (cf. Luke 3:8). Applying our model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation in a theologically rich way, then, invites us into the hard work of formation through our community’s stories, practices, politics, and character, while constantly recognizing that whenever we succeed our successes are no more than “good works prepared in advance that we should walk in them” (Eph 2:10). Our moral transformation is God’s work, even as it includes actions on our part which can be truly called good works and that can truly be called ours. Moreover, we must recognize the fragility of any progress we appear to make.157 No amount of formation this side of the fully arrived reign of God can ultimately get us beyond our status as “jars of clay” (2 Cor 4:7). Yet because the same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead is at work in us (Rom 8:11), we can actively seek to walk in step with the Spirit (Gal 5:25) through pursuing the holistic ecclesial formation discussed here. When local congregations do embrace moral formation by the power of the Spirit and with the grain of the universe, they become spaces of anticipatory participation … . … like the Spirit, a form of down payment, a guarantee that the age of justice, peace, and joy is not a pipe dream but a future reality that can be known, imperfectly and incompletely but really, in the present.158 1 55 Cf. Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 155. 156 I see this point as deeply conducive to Jennings’ program, even though it does not seem to be an emphasis. It is, however, a major theme among Reformed virtue ethicists. 157 Hauerwas, Peaceable Kingdom, 30–​4 and 46–​9; Wells and Quash, Introducing Christian Ethics, 196. 158 Michael J. Gorman, Becoming the Gospel: Paul, Participation, and Mission (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 47.

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Life lived in ecclesial “spaces of anticipatory participation” shapes members of these communities to carry such justice, peace, and joy into the culture at large, even as they engage the practices, politics, accounts of character, and stories of the world around them.

Conclusion In conclusion, formative practices are best understood as telos-​shaped, embodied, social actions that carry an embedded intention to shape the character of the individual practitioner, the politics of the community, and the world “out there.” Such practices are one element in a feedback loop between the church’s practices, politics, accounts of character, and stories. At the same time, moral formation within the ecclesia also occurs in relationship to the moral formation occurring in the broader culture. This is true both because the ecclesia exists within the culture and because the culture is the site of Christian mission; in other words, faithful formation within the ecclesia constantly spills out into the culture and flows back into the church. The body of Christ is porous, with “church” and “world” interpenetrating one another in ways both visible and invisible to the church’s members. Finally, though, every culture and community’s moral formation occurs in relationship to creation itself, created good by God, and under the active, sustaining reign of Christ. Having presented this model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation, though, the question remains: can such a theory prove useful in the hermeneutical task of hearing Scripture as God’s address for us today? In approaching the text with such a theory in hand, do we not risk replacing Scripture’s own formative intentions and methods with those of our own devising? Or can the attempt to read biblical texts with such a theory in mind actually illuminate Scripture and invite Scripture to correct and chasten our theory where necessary? The relevance of our model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation must now be tested more thoroughly in dialogue with Scripture itself. Only if our theory proves “usable” in hearing the witness of Scripture and responding faithfully to it—​rather than displacing Scripture—​will we be able to maintain that the model has done its proper work. In the chapters that follow, then, I will test the model presented here by bringing it into dialogue with a close reading of the Deuteronomic tithe meal (Deut 14:22–​27) and the Corinthian Lord’s Supper (1 Cor 11:17–​34). Only if the model of formative practices within Holistic Ecclesial Formation outlined here

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seriously contributes to our interpretation of these texts, drawing out meaning and resonances within the text itself that otherwise might have remained hidden, will we have validated formative practice theory as a useful tool for hearing and responding to Scripture as God’s address to us today.

PA R T I I

FORMATIVE PRACTICES, HOLISTIC ECCLESIAL FORMATION, AND THE DEUTERONOMIC TITHE MEAL

CHAPTER FOUR

Feasting for Fear of the Lord: Eating the Tithe and Acquiring Virtue in Deuteronomy 14:22–​29

In this chapter, I will bring the formative practice theory outlined in the previous chapter into dialogue with the Deuteronomic tithe described in Deut 14:22–​29. I will first explore whether Deuteronomy presents the tithe as a formative practice that intends to shape the character of the individuals and the community that practice it. If it does, I will then consider what light this sheds on our understanding of how the tithe meal works. Finally, I will consider how understanding the tithe meal as a formative practice that intends to shape the character of the practitioner, the politics of the community, and the world “out there” contributes to our understanding of Deuteronomy’s account of character, community politics, and the feast itself.

Is the Tithe Meal a Formative Practice? You will surely tithe all the produce of your seed which comes from the field year by year. And you will eat before YHWH your God in the place that he will choose to establish his name there the tithe of your grain, your new wine, and your olive oil, as well as the firstborn of your cattle and your flocks, in order that you will learn to fear YHWH your God always. But if 1 the way is so far for you that you are not able to carry it, because the place YHWH your 1

I have rendered the initial ‫ וְ ִ ֽכי‬as a contrastive conjunction (“but”) plus a conditional (“if ”) (RSV, NRSV, NIV, ESV, etc.). However, the phrase could also be translated “and when” (NET). If this

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God will choose to put his name there is far from you, because YHWH your God blesses you, then you will give it for silver2 and you will clasp the silver in your hand and you will walk to the place that YHWH your God will choose with it. And you will give the silver for all that your soul [‫ ] ֶנפֶׁש‬desires3—​in cattle and in flocks and in wine and in strong drink and in all that your soul [‫] ֶנפֶׁש‬asks of you. And you shall eat there before YHWH your God and you will rejoice, you and your household. And you will not neglect the Levite who is in your gates, because he has no portion or inheritance among you. At the end of the third year you will bring out all the tithe of your produce for that year and you will put it in your gates.4 And the Levite will come (for he does not have a portion or an inheritance among you), and the dependent outsider,5 and the orphan, and the widow who is in your gates. And they shall eat and be satisfied in order that YHWH your God may bless you in all the work of your hands that you will do. (Deut 14:22–​29)6

The Deuteronomic tithe requires participants to consume their contributions together before YHWH at the central worship location. The explicit purpose of this communal, worshipful eating is that the participants will “learn to fear YHWH” always (14:23). Nearly everything about this concept strikes modern readers as is accepted, the verse emphasizes the inevitability of YHWH’s blessing in terms of both agricultural abundance and, possibly, territorial expansion. 2 The word here translated “silver” is ‫ּכֶסֶ ף‬, often rendered “money.” However, while the ‫ ּכֶסֶ ף‬in question is involved with economic exchange, the translation “money” may beg some important questions about the emergence of coinage in the ancient Near East. For a summary of these issues, see Peter Altmann, Economics in Persian Period Biblical Texts, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 109 (Germany: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 79–​187. Moreover, rendering ‫ ּכֶסֶ ף‬as silver allows for an appropriate resonance between the use of silver in worship of YHWH and the command in 7:25 not to desire the ‫ ּכֶסֶ ף‬which the nations use in crafting their idols. 3 The somewhat problematic language of “soul” should not be taken as an affirmation of a Greco-​ Roman concept of the “soul,” or as trafficking in any strong body/​soul dualism, but rather as the “centre and transmitter of feelings and perceptions” (cf. HALOT, 711–​13). Indeed, given that the word can mean “throat” or “desire” itself, a preferable translation for the two phrases that use the word ‫ ֶנפֶׁש‬here might be “all that you deeply desire” and “all that your deep desires ask of you.” I have retained the language of “soul,” however, in order to draw connections to the parallel usages elsewhere in Deuteronomy, on which, see below. 4 Note the second-​person singular verbs and possessive pronouns in this verse. This seemingly minor grammatical point suggests that the generous justice of the triennial tithe is enacted by the people themselves, or at least by the heads of each Israelite household, rather than by a monarch or priestly class. 5 Glanville argues this translation best captures the ability of the Hebrew word to include vulnerable strangers who are outside the local clan or kinship system, regardless of their broader ethnicity (Mark R. Glanville, Adopting the Stranger as Kindred in Deuteronomy, Ancient Israel and Its Literature 33 [Atlanta, GA: SBL, 2018], 33–​42). 6 Author’s translation.

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strange; how can an emotion be learned and how would a person learn it through eating? In order to decide whether understanding this meal as a formative practice can help solve this puzzle, we must attend both to the nature of the learning envisioned and the content of that which is learned: the fear of YHWH.

Learning to Fear YHWH The explicit telos of Deut 14:22–​27’s tithe feast is that participants will “learn to fear YHWH” their God “always” (‫ֱֹלה֖יָך ּכָל־הַ ּי ִ ָֽמים‬ ֶ ‫ ;לְ ַ ֣מעַן ִּתלְ ֗ ַמד לְ יִ ְר ָ ֛אה אֶ ת־יְ הוָ ֥ה א‬14:23). Widder argues that the verb ‫למד‬, translated most often in the Qal as “learn,” has two broad meanings. The first “involves cognitive learning that should affect behavior or values;”7 it is learning for doing. The second, more common definition expresses learning by doing; it involves training that occurs through repeated activity.8 Deuteronomy refers to performing an action in order to learn to fear YHWH in 14:23, 17:19, and 31:12–​13. The latter two passages fit Widder’s first category, the idea of learning for doing. In 17:19, the king learns to fear YHWH through reading his personal copy of the law. In 31:12–​13, all Israel learns to fear YHWH by hearing the law read at the Feast of Booths.9 By contrast, Deut 14:23 is quite notable for speaking of learning to fear YHWH apart from any reference to written or spoken words or instructions. Because of this, Mayes argues that 14:23 must imply that the law is read at the tithe meal,10 and Tigay suggests such fear is learned as people are brought into “contact with the priests in the chosen city, who teach the people piety and law.”11 Within the text of 7

Wendy Widder, ‘To Teach’ in Ancient Israel: A Cognitive Linguistic Study of a Biblical Hebrew Lexical Set, BZAW (Berlin: DeGruyter, 2014), 79. 8 Widder, To Teach, 79. Widder’s account is immensely helpful, but she has placed ‫ למד‬in 14:23 in the wrong category. An emphasis on learning through action or experience is also emphasized in the lexicons; see HALOT 2:531; TDOT 3:4–​5; and TWOT, 1116c. 9 See also Deut 4:10; 5:1. 10 A.D.H. Mayes, Deuteronomy, NCBC (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1979), 245. This argument is strengthened if one believes Israel celebrated the tithe-​meal at the Feast of Booths, at which the law was read every seven years (31:11–​12; see Ibid., 245; Ian Wilson, “Central Sanctuary or Local Settlement?: The Location of the Triennial Tithe Declaration [Dtn 26, 13–​15],” ZAW 120 [2008], 338; Gordon McConville, Deuteronomy, AOTC [Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2002], 380). However, we cannot be certain the tithe was celebrated at the Feast of Booths, and the rhetoric of the text pushes us towards understanding the learning as more of an embodied, practiced learning. 11 Tigay does, however, acknowledge “another possibility is that the festive celebration of God’s bounty will teach people reverence by keeping them aware of their dependence on God and prevent

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Deuteronomy, however, the uniqueness of the language of learning apart from any mention of teaching, reading, instruction, etc., serves to highlight and underscore the fact that the learning of 14:23 is learning by doing. The learning that is acquired, in other words, is acquired through practice.12 Thus, while the text is noticeably silent on any verbal instruction aimed at cognition, it is noticeably concerned with the repetitive and bodily. In terms of the former, the text establishes a feast celebrated “year by year” (‫)ׁשָ נָ ֥ה ׁשָ ָנֽה‬, while the bodily nature of the practice is highlighted in references to the journey to the sanctuary (14:24), to clasping the tithe-​turned-​into-​silver in one’s hand (14:24), and the extensive list of delightful food and drink that is to be consumed. The learning described by 14:23, then, is a ritual, embodied learning that occurs through feasting.13 Clearly, then, the Deuteronomic tithe meal is depicted as a telos-​shaped, embodied social action.

Learning to Fear YHWH But what is the content of this fear of YHWH which is learned through feasting? Leaving aside whether scholars focus on more diachronic or synchronic approaches,14 we can categorize the various accounts of the fear of YHWH in the OT as clustered around three options: fear of YHWH as emotion, fear of YHWH as right action, and fear of YHWH as right disposition.15 The first option is to see fear of YHWH as a literal, “emotional” fear, awe, or reverence in the presence of the deity. From Eichrodt’s emphasis on religious fear as an “oscillation between repulsion and attraction”16 to Clines’ more recent argument

12 13 14 15 16

them from taking their prosperity for granted” ( Jeffrey H. Tigay, Deuteronomy: The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation, Commentary by Jeffrey H. Tigay [Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1996], 143). Braulik writes that the learning of both 14:23 and 17:19 “comes from a concrete practice” (Braulik, Theology of Deuteronomy, 195). Cf. Peter Altmann, Festive Meals in Ancient Israel, BZAW (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), 227–​8; Suee Yan Yu, “Tithes and Firstlings in Deuteronomy,” unpublished PhD diss., Union Theological Seminary, 1997, 69. Brent Strawn, “The Iconography of Fear,” in Image, Text, Exegesis: Iconographic Interpretation and the Hebrew Bible, ed. Joel M. LeMon and Izaak J. de Hulster (London, UK: Bloombury T & T Clark, 2014), 95–​96. These categories are derived from Ibid., 95–​7. Walter Eichrodt, Theology of the Old Testament, vol. 1, 6th ed., OTL, trans., J.A. Baker (Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1961), 269. Eichrodt here draws on Otto’s description of the mysterium tremendum (Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy [New York: Oxford University Press, 1950], 12).

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that ‫ ירא‬always means the emotion of literal fear,17 these scholars suggest that, at least in some instances,18 the fear of YHWH is precisely what it sounds like. Any ethical or religious aspects of the phrase, then, must refer to actions done as a response to emotional fear.19 Evidence for this option can be found throughout Deuteronomy. In 5:24–​33, the Israelites ask Moses to be a mediator between YHWH and themselves because of their literal fear of death as a result of unmediated exposure to YHWH’s presence (5:24). YHWH commends this fear, saying: “Oh that they had such a heart in them, that they would fear me, and keep all my commandments always” (5:29a).20 This literal, fearful encounter with YHWH frames the association of hearts that fear him with obedience to his commands (5:31–​33). Fear as feeling is not limited to this passage. Deuteronomy 28:58’s close association of fearing YHWH with doing the words of the law occurs in a passage that threatens judgment on Israel for disobedience in graphic, horrifying terms. Furthermore, the law requires capital punishment for certain sins in order to instill fear leading to obedience (cf. 13:11; 17:13; 19:20; 21:21).21

17 David J.A. Clines, “ ‘ The Fear of the Lord is Wisdom’ ( Job 28:28): A Semantic and Contextual Study,” in Job 28: Cognition in Context, ed. Ellen van Wolde (Boston, MA: Brill, 2003), 59–​66. 18 Clines’ argument that literal, emotional fear is always the primary referent of ‫ ירא‬is an extreme version of this view. Other scholars emphasize a developmental approach, understanding literal fear to have developed over time into other meanings and nuances (Cf. Robert Henry Pfeiffer, “The Fear of God,” Israel Exploration Journal 5.1 [1955], 43; TLOT, 2:573; TDOT 6:298; Hendrik Bosman, “Being Wise Betwixt Order and Mystery: Keeping the Commandments and Fearing the Lord,” Scriptura [2001], 435; Vernon H. Kooy, “The Fear and Love of God in Deuteronomy,” in Grace Upon Grace: Essays in Honor of Lester J. Kuyper, ed. James Cook [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1975], 107). 19 Scholars who define fear of YHWH primarily in emotional terms do not necessarily neglect the ethical or religious aspects of “fear of YHWH” so much as suggest that a feeling of awe or fear drives such actions (see Yu, “Tithes and Firstlings,” 69). 20 Note that what YHWH desires here (that they would fear YHWH always) is precisely what the feast is intended to do in 14:22 and what the reading of the law is intended to do in Deut 31:13. This association makes clear, as we shall argue below, that one cannot divide up the uses of “fear” language into neat categories that separate fear as feeling from fear as obedience. 21 Although in these passages YHWH is not specified as the object of that fear, the close association between law, obedience, and literal fear in this context underscores the inclusion of an affective response in the broader concept of fearing YHWH within Deuteronomy (contra Bill T. Arnold, “The Love-​Fear Antinomy in Deuteronomy 5–​11,” Vetus Testamentum 61.4 [2011], 563). See also Norbert Lohfink, “Reading Deuteronomy 5 as Narrative,” in A God So Near: Essays on Old Testament Theology in Honor of Patrick D. Miller, ed. Brent A. Strawn and Nancy R. Bowen (Winona, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 280–​1.

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The second option is to see the fear of YHWH as referring essentially to right action. Recognizing that fearing YHWH is often presented as both normative and something that can be taught,22 scholars argue that the fear of YHWH can serve as an almost technical term for right religion23 or worship of the deity. Many highlight the covenantal aspect, such that fearing YHWH refers to covenantal obedience.24 If there are good reasons for understanding Deuteronomy’s use of the “fear of YHWH” as emotional, there are good exegetical reasons for this second option as well. Deuteronomy 6:2, 24; 8:6; 17:19; and 28:58 could all be read as either equating fearing YHWH with obeying his commands, or, at the very least, positing an extremely close relationship between the two concepts.25 Deuteronomy also places language about fearing YHWH directly parallel to phrases that clearly refer to covenantal obedience, such as “serving YHWH” (cf. 6:13; 10:20; 13:4), swearing in his name (6:13; 10:20; 13:4), “following YHWH,” “keeping” YHWH’s commandments, and “hearing/​obeying his voice” (13:4). In Deuteronomy, then, some texts appear to fit the fear-​as-​emotion option and others the fear-​as-​action option. What are we to make of this? While one could argue that the different nuances are evidence of the concept’s development over time, there is a third option which seeks to account for the diversity in a coherent way. This option is to understand the fear of YHWH as a disposition. This approach seeks to “mediate” between the other two by recognizing how the fear of YHWH includes both affective and active dimensions.26 Lasater, for instance, suggests that in the OT and the ancient Near East to fear God or the king is to embody an appropriate disposition in the presence of “someone at the upper end of a cultic-​political hierarchy.”27 Lasater draws on Aquinas to characterize this disposition as a “passion.”28 By “passion,” he refers to the habituated disposition 22 Phillip Lasater, “Fear” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Bible and Theology, ed. Samuel E. Balentine (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2015), 2:347–​8. 23 Pfeiffer, “The Fear of God,” 41. 24 TDOT, 6:307; Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic School (Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1972), 274–​81; Stephen L. Cook, Reading Deuteronomy: A Literary and Theological Commentary (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys Publishing, 2014), 51; Bernard Jacob Bamberger, “Fear and Love of God in the Old Testament,” Hebrew Union College Annual (2006), 40. 25 On 6:2, see Nelson, Deuteronomy, 88. On 6:24, see Tigay, Deuteronomy, 83. 26 See Strawn, “Iconography,” 96–​7. 27 Lasater, “Fear,” 2:346, 348. Lasater himself uses the language of “appropriate behavior” and “etiquette.” 28 Phillip Lasater, “ ‘The Emotions’ in Biblical Anthropology? A Genealogy and Case Study with ‫ ”ירא‬HTR 110.4 (2017), 530–​8.

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of a subordinate that includes feelings that are—​in contrast to what is commonly meant by emotions—​rational, intentional, and shaped by practice.29 Similarly, Strawn, in his discussion of ancient Near Eastern iconography, demonstrates that, in relation to both gods and kings, “the positioning and gestures of worshippers, adorants, or tribute-​bearers is often exactly the same as that used with prisoners, enemies, or the combatant who is about to be struck down.”30 Such an argument suggests that “fear—​real fear, even terror—​plays a role” in the depiction of both worship and fear in combat.31 The affective dimension of fear cannot be separated from the active dimension in terms of worship, covenantal loyalty, or obedience. Some scholars, particularly those studying wisdom literature,32 equate fear of YHWH as a disposition with virtue. This is no surprise, since, as we discussed in previous chapters, the classical account sees virtue itself as a habituated disposition to feel, desire, and act in line with a particular telos. Brown thus argues that the fear of YHWH is both “a posture of awe and the embodiment of virtue coram Deo,”33 a disposition of the heart as the center of character that is derived from an awareness of one’s position “in relation to God.”34 Brown’s description suggests, to use the language of the previous chapters, that the fear of YHWH can be understood as a second-​personal virtue, a habituated disposition towards YHWH and in relationship with him. Such a second-personal virtue includes developing a shared perspective with YHWH towards his world, and a virtuous disposition to live in that world in line with YHWH’s ways. Deuteronomy’s account of the fear of YHWH best fits with this understanding of the fear of the LORD as the embodiment of a virtuous, second-​person disposition.35 This explains why some passages emphasize the feeling of fear and others the active, covenantal obedience of fear. Action and feeling are both present 29 30 31 32

Ibid., 537–​8. Strawn, “Iconography of Fear,” 99. Ibid., 127. Cf. Ellen F. Davis, “Preserving Virtues: Renewing the Tradition of the Sages,” in Brown, Character & Scripture, 186. 33 Brown, Wisdom’s Wonder, 89. 34 Ibid., 37. See also Christine Roy Yoder, “The Objects of our Affections,” in Shaking Heaven and Earth: Essays in Honor of Walter Brueggemann and Charles B. Cousar, ed. Christine Roy Yoder, Kathleen M. O’Connor, E. Elizabeth Johnson, and Stanley P. Saunders (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005), 81; Christopher B. Ansberry, “What Does Jerusalem Have to Do with Athens? The Moral Vision of the Book of Proverbs and Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics,” Hebrew Studies 51 (2010), 161; NIDOTTE, 2:530. 35 Brown similarly sees the “fear of YHWH” in Deuteronomy as including a “posture,” and suggests it functions comparably to the “fear of YHWH” in Proverbs (William P. Brown, “A Reexamination of Tora in Proverbs” in Constituting the Community: Studies on the Polity of Ancient

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because to have acquired a virtuous disposition towards YHWH is to desire, understand, feel, and act rightly in relation to him. Fear of YHWH as feeling and fear of YHWH as action are two sides of the same coin; the fact that one passage emphasizes fear as feelings and another fear as action does not mean that fear is being used in a fundamentally different way, but rather that each passage emphasizes one aspect of the holistic character YHWH requires.36 This dispositional aspect comes to the foreground in several texts. In 17:20, reading the law and learning to fear YHWH lead not only to keeping the law, but also to the king’s refusing to “lift his heart (‫ )לֵב‬from among his brothers.” Here, fearing YHWH includes both a moral and affective disposition towards others and external acts of fidelity to the covenant. The references to fearing YHWH as an alternative to forgetting in 6:10–​13 and 8:1–​20 also highlight the dispositional aspect of fear. Remembering YHWH includes “incorporated memory,” i.e. memory that is solidified in the body through actions.37 Such actions include constantly talking about the commands of God with one’s children, writing the commands on one’s house, and tying them on one’s person.38 Thus to fear YHWH is to embrace a set of practices that foster a bodily disposition to remember YHWH’s liberation from Egypt (6:10–​12; 8:14–​16), his moral discipline in the “fearful” wilderness (8:1–​6, 15), and his threat of judgment for disobedience (6:14–​16; 8:19–​20).39 Similarly, 4:9–​10 presents remembering YHWH as a disposition bound up with fearing the LORD. YHWH commands his people to remember and not forget by “guarding” themselves (‫ )הִ ָ ּׁ֣שמֶ ר לְ ָך‬and “guarding” their “souls40 diligently” (‫)ּוׁשמֹ֙ ר נַפְ ְׁש ָ֜ך ְמ ֗ ֹאד‬, ְ refusing to allow what they have seen to depart from their “hearts” (‫)לֵבָ ב‬. YHWH’s command to Israel that they remember and not forget presents this remembering as a formed, internal disposition. In v. 10, though, the memory that flows out of well-​kept “souls” and guarded hearts is precisely the memory Israel in Honor of S. Dean McBride, Jr., ed. John T. Strong and Steven S. Tuell [Winona Lake, IN: Penn State, 2005], 265; cf. also Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 244–​317). 36 Furthermore, this virtuous disposition includes other affective dimensions besides the literal feeling of fear, as can be seen in passages which present loving God and fearing God as overlapping, parallel concepts (cf. Deut 10:12–​13). For another liturgical practice oriented towards cultivating such incorporated memory, see Deut 26:1–​11. 37 A.J. Culp, Memoir of Moses: The Literary Creation of Covenantal Memory in Deuteronomy (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Academic, 2019), 124. 38 Ibid. 39 See further the discussion of these passages in Chapter Five below. 40 To reiterate, the language of “soul” here does not refer to a body/​soul dichotomy, but rather to the the “centre and transmitter of feelings and perceptions” (cf. HALOT, 711–​13).

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that God gathered his people at Horeb in order that they might hear his words and learn to fear him all of their days, teaching their children to do likewise. This overlap between Deuteronomic remembering and Deuteronomic fear further underscores both the active external and inward affective aspects of what it means to fear the LORD. In short, Deut 14:22–​27 commands the Israelites to feast on the tithe in order to learn the virtuous, second-​person disposition of fearing YHWH. This depiction strongly resonates with our discussion of formative practices as fostering virtuous character in participants through telos-​shaped, embodied, social actions.

Dissecting the Practice: How Feasting Forms YHWH-​Fearers Understanding Deut 14:22–​2 as a formative practice allows us to use the theory we presented in the previous chapter to explore the mechanics of moral formation at work in the tithe, not least as the text focuses our attention on the embodied nature of the practice. We can divide up the mechanics of the practice into:

(a) the ritualization of the tithe-​as-​tax, (b) the power of the festive menu, (c) the politics of the guest list, and (d) the shaping of sacred space and time.

The Ritualization of the Tithe-​As-​Tax The first thing to note is the uniqueness of Deuteronomy’s tithe41 when compared to anything else in either the OT or the ancient Near East more generally. Everywhere else, tithes are “taxes” that support temple or palace42 (cf. 2 Chron

41 Such comparisons, of course, depend on understanding ‫ מַ עֲׂשֵ ר‬as a tithe. For discussion, see Altmann, who rightly concludes that “there is a relatively clear implication that the text is referring to something of a ‘tax’ or similar type institution” (Altmann, Festive Meals, 221–​2). 42 Crüsemann notes the close connection between palace and temple in the context of the tithes, while also recognizing that these dues are nevertheless a religious expression (Frank Crüsemann, “Der Zehnte in der israelitischen Königzeit,” Wort and Dienst 18 [1985], 28).

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31:4; Num 18:26; Neh 13:12; Mal 3:10).43 Indeed, Samuel includes the tithe as one of the oppressive tools by which future monarchs would extract from the peasantry those surpluses necessary for their own ostentatious lifestyles (1 Sam 8:15).44 Against this background, Deut 14:22–​29’s tithe legislation is truly radical. While any citizen would be well-​aware, and wary, that the powers-​that-​be might legislate that all citizens bring a tenth of their produce and their firstlings as an offering to a central location (14:22),45 they would not be prepared for these taxes to be returned to them “for their own enjoyment as ingredients for … shared festivities” (14:23).46 Indeed, contra Weinfeld, this tithe-​tax-​turned-​feast should not be understood as a demythologizing of the sacred gift that allowed the tithe to be “retained by the original owner.”47 Instead, the tithe feast invites participants to encounter a God who generously gives back to his people what belongs to him by right. Johnson argues that a community’s rituals can be ritualized for new uses in a new context. Understanding such ritualization requires us to pay attention to what makes a particular practice unique when compared to culturally available alternatives.48 One way Deuteronomy’s tithe meal functions to form YHWH-​ fearers, then, is through its counter-​cultural ritualizing of the tithe-​tax turned tithe-​festival.

The Power of the Festive Menu Much of the force of this ritualization, though, comes not simply through the joyous recognition that one’s taxes will not be quite so steep this year, but also through the description of the menu. This menu can only be described as lavish. The text calls the Israelites to bring substantial portions of their yield from the entirety of their “agricultural 43 Cf. Yu, “Tithes and Firstlings,” 33–​45; Altmann, Festive Meals, 231–​2; Moshe Weinfeld, “Tithe,” EncJud, 15:236; Timothy Clark, “Firstfruits and Tithe Offerings in the Construction and Narratives of the Hebrew Bible” (unpublished PhD diss., Emory University, 2014), 157–​8. The Deuteronomic tithe remains unique even if one believes that a substantial portion of the tithe left over from the meal remained with the temple or monarch. 44 See Carol Meyers, “Menu: Royal Repasts and Social Class in Biblical Israel,” in Feasting in the Archaeology and the Texts of the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East, ed. Peter Altmann and Janling Fu (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 131. 45 See Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 194–​6; Altmann, Festive Meals, 243. 46 Altmann, Festive Meals, 243. 47 See Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 214. 48 Cf. Johnson, Knowledge by Ritual, 147 as well as Figure 3.2 in Chapter Three above.

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and pastoral work”49 (14:22) and to consume them together “before YHWH” (‫;לִ פְ נֵ ֣י יְ הוָ ֑ה‬14:23). Such extravagance seems so inconceivable that many commentators suggest that only a portion of the tithes and firstlings would be consumed, with the rest being stored at the temple.50 But recent anthropological research emphasizes that lavishness is one of the primary elements of feasting: “a remarkable percentage of resources in many ‘subsistence level’ and non-​modern societies goes to festal consumption, especially in the form of alcoholic beverages.”51 Dietler points to a variety of contemporary studies that demonstrate this. For instance, some households in modern Botswana consume “15–​20 percent of all the grain produced in the form of sorghum beer, much of it consumed in work feasts.” One village of 7,000 inhabitants in Burkina Fasso consumes “14 tons of grain brewed for beer” during their annual festivals.52 Feasting, ancient and modern, may require “years of preparation and surplus accumulation, extending even into future, debt-​ridden years due to the deficit financing of feasts.”53 Indeed, “the product of a whole year’s labor can be thrown away on a single day.”54 It is by no means inconceivable, then, that the text implies that the entirety of the tithes and firstlings referred to in 14:23 are consumed during the feast. Even if this is not the case, however, the rhetoric of 14:23 points towards the lavish abundance of the meal. Such lavishness is not simply indicated by the quantity of foodstuffs, however. Deuteronomy 14:23–​26 provides the “most detailed description of the possible menu for the festive meal in Deuteronomy,”55 one which “[revels] in the ostentation of the feast, rejoicing in the abundance that allows participants to virtually throw away their money.”56 The tithe includes grain, new wine, and olive oil (14:23), the “triad” of the most common elements in any Israelite’s diet.57 Additionally, by 49 Herman Menahaem, Tithe as Gift: The Institution in the Pentateuch and in Light of Mauss’s Prestation Theory, Distinguished Dissertation Series (Lewiston, NY: Mellen, 1991), 85. 50 Yu, “Tithes and Firstlings,” 83; Christopher J.H. Wright, Deuteronomy, NIBC (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2003), 186; Tigay, Deuteronomy, 143. 51 Altmann, Festive Meals, 235. 52 Michael Dietler, “Theorizing the Feast: Rituals of Consumption, Commensal Politics, and Power in African Contexts,” in Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power, ed. Michael Dietler and Brian Hayden (Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2010), 82. 53 Brian Hayden, “Fabulous Feasts: A Prolegomenon to the Importance of Feasting,” in Dietler and Hayden, Feasts, 24. 54 Pieper, quoted in Altmann, Festive Meals, 211. See also Ibid., 235. 55 Altmann, Festive Meals, 211. 56 Clark, “Firstfruits and Tithe Offerings,” 170. 57 Leann Pace, “Feasting and Everyday Meals,” in Altmann and Fu, Feasting in the Archaeology and the Texts of the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East, 187.

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combining firstlings with the tithe proper, the passage fills out the festive menu with the meat that would have been necessary for a proper feast.58 Such consumption of massive amounts of meat should be understood in light of the reality that “meat was not regularly consumed except by the elite.”59 Indeed, “elite display dining was based on the conspicuous consumption of meat.”60 Cattle, rarer than goats and sheep and primarily used for hauling and plowing by the average Israelite,61 may have been a particularly delectable item. In any case, slaughtering livestock was a decidedly uneconomical option, especially since livestock provided security against “agricultural shortfalls.”62 Against such a backdrop, the tithe-​meal requires the Israelites to throw a household feast for themselves of literally royal proportions.63 The fact that the tithe—​so often a means by which the elite provided for their owns feasts at the expense of the peasantry—​is here the mechanism by which every citizen participated in an elite-​level meal would not be lost on the original audience.64 The next item on the menu that sets this meal apart as particularly sumptuous is the reference to abundant fermented beverages.65 Our text uses three words for 58 Cf. Pace, “Feasting,” 192. 59 Meyers, “Menu,” 134–​5. Pace suggests that meat may not have been exactly rare, but that it did set the meal off as special. She also suggests the slaughter of meat was based on a “calculation of the economic cost of the slaughter—​a balancing of economic cost versus possible social capital (such as gained through hospitality)” (Pace, “Feasting,” 192–​3). If this is so, then the tithe-​meal here encourages a much freer, open-​handed celebration. 60 Jodi Magness, “Conspicuous Consumption,” in Altmann and Fu, Feasting in the Archaeology and the Texts of the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East, 41. This would be in contrast to some ancient Near Eastern cultures in which elite dining would include a difference in type of food rather than simply in the amount and quality of that food. See Meyers, “Menu,” 134–​47; Jack Sasson, “The King’s Table: Food and Fealty in Old Babylonian Mari,” in Food and Identity in the Ancient World, History of the Ancient Near East Studies 9, ed. Cristiano Grotanelli and Lucio Milano (Padua: S.A.R.G.O.N., 2004), 181–​214. 61 Boer, Sacred Economy, 64; Meyers, “Menu,” 155, fn. 54. 62 Meyers, “Menu,” 155, fn. 54. Here again we see the subtle message that YHWH is inviting them to a feast which is no threat to their future, as other feasts might be both because of their enormous financial and human expenditures and their potential failures (on which see Monica Smith, “Feasts and their Failures,” Journal of Archaeological Method & Theory 22.4 [2015] in its entirety). 63 Clark, “Firstfruits and Tithe Offerings,” 170. 64 For an overview of the various strategies of extraction in the ancient Near East, see Roland Boer, The Sacred Economy of Ancient Israel, Library of Ancient Israel (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2015), 110–​92. 65 Cynthia Shafer-​Elliott, “The Role of the Household in the Religious Feasting of Ancient Israel and Judah,” in Altmann and Fu, Feasting in the Archaeology and the Texts of the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East, 217.

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alcoholic drinks in four verses, referring to “new wine” (‫)ּתירֹוׁש‬, ִ “wine” (‫)יַיִ ן‬, and “strong drink” (‫)ׁשֵ כָר‬. This last term might be beer, “date beer,” “date wine,” or something else.66 In any case, ‫ ׁשֵ כָר‬probably has a high concentration of alcohol. Proverbs 20:1 calls it “riotous,” and the related verb ‫ ׁשָ כַר‬means “to become drunk.”67 Finally, as if the cattle, sheep, wine, oil, strong drink, and just overall abundance were not enough, the text tells us twice in one verse that the menu also includes a catchall: get for the meal whatever else you might want (14:26). The language of desire here makes clear that the disposition to fear YHWH—​which we have seen includes learning to feel and act in certain ways—​is acquired in part by bodily embracing one’s desire for food and drink within the context of this particular meal.

The Politics of the Guest List But it is not simply the menu that sets this practice apart and enables it to form the fear of YHWH among those who eat of it. It is also the politics of the guest list. Here again, we must first understand the politics of other ancient Near Eastern practices in order to see how Deuteronomy ritualizes such practices, often in subversive ways. The Politics of the Guest List in Ancient Near Eastern Feasts-​Ancient Near Eastern political economies moved along a continuum from more egalitarian structures of kinship, household, and tribe towards ever-​more hierarchical regimes of temple estates, royal states, and empires.68 Feasts played a role at every point on this continuum.69 Pollock suggests that one of the most prominent ways of establishing the relationships of “superiority and inferiority” necessary for the transition to the more complex hierarchies of states and empires was through the giving of gifts that could not be repaid.70 Such patronage-​forming gifts shifted 66 See Patrick E. McGovern, Ancient Wine: The Search for the Origins of Viniculture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007), 235–​6. 67 BDB, 1016. 68 Boer, Sacred Economy, 110–​92. 69 Jonathan S. Greer, “Power to Unite and Power to Divide: Sacred Feasting and Social Change at Iron II Tel Dan,” in Altmann and Fu, Feasting in the Archaeology and the Texts of the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East, 118–​28; Steve Renette, “Feasts on Many Occasions: Diversity in Mesopotamian Banquet Scenes during the Early Dynastic Period,” in Altmann and Fu, Feasting in the Archaeology and the Texts of the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East, 62–​86. 70 Susan Pollock, “Towards an Archaeology of Commensal Spaces: An Introduction,” Journal for Ancient Studies 2 (2012), 10.

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potluck-​style feasts originally promoting solidarity71 towards feasts aimed at the creation of social differentiation.72 Renette tracks this trend in the iconography of feasting. Early images of feasting depict lavish banquets that apparently allowed emerging elites to acquire power by creating indebtedness73 among participants.74 Eventually, such feasts support the movement towards more established monarchies.75 Later, however, once the monarchy was more secure, the depictions of feasts indicate that they became ever-​more exclusive, eventually culminating in images of the king feasting alone with the deity.76 While it is important to avoid an oversimplified evolutionary account in which “hierarchical feasting replaced other forms of commensality,”77 we nevertheless can detect a general trajectory from feasts as ways to build solidarity within the community to feasts as solidifying the monarch as the supreme ruler with a unique relationship to the gods.78 These latter feasts reinforced “the notion of a larger community, but in the shadow of the crown.”79 They often took the form of “tribute meals” that served as a sign of and fostered the creation of submissive social bonds between the elite and those further down the hierarchy.80 Such large-​scale tribute feasts were most often given by the king.81 It was the ruler’s responsibility to ensure the fertility of the land, a responsibility often bound up in the king’s role in managing canals and other agricultural infrastructure.82 The human king’s perceived ability to provide abundance depended on the idea that he had a privileged, reciprocal relationship with the deities.83 These royal tributary feasts put the king’s wealth and power on display. The king’s role as founder and provider of the feast allowed him to amass indebtedness from guests and gain further power, while supplementary contributions

71 Cf. Hayden, “Fabulous Feasts,” 38–​9. 72 Pollock, “Towards an Archaeology,” 10. 73 Dietler, “Theorizing,” 79. 74 Renette, “Feasts,” 68 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid., 68, 73–​4. 77 See Dietler, “Theorizing the Feast,” 93. 78 Ibid., 81–​6. 79 Greer, “Power to Unite,” 127–​8. 80 Altmann, Festive Meals, 231. 81 Altmann, “Feast and Famine: Theoretical and Comparative Perspectives on Lack as a Backdrop for Plenty in the Hebrew Bible,” in Altmann and Fu, Feasting in the Archaeology and the Texts of the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East, 159–​66. 82 Ibid. 83 Ibid., 161–​2.

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from temple personnel and other elites would allow them to compete for increased status as well.84 Other mechanisms for elite manipulation at feasts included “spatial segregation while eating,” differences in portions and quality of food received,85 “precedence in entering,”86 differences in clothing (worn to the feast or received at the feast),87 and participation in a whole host of symbolic rituals and etiquette at the feast.88 Ironically, even the apparently lavish giving of food and drink by elites played an essential role in the elites gaining the surpluses of the non-​elites.89 The “Standard of Ur” depicts a massive parade of goods before the king at a major feast,90 while royal Persian iconography depicts “various ethnicities bringing their gifts to the Persian king” at the royal table.91 This and other iconographic evidence indicates that feasts were for “collecting as well as consuming victuals.”92 Similarly, tablets from Mesopotamia contain “innumerable lists of offerings compiled by the palace administration.”93 The fact that such offerings came at regular intervals in fixed amounts strongly suggests that “the ‘offerings for the feast’ were … . … in our own vocabulary … . … monthly taxes.”94 In short, the feasts not only solidified social hierarchies; they served as practical means whereby elites extracted economic surpluses from participants. The Politics of the Guest List in the Tithe Feast-​Against this backdrop, we can see that it is not simply the festival menu that sets the tithe festival apart and enables it to form the fear of YHWH among those who eat of it. It is also the politics of the list of attendees, which includes, first and foremost, YHWH himself.95 This can be 84 Pollock, “Towards an Archaeology,” 11. See also Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 153; Sasson, “The King’s Table,” 199–​204; Denise Schmandt-​Besserat, “Feasting in the Ancient Near East,” in Dietler and Hayden, Feasts, 392–​401. 85 Brian Hayden and Michael Dietler, “Digesting the Feast—​Good to Eat, Good to Drink, Good to Think: An Introduction,” in Dietler and Hayden, Feasts, 10. 86 Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 153. 87 Sasson, “The King’s Table,” 201–​2, and particularly fn. 63. 88 Ibid. 89 Cf. Hayden, “Fabulous Feasts,” 46. 90 Schmandt-​Besserat, “Feasting,” 391–​400. 91 See Altmann, Persian Period, 279. 92 Schmandt-​Besserat, “Feasting,” 392–​7. 93 Ibid., 397–​9. 94 Ibid. 95 Contra von Rad, who asserts that the language of YHWH placing his name at the chosen place attacks the idea that YHWH is immediately present “at the place of worship” (Gerhard von Rad, Old Testament Theology, vol. I: The Theology of Israel’s Historical Traditions [New York: Harper & Row, 1962], 184). Richter’s comparison of the Hebrew expression ‫ לְ ׁשַ ּכֵ ֣ן ְׁש ֣מֹו ׁשָ ם‬with Akkadian cognates makes clear that the primary meaning of the expression is “to claim something as one’s

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seen in the twice-​repeated reference to eating “before YHWH” (‫ ;לִ פְ נֵ ֣י יְ הוָ ֣ה‬14:23, 26), as well as to the twice-​repeated reference to the place where YHWH would choose to “establish” (‫ ;לׁשַ ּכֵ ֣ן‬v. 23) or “put” (‫ ;ל ָׂ֥שּום‬v. 24) his name.96 The basic sense of these expressions is that YHWH “is actually present”97 at the chosen location. YHWH’s presence highlights the absence of any reference to the human king or priestly elite who, in an ancient Near Eastern context, would typically have been the only people capable of providing the sort of feast envisioned in the text. While Deuteronomy anticipates the possibility of a human king (17:14–​20),98 the abundance of the feast of Deut 14:22–​27 depends in no way on this earthly figure. Neither earthly priest nor king can claim responsibility for this meal. The clear implication is that YHWH himself is present at this banquet as the true king who provides the feast.99 Altmann is right, then, to suggest that this meal can be understood as a “tribute meal” that serves as “a sign of a submissive bond”100 towards YHWH as the “donor” or “patron” of the feast.101 Given that YHWH returns the full tithe owed him by his people to fund this extravagant celebration, the Deuteronomic tithe meal presents YHWH’s kingship in the most benevolent and generous light imaginable. This conclusion, of course, is only deepened by the larger theme of the land and its ongoing abundance as the generous gift of YHWH (Deut 6:1–​3; 8:1–​13; 26:1–​11, etc.). Moreover, the fact that the tithe feast occurs in YHWH’s presence is absolutely central to our understanding of this meal as a formative practice. This is obvious at an exegetical level: one way the tithe teaches Israel to fear YHWH is by regularly calling Israel to a worshipful, ritual meeting with their divine king, a meeting that trains them to associate the abundance of their feast with the generosity of their God.102 At the same time, the emphasis on God’s presence at the feast connects with Pinsent’s account of a second-​personal relationship with God own” (Sandra L. Richter, The Deuteronomistic History and the Name Theology: lesakken semo sam in the Bible and the Ancient Near East, BZAW [New York: De Gruyter, 2002], 183). Moreover, the expression is particularly prevalent in relation to royal display monuments (Ibid). Her conclusion is that such an idiom therefore “can be proven to have nothing to do with a reinterpretation of the mode of divine presence at the cult site” (Ibid., 216). 96 This ritualized feast in God’s presence is similar in some ways to the narrative in Exod 24:1–​11. 97 McConville, Deuteronomy, 223. 98 Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 83. 99 Altmann, Festive Meals, 231; Meyers, “Menu,” 157. 100 Altmann, Festive Meals, 231. 101 Ibid., 13. 102 Richter highlights this in her argument that the language of YHWH putting his name in the central place draws on royal, monumental declarations of ownership over a place. Thus the feast in the place where YHWH puts his name is designed to remind Israel that they worship in the

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as central to moral transformation. The embedded intention of the tithe feast in God’s presence includes fostering the disposition of loving dependence and service towards YHWH and developing a habituated, shared stance with YHWH towards one’s neighbors and the created world.103 Second, then, the other guests on the list also serve the formative intention of the tithe practice. This can be seen through the text’s demand that the feast be celebrated by household, explicitly including the Levites, and almost certainly including the other major socially marginalized groups within the community: widows, orphans, dependent strangers (probably including ethnic outsiders and immigrants), and the poor.104 What difference does this make for our understanding of the way the tithe meal performs its morally formative work? Within the village economy and wherever what Boer calls the “subsistence regime” dominated economic life,105 a major source for Israelite identity would be the household.106 Such households would include not only a nuclear family, but also extended blood-​relatives as well as potentially other non-​relatives. These non-​ blood relatives could include Levites, hired workers, slaves, and dependent laborers (including those from other countries) who would become attached to the household and thus become “fictive kin.”107 presence of “the conquering king who is demanding their obedience” (Richter, Deuteronomistic History, 205). 103 One aspect of this is the fact that at the feast the Israelites develop a joyful stance towards God’s world, a stance held by God himself. Indeed, as Fretheim argues, creation itself “is sustained by the joy of God” (Terence E. Fretheim, “God, Creation, and the Pursuit of Happiness” in The Bible and the Pursuit of Happiness: What the Old and New Testaments Teach Us about the Good Life, Brent A. Strawn, ed. [New York: Oxford University Press, 2012], 41). 104 Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 211. Although these latter groups are not explicitly mentioned in 14:26, they are mentioned explicitly as part of the group with which one celebrates the tithe in 12:12, a verse which specifies who is included in the reference to “your household” in 12:7. This, and the fact that these groups are specifically highlighted in the triennial tithe legislation of 14:28–​29, requires that we nuance Altmann’s suggestion that 14:22–​26 “do not seem to have the poor particularly in view” (Altmann, Festive Meals, 221). Deuteronomy also highlights the inclusion of these marginalized members of society in the worship feasts at the central location in the Feasts of Weeks and Booths in ch. 16, and the Levites and the immigrant are included in 26:11. See Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 194–​6. 105 Boer, Sacred Economy, 3. 106 Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 139. This is not to downplay the importance of national identity in Deuteronomy’s vision, but rather to name the way that Israelites explicitly experienced that national identity not only as a “nation before YHWH,” but also as a “clan” and “household” before YHWH (Christopher J.H. Wright, Old Testament Ethics for the People of God [Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2004], 55, 89). 107 Scholars point out that with the rise of cities, this extended “household” model began to be eroded; the nuclear family units that became more prominent, particularly in urban centers,

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The tithe-​meal’s emphasis on households and the inclusion of the marginalized within those households (and therefore as participants at the feast) is significant. Braulik poignantly writes that “The deuteronomic cult order, which is otherwise very reticent about stipulations, never tires of enumerating the participants in sacrifices or feasts.”108 In other words, God is not hung up on the details of festival party planning, but he is committed to an inclusive guest list. Against the backdrop of the strategies for elite manipulation during feasts—​including differences in seating arrangements, portions, entrance times, and clothing—​it is remarkable that Deut 14:22–​27 bears no sign of such behavior. At the same time, the household structure itself is acknowledged and even shored up through this nation-​wide feast that occurs through households. This guest list makes a political statement, or better, forms a different sort of political community characterized by different social practices. Celebrated by household in the absence of a human king but before YHWH, this meal would “unite the community,” eroding social barriers and differences.109 Because “from king to slave, all Israel gets its living from the common patrimony of the land given them by YHWH,”110 the feast to which YHWH invites his people is one in which all are welcomed and provided for. Culp rightly argues that the humanitarian concern that often culminates in charity here takes the form of communal sharing at the feast. This is generosity that flows through communal ties.111 And the shared cup of wine and passed plate simultaneously solidify existing communal ties and create new ones. Because of this, orphans, widows, Levites, and vulnerable strangers receive far more at the feast than food, drink, and an occasional vacation; this feast provides for the inclusion of the vulnerable as kin. Braulik argues that “to be able to eat together, one must be kin or one becomes kin.”112 The tithe-​meals, then, “create a mechanism for the incorporation of newcomers;” “communal consumption … . … works anthropologically to foster inner-​group identity.”113 Feasting together at the tithe-​meal intended to solidify potentially marginalized members’ place within lacked the social and cultural protections that the household model had provided (cf. Walter J. Houston, Contending for Justice: Ideologies and Theologies of Social Justice in the Old Testament [New York: T & T Clark, 2006], 24–​6; Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 201–​3). 108 Georg Braulik, The Theology of Deuteronomy: Collected Essays of George Braulik, trans., Ulrika Lindblad (North Richland Hills, TX: D & F Scott Publishing, 1998), 51. 109 Ibid., 51. 110 Ibid., 57. 111 Culp, Memoir, 150. 112 Braulik, Theology of Deuteronomy, 61. 113 Altmann, Festive Meals, 239.

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their households and created opportunities for the inclusion of outsiders in household groups.114 Inclusion in kinship groups would have been the primary social and economic need for vulnerable individuals, since social and economic security came through one’s inclusion in one of the extended household units characteristic of pre-​monarchic Israel (and of rural society well into the monarchial period and beyond).115 Deuteronomy therefore does not merely proclaim a humanitarian message of brotherliness and sisterliness; it welcomes the Israelites to experience and thus create this counter-​cultural family at the festival of the tithe.116 Across the ancient Near East, feasts played a role in the creation of fictive kinship bonds. The tithe-​meal in Deuteronomy ensures that this fictive kinship creation includes the most vulnerable who are most in need of such connections. Lohfink underscores this point. He points out that in Deuteronomy 14:22–​29 and elsewhere, the widows, orphans, dependent outsiders, and Levites are never referred to as “poor,” despite the fact that Deuteronomy uses such language elsewhere. He suggests that this implies that Deuteronomy does not add “new groups” such as the immigrant or widow to the umbrella category of “the poor,” but instead changes “the structures of society so as to provide support for those groups which … are not in a position to live off their own land.”117 “It will never be possible to eliminate the existence of strangers, orphans, and widows,” Lohfink writes. “But it is possible, according to Deuteronomy, to create a world in which one can be a stranger, an orphan, or a widow without being poor.” The structures that make such a world possible in Deuteronomy, though, are bound up in kinship, and it is the tithe-​meal, in part, that ensures kinship is created with those vulnerable to being left outside of it.118 Moreover, if YHWH is the ultimate host at this feast, the household is itself the proximate means by which the feast occurs. What is feasted on is the results of the collective labor of the households who celebrate it.119 This reality becomes even more powerful when we recall just how much labor and organization a nation-​ wide feast would require. Preparations for festivals can begin more than a year in advance when one includes working the farm and processing the harvest, particularly in terms of fermented beverages. Such preparations would have required 1 14 Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 151–​210. 115 Houston, Contending for Justice, 23–​6. See also Boer, Sacred Economy, 85–​104. 116 Braulik, Theology of Deuteronomy, 58. 117 Norbert Lohfink, “Poverty in the Laws of the Ancient near East and of the Bible,” Theological Studies. 52.1 (1991), 44–​5. 118 See also Meyers, “Menu,” 157–​9. 119 Braulik, Theology of Deuteronomy, 44.

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robust participation by every segment of the household.120 Households who spent most of their lives working alongside one another in the fields would, no doubt, experience the feast as a joyful celebration at the “culmination of [an agricultural] process … often fraught with tension because of climate variability and concomitant concerns about crop yield.”121 Because of this reality, if in some ways the tithe meal is a tribute feast to the divine king, it is also performed as a relatively egalitarian, potluck-​style “solidarity feast.”122 Such feasts can, as Smith has shown, create opportunities for abundance even among groups in which all are relatively vulnerable.123 Moreover, they solidify relationships through establishing patterns of mutual reciprocity.124 Understanding this feast as a formative practice, then, allows us to name the embedded intention of the feast to form a very different political community than that of the nations around Israel. Understanding the differences between the tithe feast and other ancient Near Eastern meals underscores the way the tithe meal does this work. In Deuteronomy, the Levitical priests are included participants in the meal rather than the primary beneficiaries of a tax. The earthly king is either completely absent or present only as one member among others amidst Israel’s households, one more brother (17:15) from among the family that includes even the impoverished debt slaves of 15:2–​12. Feasting together across lines of social hierarchy within the relatively egalitarian structure of the “household” carries an embedded intention to radically shape the politics of the community.

The Shaping of Sacred Time and Space Finally, the tithe meal does its formative work in part by explicitly shaping participants’ orientation in time and space. As a pilgrimage feast requiring a journey from one’s home to a chosen, sacred location on sacred occasions within 1 20 Smith, “Feasts and their Failures,” 1219–​1221. 121 Meyers, “Menu,” 155. 122 Hayden, “Fabulous Feasts,” 47–​50. The potluck-​style nature of the feast may even be indicated by the grammar of v. 22–​23; the context clearly indicates a community festival, but the second-​ person singular possessive pronouns (“your grain, your new wine,” etc.) hone in on the agricultural blessings that each individual household unit has received (on the shifts between singular and plural forms throughout Deuteronomy as a function of rhetoric rather than an indication of redactional layers, see McConville, Deuteronomy, 38). Similarly, Deut 16:16 requires that no male appear at the feasts empty-​handed. 123 Smith, “Feasts and Their Failures,” 1217. 124 Pollock, “Towards an Archaeology,” 10.

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the calendar of the community, the tithe meal welcomes participants into a ritual rhythm and space within which transformation occurs. Sacred Time-​The text highlights the calendrical aspect of the practice by emphasizing that the people will bring their tithe “year by year” (v. 22).125 The purpose of this practice is also understood temporally: through their annual tithe practice participants will “learn to fear YHWH always” (‫ ;ּכָל־הַ ּי ִ ָֽמים‬v. 23). Already, then, we ought to understand the practice as aiming at a lasting disposition through regular repetition of a physical act. This temporal dynamic not only suggests the role of habituation in acquiring the fear of YHWH, but also reminds us of the emphasis in Reformed accounts of virtue of the “again and again” nature of moral formation. Moreover, Deut 14:22 begins a section of the book dedicated to the structuring of time. This can be seen by the temporal language that marks key transitions in 14:27 (the triennial tithe), 15:1 (the sabbatical year), 15:20 (a repetition of the law concerning firstlings), and repeatedly in the festival calendar in 16:1–​17.126 Indeed, since it seems likely that the tithe would have been brought to the sanctuary on one or more of the three annual feasts described in 16:1–​17,127 the tithe meal should be understood as part of the festive calendar itself. This has led those scholars who seek to identify the arrangement of the Deuteronomic law code with the Ten Commandments to argue the tithe feast ought to be understood in relation to the fourth commandment.128 Thus understood, participation in the annual tithe feast requires worshippers to enter the sacred time of the Sabbath.129

1 25 Author’s translation. 126 Altmann, Festive Meals, 229; Tigay, Deuteronomy, 141. 127 For the various options, see Mark R. Glanville, “Family for the Displaced: A New Paradigm for the Ger in Deuteronomy,” PhD dissertation, University of Bristol, 2016, 216. Georg Braulik, “The Sequence of the Laws in Deuteronomy 12–​26 and in the Decalogue,” in A Song of Power and the Power of Song, ed. Duane L. Christensen (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1993), 326; Clark, “Tithes,” 161; Yu, “Tithe,” 70; Tigay, Deuteronomy, 142. 128 Braulik, “The Sequence of the Laws,” 321–​6; John H. Walton, “The Decalogue Structure of the Deuteronomic Law,” in Interpreting Deuteronomy: Issues and Approaches, ed. David G. Firth and Philip S. Johnston (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2012), 101. Kaufman concludes that 14:22–​29 bridges the 3rd and 4th commandment and raises the question of whether identifying one or other commandment is warranted in the transitional sections (Stephen A. Kaufman, “The Structure of the Deuteronomic Law,” Maarav 1.2 [1979], 128–​9). 129 Turner argues pilgrimage time is always sacred time (Victor Turner, Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society [Cornell, NY: Cornell University Press, 1974], 207–​8).

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The shaping of time through human calendars is central to both liturgy and ethics. Within the OT, the Sabbath both expresses the liberating, redemptive action of YHWH and shapes individuals and communities to celebrate and imitate YHWH’s liberating, redemptive character. Deuteronomy 5:13–​15 cites YHWH’s rescue of Israel from slavery in Egypt as the reason why the Israelites must both rest themselves and give rest to family members, servants, and even livestock. The Sabbath, then, serves as a weekly ritual in which the entire Israelite community experiences an exodus from social hierarchies and endless toil and journeys together towards what Abraham Heschel famously called God’s “temple in time.”130 This journey into sacred time transforms the entirety of Israel’s life in time, both in relation to one another and in relation to God. Sabbath shapes participants to see all of Israel first and foremost as equal recipients of YHWH’s generous favor and to pursue the imitation of this generous God in their economic relationships with one another. Deuteronomy 14:22–​16:17 unpacks this Sabbath law by providing a sacred calendar punctuated by Sabbath seasons, cycles, and years. Braulik identifies the “elimination, in the context of sacred rhythms, of class distinctions arising in Israel”131 as the unifying theme. We have already argued that the annual tithe meal included the vulnerable members of one’s household. Now we can see that this meal is just one piece of a sacred calendar that includes: the triennial tithe that provides for those same vulnerable members throughout the year (Deut 14:27–​ 29), the Sabbath year’s debt forgiveness every seven years (Deut 15:1–​11), the requirement that indentured Israelite servants be released after seven years of service (Deut 15:12–​18), and the pilgrimage festivals, which provided for the joyful inclusion of vulnerable populations as well (16:1–​17). Participation in this Sabbath calendar would inevitably form a less socially stratified community. It would also serve as a second-​person practice that fostered the imitatio Dei among well-​off participants, who would be constantly reminded of God’s generosity to them and initiated into patterns of generosity towards others through the regular structure of the sacred year. Furthermore, participation in such festivals would influence the emotional life of participants. Anderson suggests that “because the proper disposition before one’s divine Lord is a joyful one,” the sacred seasons combine times of intense worship with joy-​inducing activities.132 These joy-​inducing activities include the lavish 130 Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1951), 79–​83. 131 Braulik, “Sequence,” 325. 132 Gary Anderson, A Time to Mourn, a Time to Dance: The Expression of Grief and Joy in Israelite Religion (State College, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991), 108.

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feasting of the tithe-​meal, as well as the experience of liberation and inclusion by marginalized groups on the receiving end of Sabbath time’s festivals, debt forgiveness, and slave release. But Israel’s sacred calendar, including the tithe festival, does not merely shape the community during the holidays. Because the Israelites feast on the fruit of their year’s labor, the power of the sacred feast day spills out into the more mundane days and weeks of Israel’s life together. This occurs not least because food and beverage production and processing begins months and sometimes years before the day of the feast.133 Even if participants who lived further away from the central worship location would not be present for all of this process (since they would purchase the goods for the feast once they arrived), the entirety of one’s economic and communal life would still be shaped by the Sabbath calendar’s festivals, including the tithe-​meal.134 Thus, as Goudzwaard has suggested, the feast serves as the “horizon” of Israel’s economy.135 This same preparation would be required for 14:27–​29’s triennial tithe. This law requires the Israelites to forgo the feast136 and keep their tithe in their towns in the third year in order to provide for the most vulnerable members of the community: orphans, widows, Levites, and dependent strangers. Within the ancient Near East, a tithe dedicated completely to provision for the vulnerable is every bit as unprecedented137 as a tithe given back to the givers for their own feasting. At least in this third year, then, the agrarian practices of the community would be aimed directly at provision for the vulnerable; the telos of Israel’s labor would include care for those who did not have access to the means to care for themselves. Drawing on anthropological studies of feasting and fasting, Glanville even suggests some Israelites may have had to fast in order to provide for this third-​year tithe.138 He argues that feasts often require participants from subsistence agrarian economies to go without on the front end in order to feast on the back end. Here, 1 33 Monica-​Smith, “Feasts,” 1219–​20. 134 Johnson makes a similar argument, suggesting that the sacrifices of Israel had to be “ethically prepared at every layer of society,” such that right sacrifice required ethical living throughout Israel all year long ( Johnson, Ritual Knowing, 233–​4). 135 Michael Rhodes and Bob Goudzwaard, “Kingdom Economics,” a lecture given at Redeemer University. Available at: http://​stgeorgesmedia.com/​media/​centre/​Kingdom%20Economics. mp3 136 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 141. 137 For a comparison between the triennial tithe and other biblical and ancient Near Eastern tithe laws, see David L. Baker, Tight Fists or Open Hands?: Wealth and Poverty in Old Testament Law (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009), 245–​8. 138 Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 200–​1.

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however, the mechanics are the same, but the result is different: “the third year tithe … entailed fasting, not in order to feast, but in order to provide for the landless.”139 It is clear, then, that the triennial tithe would seriously shape participants’ orientation towards work and towards their vulnerable neighbors. One only has to imagine giving up entirely a family Christmas celebration with its festive food, drink, and gift-​giving in order to make a large donation to a food bank to get something of the idea. But even this thought experiment pales in comparison to the reality of subsistence farmers forgoing a festive celebration in order to ensure nobody in the community risked going without. Sacred Space-​The formative power of the tithe-​meal also draws on the way this pilgrimage ritual would shape participants in sacred space. Turner argues that, across a variety of cultures, pilgrimages provide a key ritual in which participants experience communal solidarity, or communitas, within the liminal “in between” state that occurs whenever rituals temporarily draw individuals out of an “established set of cultural conditions.”140 He suggests that the majority of pilgrimage accounts stress the difference between life in the stable “systems of social relations—​such as village, town, neighborhood, family—​and the total process of pilgrimage.”141 In these accounts, the pilgrims themselves recognize that the pilgrimage creates a sense of communitas; in the pilgrimage, the community experiences healing, not least as it forms participants to see their own health and prosperity as “indissoluble from the peace and harmony of the community.”142 Such pilgrimages can create “lasting friendships.”143 Indeed, even while participants often return to their roles within a community’s hierarchy once the journey is over, the pilgrimage can recast or reframe these hierarchies;144 having experienced communitas on pilgrimage, participants can no longer be “quite so parochial, so particularistic, in [their] loyalties.”145 To use Bourdieu’s language, the habitus engendered by the “objective structures” of the pilgrimage undermines the habitus emerging from the “objective structures” of quotidian life. Deuteronomy’s description of the tithe-​meal as a pilgrimage festival fits the book’s emphasis on worshipping in the single location at which YHWH himself will “establish” (‫ׁשָ כַן‬, 14:23) or “put” (‫ׂשים‬, 14:24) his name. Chapter 12 introduces the idea of the central location and the need to limit sacrificial worship to it. 1 39 Ibid. 140 Turner, “Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors,” 171–​203, 231–​2. 141 Ibid., 167–​8. 142 Ibid., 203. 143 Ibid., 180–​1. 144 Ibid. 145 Ibid., 260.

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McConville suggests that the ambiguous use of the word for place (‫“ )מָ קֹום‬exploits the potential of the word … to refer to both ‘land’ and ‘sanctuary,’ and thus to establish a correspondence between the two.”146 This correspondence functions to suggest that the place YHWH chooses will serve as a sort of microcosm of the land as a whole.147 Given that the implied audience of 14:22–​29 would recently have been confronted with this spatial dynamic in ch. 12, we ought to understand the text against this background.148 14:22–​27’s description of this pilgrimage practice emphasizes two aspects of the chosen place itself: YHWH’s presence and the abundance enjoyed together at the feast in the chosen place. Deuteronomy 14:23, 24, and 26 clearly identify the destination of the pilgrimage as a holy site of encounter with YHWH.149 This worshipful experience of YHWH’s presence undergirds the joy of the feast, which goes beyond rejoicing over the gift of the land to rejoicing because of the gift of a “relationship with the Giver of the land.”150 At the same time, the lavish, over-​the-​top abundance of the feast would create an association among the pilgrims between the chosen place, YHWH’s presence, and YHWH’s abundant provision. Clark goes so far as to say that such a practice would create the impression that the sanctuary is the “most fertile” area of the Promised land, perhaps even paradisiacal.151 As discussed above, ancient Near Eastern temples often levied oppressive taxes on the people, and thus the pilgrimage command and the attendant centralization of worship could be seen as simply power politics as usual. But the tithe festival would serve to foster a different orientation altogether: “instead of the [central worship location] being a drain on the productivity of the hinterland, it both enables its bounty and is the witness to the realization of its richness.”152 In other words, the tithe festival shapes participants to see the central sanctuary as the epicenter of YHWH’s abundant gift giving, a gift giving that inevitably flows back to the rest of the community.153 1 46 McConville, Deuteronomy, 219. 147 J.G. McConville and J.G. Millar, Time and Place in Deuteronomy, JSOT Supp (New York: Continuum International Publishing Group, 1995), 102. 148 Indeed, Braulik may have drawn too strict a line between ch. 14’s interest in time and ch. 12’s interest in space (Braulik, “Sequence,” 322), given the ample evidence that 14:22–​29 is very concerned with sacred space. 149 On YHWH’s presence at the feast, see above. 150 McConville and Millar, Time and Space, 13. 151 Clark, “Tithes,” 166–​7. 152 Ibid. 153 Altmann tracks a similar dynamic in the way the centripetal movement of the law of centralization in ch. 12 is matched by a centrifugal movement through the allowance for slaughtering and eating meat throughout the land. He suggests this implies a “broadening of God’s sacred

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This last point indicates yet another way the practice intends to shape participants’ orientation in sacred space, because the abundance and generosity celebrated at the sanctuary flow back out in abundance and generosity in every Israelite village. Thus the triennial tithe of 14:28–​29 commands that worshippers formed through the tithe-​feast return to their towns with a deeper commitment to justice and mercy in relation to vulnerable populations. People who eat whatever they desire in celebration at YHWH’s sanctuary ensure that the vulnerable eat and are satisfied all year long. As is so often the case in Deuteronomy, obedience to YHWH’s command to care for the vulnerable through sacrificial generosity leads to ongoing abundance (14:29). If the abundance experienced in the central place points to obedient generosity in the village, then that obedient generosity overflows back into another abundant harvest, and another abundant feast, in the years to come.154 The hands that carry silver to purchase festive goods on pilgrimage (14:25–​26) can experience ongoing blessing on the work of those same hands (14:29) only if they share generously of their abundance at the festival and in their towns. In short, the tithe practice, both in its normal pilgrimage form and in the triennial, localized form, would serve to shape participants’ orientation in sacred space. The power of this practice, however, depends in part on the fact that this pilgrimage is not only an embodied ritual of dislocation and reaggregation, but also a re-​enactment of the story of the original exodus journey into the promised land itself. MacDonald argues that the festive calendar of Deut 16:1–​17 “prescribes an annual performance of Israel’s historical experience.”155 Culp adopts and extends this argument, highlighting how participation in this ritual re-​enactment of the journey from exodus to the Promised land solidifies the memory and narrative of Israel among community members and fosters appropriate emotions among participants.156 Indeed, this is “one of the main functions of the ‘narrativized’ festival calendar: it forever keeps the blessing of the land juxtaposed to life in Egypt, joy juxtaposed to sorrow.”157 presence in Israel” that is related to the worshipful feasts described in Deut 12 and 14 (Peter Altmann, “Making the Meal Sacred in the Old Testament: Complexities and Possibilities for Christian Appropriation” in Sacrality and Materiality: Locating Intersections, ed. Giselbrecht and Kunz [Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2016], 131). 154 Cf. J. Gordon McConville, Being Human in God’s World: An Old Testament Theology of Humanity (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2016), 104. 155 Nathan MacDonald, Not Bread Alone: The Uses of Food in the Old Testament (New York: Oxford University Press), 82. 156 Culp, Memoir, 147. 157 Ibid., 151.

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MacDonald and Culp make this case primarily in relationship to the festival calendar in 16:1–​17. As we have noted above, however, the tithe was probably brought during one or more of these festivals. Furthermore, there is evidence that 14:22–​27’s description of the tithe pilgrimage suggests a re-​enactment of Israel’s story as well. The emphasis on the long journey with a joyful conclusion underscores the parallels between the tithe pilgrimage and the wilderness journey to the Promised land. Deuteronomy 14:22–​27 may subtly allude to the narrative of the wilderness wanderings in Deut 2:6–​7, which also speaks of Israel purchasing food and water with silver because YHWH has blessed the work of their hands.158 We may note the way Deut 26:1–​11 presents a pilgrimage practice that explicitly narrates Israel’s journey from Egypt to the promised land before turning immediately to a consideration of the tithe in 26:12–​14. Finally, 14:22 declares that learning to fear YHWH is the telos of the annual ritual, but in 5:24–​29, YHWH affirms the peoples’ fear in response to his awesome presence at Horeb, and expresses his desire that his people would have such a heart to fear him always. It seems, then, that the feast in sacred time and space welcomes Israel to a fresh encounter with YHWH that recapitulates the encounter at Horeb on the journey to the promised land.159 Understanding Deut 14:22–​27 as an invitation for Israel to participate “in the march of the people from slavery in Egypt to the land of their inheritance” has profound implications for our understanding of this ritual.160 As we shall see in a later chapter, the tithe pilgrimage provides Israel with a formative practice that militates against the forgetfulness, acquisitiveness, and hubris warned of in Deuteronomy’s frame. Suffice it to say here that the requirement that entire households voluntarily dislocate themselves from their land and livelihood would have had a powerful impact on participants. Not without reason does the Exodus account of the command to celebrate the pilgrimage feast assure the community that others would not covet their land while they were away (Exod 34:24)! No, for the landed and heads of household in particular, we can imagine that this joyful pilgrimage would demand a significant “letting go” of control. Glanville suggests the tithe pilgrimage thus invites the landed to experience landlessness, or perhaps, landedness reconceived.161 Meanwhile, those with less social standing in the hierarchy would experience a liberating exodus from “systems of land ownership, 158 Notice the reference to purchasing food items ‫ ּבַ ּכָ ֑סֶ ף‬in both 2:6 and 14:25, and the reference to YHWH blessing them “in all the work of [their] hands” in 2:7 and the references to YHWH “blessing” them and “blessing the work of [their] hands” in Deut 14:25 and 29. 159 See Lohfink, “Reading Deuteronomy,” 279–​280; Braulik, Theology of Deuteronomy, 198. 160 Braulik, “Sequence,” 51. 161 Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 187.

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patronage and division of labour.”162 Such a pilgrimage would require (and foster) virtuous trust in YHWH, as well as the virtues of humility, solidarity, and generosity among participants. In short, the tithe legislation of 14:22–​29 appears to offer Israel a formative practice intended to shape both their individual character and the politics of the community. The power of this embodied, social practice is bound up in its ritualizing of contemporary tithe practices, the festive menu, the unusual guest list, and the way the practice shapes sacred space and time.

Fearing YHWH at the Feast: The Goal of Formation in Deut 14:22–​29 Looking at the tithe through the lens of formative practices yields significant insights into how the ritual does its work. But what does understanding the tithe as a telos-​shaped, embodied, social action with an embedded intention to shape the character of the practitioner, the politics of the community, and the “world out there” contribute to our overall understanding of the character, politics, and “world out there” that Deuteronomy commends to—​and seeks to foster among—​its implied audience?

Feast-​Formed Character The goal of the tithe feast is to “learn to fear YHWH always.” As we saw above, the fear of YHWH can be understood as a particular set of virtuous, second-​person dispositions. What, then, does our text tells us about what it means to acquire this virtuous character? First, learning to fear YHWH has everything to do with the cultivation of joy. What was implicit in our discussion of the menu above is explicit in the text: “and you will eat there before YHWH your God and you will rejoice” (Deut 14:26).163

1 62 Ibid. 163 Cf. Deut 12:7, 12, 18; 16:11, 14, 15; 26:11; 27:7. This joy is so characteristic of the feast in Deuteronomy that when the direction to rejoice stands alone, as in Deut 26:11, feasting is almost certainly what is implied (Walter J. Houston, “Rejoicing Before the Lord: The Function of the Festal Gathering in Deuteronomy,” in Feasts and Festivals, ed. Christopher Tuckett [Walpole, MA: Peeters, 2009], 3).

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The lavish food and wine foster feelings of joy and celebration in Israel, individually and collectively.164 Indeed, here as often in Deuteronomy, the verb for rejoice is in the imperative.165 Commanding an emotion strikes modern readers as incoherent. But both the OT and the theological account of virtue-​formation offered in Chapter Three recognize that appropriate feelings can be formed through appropriate behaviors;166 outward commanded actions shape virtuous feelings and dispositions.167 While the virtuous fear of YHWH is not an emotion in the modern sense, it does include appropriate feelings that are cultivated; learning to fear YHWH requires one to “learn to fear in one way rather than another.”168 In Deuteronomy 14:22–​27, YHWH teaches Israel to fear him by commanding Israel to rejoice in a lavish meal. Whatever the cultivated disposition of fearing YHWH means, it includes not merely the legitimate feeling of horror at the holiness and power of YHWH expressed by Israel at Horeb, but also the wild joy in YHWH’s provision at the feast in his presence. In the wilderness, Israel learns the terror involved in fearing YHWH; in the land, they learn the joyful disposition of fearing YHWH by practicing the joy of the feast.169 This joy is not just available to the entire community, including the Levites, orphans, widows, and vulnerable outsiders: it is mandated that everyone, including these at-​risk groups, participate in this joy-​cultivating practice alongside their kin within the household structure. Learning to fear YHWH, then, includes acquiring a habituated, moral disposition to welcome every member of the community. Indeed, feasting at the tithe shapes the moral vision of participants, teaching each to see the others as members of God’s family. Furthermore, the virtuous fear of YHWH that is acquired through the feast also has everything to do with shaping desire. Again, this is explicit within the text: the provision that allows Israelites to convert their tithe into money instructs them to buy “whatever your soul (‫ ) ֶנפֶׁש‬desires (‫)אוה‬,” “whatever your soul asks 1 64 Ibid., 117. 165 Braulik, Theology of Deuteronomy, 41. Seow draws a similar conclusion concerning Ecclesiastes, (C.L. Seow, Ecclesiastes, ABC 18c [New York: Doubleday, 1997], 371). 166 Anderson points out, for instance, the fact that elsewhere the OT can speak of “doing a joy” (Anderson, A Time to Mourn, 95). 167 Ibid., 96. Of course, inward feelings can also erupt in outward actions. 168 Lasater, “The Emotions,” 538. This fits Lasater’s account of feelings in the Bible as similar to the Thomistic concept of the passions, which must be acquired and formed if they are to be virtuous. 169 Brown connects these two aspects in his association of the fear of YHWH with wonder and his description of it as “affiliative” (William P. Brown, Sacred Sense: Discovering the Wonder of God’s Word and World [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015], 9, 49–​51).

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(‫ )ׁשָ אַ ל‬you for” (14:26). In this context, ‫ ֶנפֶׁש‬refers to the “centre and transmitter of feelings and perceptions,”170 the “seat of emotions and passions.”171 The embodied notion of desire in the context of food may be alluded to as well, given that the word can also mean “throat” or “gullet.”172 Regardless, this language should not be understood in any disembodied sense: “‫ ֶנפֶׁש‬means the whole self, a unity of flesh, will, and vitality,” with an emphasis on the “emotions, passions, drives, [and] appetites.”173 It is not surprising, then, that desire is viewed with suspicion in the OT. The Hithpael ‫ אוה‬is often negative, as in the commandment not to “desire” what belongs to your neighbor in the Tenth Commandment (Deut 5:21), or in the story of Israel’s destructive desire for food like they had in Egypt (Num 11:4–​6). The Piel form (used in 14:26) can also refer to sinful desire (cf. Prov 21:10). Nevertheless, the OT does not condemn desire in and of itself, which it sees as being possibly good, bad, or even neutral.174 Instead, desire must be informed by knowledge and shaped through discipline.175 For instance, Bartholomew and Goudzwaard describe Proverbs as “a veritable school of desire” that “seeks to constrain, to awaken, and to redirect desire.”176 Similarly, in our text, YHWH welcomes Israel into a practice, a ritual space, in which they can learn to desire rightly by indulging desire through the festive menu,177 provided that such indul��gence occurs in YHWH’s presence, in gratitude for his gifts, and alongside the full guest list. The emotional aspects of the feast are here aimed at the telos of creating dispositions towards love of God and love of neighbor.178 Such a practice shapes the embodied orientation of each participant’s ‫ ֶנפֶׁש‬towards the joyous desire appropriate to fearing the God-​King who hosts this feast, and to sharing YHWH’s stance towards one’s fellow Israelites and the creation itself. 1 70 HALOT, 711–​13. 171 BDB, 659. 172 HALOT, 711–​13; TWOT, 1395a. 173 Ibid. 174 NIDOTTE, 304. See also Carol Newsom, “Models of the Moral Self: Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Judaism,” JBL 131.1 (2012), 12. 175 Newsom, “Models,” 12. 176 Craig Bartholomew and Bob Goudzwaard, Beyond the Modern Age: An Archaeology of Contemporary Culture (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2017), 163. 177 The reference to the ‫ ּכֶסֶ ף‬that the Israelites can acquire with their tithe in order to purchase whatever they desire for the feast may also suggest this idea of the practice re-​directing desire, given that Deut 7:25 calls Israel not to desire (‫ )חָ מַ ד‬the ‫ ּכֶסֶ ף‬they find in the idolatrous images of the nations. 178 Meyers, “Menu,” 153–​6.

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Both the tithe meal and the triennial tithe practice also seem intended, at least as they are narrated in Deut 14:22–​29, to foster among participants a virtuous disposition to see YHWH as the source of past and future blessing. The passage includes two direct references to YHWH’s economic blessing of Israel, references that serve as bookends to the section as a whole (14:24; 29).179 The tithe practice both depends on YHWH’s past blessing and looks forward to YHWH’s future blessing.180 God’s people learn that they are free to celebrate lavishly and abundantly without fear, provided they follow YHWH’s law, including the covenantal stipulations of this magnificent feast at the central worship location.181 Annually engaging in the “risky” behavior of such lavish consumption (and in the risky charitable giving of the third year tithe)182 would shape Israel to see the world as one of ongoing abundance, an abundance available to them so long as they remained faithful to YHWH’s commands. Moreover, by combining elements of a harvest festival with the story of YHWH’s deliverance of Israel out of Egypt and into the promised land, the tithe shapes worshipers to see YHWH as both the creator and redeemer (cf. also Deut 26:1–​11). Furthermore, the tithe practice intends to shape participants’ moral vision in terms of holiness as well. Yu provides a wide-​ranging and compelling argument that the shape of the tithe feast is determined by Deuteronomy’s understanding of all Israel as holy. In Deuteronomy, the food stuffs which are outlawed only for the priests in Leviticus are off limits for the entire people (Deut 14:21), whereas the tithes—​exclusively consumed by the priests in Leviticus—​are here consumed by “the people as a whole.”183 This Deuteronomic emphasis reflects what Yu calls a “democratization of election and holiness:”184 “for you are a people holy to YHWH your God” (Deut 14:2, 21). This democratization of holiness is bound up in the emphasis on holiness as a gift of YHWH’s election that leads to a more egalitarian, fraternal communal structure.185 179 The image of harvests too great to carry to the central place is probably intended to evoke a sense of abundance both in terms of the expected yield and the expansion of Israel’s territory (Nelson, Deuteronomy, 186; Yu, “Tithes and Firstlings,” 73; Altmann, Festive Meals, 233). 180 Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 194. 181 This is true even if some portions remained at the sanctuary, since the clear literary intention of the text is to emphasize the lavish abundance of the feast. 182 Cf. Houston, Contending, 179. 183 Yu, “Tithes,” 88. 184 Ibid. The term is, of course, anachronistic, and should not be taken to imply that Deuteronomy’s vision matches the contemporary political arrangement evoked by the language of democracy. 185 Yu, “Tithes,” 172, 155. This connects with the “word ‘brother,’ [which] permeates the entire book of Deuteronomy,” extending both upward to the king and downward to the Hebrew slave (Ibid., 155). Cf. Tigay, Deuteronomy, 142; S. Dean McBride, “Polity of the Covenant People: The Book of Deuteronomy,” Interpretation 41.3 (1987), 243.

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Moreover, as we have seen, worship at the central sanctuary provides worshippers with an experience in microcosm of YHWH’s intention for the entire promised land. Therefore, just as the holiness of the priesthood is applied to the entire community, so also the holiness of the central location spills out into every corner of the larger community. The sacred dues are not simply consumed by all in the sacred place; they are stored up in the village specifically for the marginalized through the triennial tithe. This practice therefore shapes Israelites to see the entirety of the community as sacred space, and the holy offerings as appropriately distributed for the sustenance of all, and especially the most vulnerable. The experience of joyful, communal sharing culminating in everyone having enough in the sacred worship space leads to the longer-​term structural institution of systems that ensure everyone has enough throughout the entire community. Weinfeld and Braulik are therefore wrong to argue that Deuteronomy strongly “demythologizes” the feasts and tithes.186 The humanitarian focus of the tithe in no way implies a less liturgical and sacred approach to this form of worship at the central sanctuary.187 Instead, Deuteronomy’s humanitarian emphasis merely renders explicit the deep connection between worship, liturgy, and ethics. In summary, the tithe welcomes Israel into a character-​forming practice that fosters virtuous dispositions of joy and gratitude towards God and hospitality and solidarity towards everyone in the community. The practice shapes the people to see the entirety of the Promised land and all of the covenant people as holy. The tithe practice accomplishes this work by forming Israelites at the deepest level, the level of the ‫ ֶנפֶׁש‬. Deuteronomy tells Israelites to guard their ‫ ֶנפֶׁש‬from idolatry on the one hand (4:9) and to love, seek, serve, and obey YHWH will all their ‫ֶנפֶׁש‬ on the other.188 The self-​shaping, virtue-​forming tithe practice helps Israelites be��come the sort of people, individually and collectively, capable of following these commands.

Feast-​Formed Politics The feast, though, shapes desire in this way in part because this fulfilled, joyful desire is not attached to an earthly king,189 a priestly elite, an imperial overlord, or a rival god, all of whom might seek to acquire one’s allegiance through feasts in the 1 86 Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic School, 191–​7; 210–​23; Braulik, Theology, 44. 187 Houston, “Feasting,” 5. 188 These commands and warnings all come prior to the law code of chs. 12–​26. 189 Of course, other portions of the OT identify the king as the central figure in the establishment of justice and equity (cf. Houston, Contending, 135).

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ancient world. In other words, the tithe practice also serves to form a certain kind of politics within the community, one oriented towards God as the royal host and benefactor of the feast. This can be seen both by the aforementioned lack of status differentials at the meal and the absence of any mention of a human king at the table. It can also be seen in the contrast between Deuteronomy’s tithe as care for the poor or material for the feast and the normal understanding of the tithe as a tax for the royal or priestly elite. But the tithe also forms a particular sort of political community by shoring up solidarity within the household structure at the feast and shoring up solidarity within the village structure by storing the triennial tithes there. The emphasis on the local social structures of “household” (‫ )ּבַ יִ ת‬and village (evoked through the language of the “gate;” ‫ )ׁשַ עַר‬needs to be understood within the broader ancient Near Eastern context. Boer argues that the “subsistence regime”—​comprised of overlapping systems of subsistence survival, kinship-​household structures, and “patronage (in its more benign form)”—​proved both the most durable and the most egalitarian of economic systems within the ancient Near East.190 Houston is no doubt correct that the equality of such village and household networks does not reflect contemporary egalitarian concerns inasmuch as it remained bound up in a patriarchal system.191 Nevertheless, such systems seem to have provided the best culturally-​available economic arrangement for everyone, including the vulnerable. Moreover, Deuteronomy seems to envision a “subsistence regime” comprised of households, villages, and the broader community in which many of the rough edges of such institutions are addressed. Deuteronomy’s concern for orphans, widows, dependent strangers, and Levites to be included within the households provides just one example of this phenomenon. McBride argues that Deuteronomy ought to be understood as a “charter for a constitutional theocracy” in which “egalitarian justice” is presented as the “crux of theocratic government.”192 Drawing on this view, I suggest that Deut 14:22–​29 190 See Boer, The Sacred Economy, in its entirety; Norman K. Gottwald, Social Justice and the Hebrew Bible, vol. 1 (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2016), 21, 24–​6; and Wright, Old Testament Ethics, 55, 89. Note also Richter’s argument, based in part on the references to “your gates,” that the economic data of Deuteronomy by and large assumes a political economy comprised of a “rural, isolated village economy dependent on household economics” (Sandra Lynn Richter, “The Question of Provenance and the Economics of Deuteronomy,” JSOT 42.1 [2017], 23–​50). 191 Houston, Contending, 24; so also Boer, Sacred Economy, 221. But note Meyers’ argument that the “patriarch model” fails as an adequate description of ancient Israel (Carol L. Meyers, “Was Ancient Israel a Patriarchal Society?” JBL 133.1 [2014], 8–​27). 192 McBride, “Polity,” 238–​9.

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gives us a practice aimed at the formation of such a political community by offering celebratory practices that reinforce economic structures more conducive to such “egalitarian justice” (households and villages) and that explicitly provide for the equitable inclusion of those populations most vulnerable to dispossession within those structures (Levites, orphans, widows, dependent strangers).193 Such an argument directly contradicts those accounts, such as Houston’s, that find in the feast primarily the erosion of “local communitas and solidarity” through the provision of “national solidarity.”194 Of course, Houston is correct that the feast at the central sanctuary, and Deuteronomy as a whole, does seek to create a common, national political identity.195 Feasting in Deuteronomy invites Israelites to ingest their common Israelite story,196 forming a political community shaped definitively by worship of YHWH and identification with the story of YHWH’s deliverance. Such a political practice would balance the “centrifugal force of local tribal politics and interests.”197 But what is often overlooked is that this centripetal movement towards centralization is balanced by the centrifugal forces embedded within the practice: namely the emphasis on household and the connection between the tithe celebrated at the central place and the storing of the triennial tithe in the village gate. Houston further argues that the feast at the centralized sanctuary should be understood as a patronage feast that, in addition to creating communitas, also gave household heads and patrons an opportunity to gain prestige and power.198 Glanville, however, rightly raises the question of what prestige one could gain from “hosting those without any means.”199 Additionally, the storing of the tithe within the city gate may be understood as severing “the connection between donor and recipient,”200 thus undermining the patron’s alleged benefit to capitalize off of the tithe. And, as Houston himself recognizes, Deut 14:22–​27 narrates the tithe meal in terms of YHWH as the “patron” of the feast, thus undermining the hard edges of the patronage system.201 193 This is not an argument for the permanent superiority of kinship and village-​level structures; I see these particular institutions as superior, culturally available organizing structures. Such structures are always to be held lightly, as can be seen in Scripture’s own undermining of many of the most potentially oppressive aspects of these structures. 194 Houston, “Feasting,” 10; idem., Contending for Justice, 177. 195 Houston, “Feasting,” 10. 196 MacDonald, Not Bread Alone, 96. 197 Clark, “Tithes,” 166. 198 Houston, “Feasting,” 6–​12. 199 Glanville, “Family,” 224. 200 Ibid. 201 Houston, “Feasting,” 12–​3.

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I want to add to these arguments that the very fact that households are the sites of production as well as consumption and distribution adds complexity to the politics of feasting by household.202 The “you” to which the tithe practice is directed may well primarily appeal to household heads, but the produce which comes from the field year by year is the direct result of the entire household’s labor. It is the work of their collective hands that has been blessed, and it is the work of their collective hands that will be required to prepare for the pilgrimage, travel the long distance to the sanctuary, and cook and serve the meal on the day of the feast. Modern observers may note that some “have more to do with [the meal’s] preparation than others,”203 but I think it is incontrovertible that every member of the household, including the dependent outsiders, women, and debt-​slaves associated with it, would see the feast as God’s blessing on the fruit of their collective labor. The entire household, rather than simply the household head, is called to journey to the sanctuary, give the tithe, and feast on that tithe as it is given back to them by the generosity of YHWH. Moreover, the lack of distinction between portions or quality of fare in relation to the various roles within the household provides evidence that the household structure is being shaped, through this practice, in a more just, equitable direction. Houston himself makes a similar point in relation to the triennial tithe, arguing that while often the OT sees the maintenance of justice as the responsibility of the monarch or the patron, the triennial tithe provides one of “at least three texts that require nationwide action to rectify economic relationships … [without giving] the responsibility for the enforcement of the measures to any specific authority.”204 In other words, the triennial tithe is the whole community’s responsibility; the fact that such a national, political requirement is to be achieved through the villages underscores the importance of justice enacted and undertaken at the level of the “neighborhood.” The politics of this practice, then, are complex. Taken together, the tithe pilgrimage festival celebrated by household at one central location and the triennial tithe distributed at the village level assume and foster a political community that is both local and national. The practice seeks to create just inclusiveness at the smallest levels of the community, within the extended household and village, while also fostering a just inclusiveness through allegiance to the One God and the One (National) Family of that God. The political community envisioned and created through the practice is complex and paradoxical, and it is through maintaining 2 02 See Boer, Sacred Economy, 85–​8. 203 Houston, “Feasting,” 10. 204 Houston, Contending, 169.

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this complex tension, rather than resolving it, that the tithe becomes a powerful political practice.

Feasting and the World “Out There” Finally, in Chapter Three, I argued that formative practices also shape the “world out there,” by which I refer to the reality that formative practices aim at really accomplishing something outside the character of the individual and community who participate in them. When considering the tithe practice, I want to suggest that there are at least three goals that fall into this category. First, the tithe feast aims at an actual, worshipful encounter with YHWH in the place where he has placed his name. In other words, the annual tithe practice aims at worship. The emphasis on YHWH’s presence makes it impossible to reduce the practice to its social and humanitarian implications. Indeed, these social and humanitarian implications depend on Israel gaining a “shared stance” with YHWH towards the marginalized through their relationship with him.205 Second, the tithe meal aims at creating a feast. The power of the tithe festival lies largely in the fact that it requires the community to pull off a large, complex, and lavish party produced and enjoyed by every member. This would require the entire community to work together throughout the year, collaborating to produce, prepare, transport, cook, serve, and clean up after the meal itself. This feast is a good in and of itself, and it is through the practice of this feast in YHWH’s presence as an act of YHWH-​worship that the practice acquires its power to transform the character and politics of the community. Third, and finally, the triennial tithe seeks to establish a functioning system of sustenance for those within the community’s villages who are most in danger of falling between the cracks of the household system. Clearly, for this practice to shape the character and politics of the community, both individually and corporately, the community must actually seek to achieve just such a system of sustenance. Taken together, this tells us that the establishment of the sort of community Deuteronomy envisions requires that community to embrace the tithe practices of Deut 14:22–​29, or at least practices that reflect the tithe’s shape and telos. This point may seem mundane, but it differentiates my approach in significant ways from other studies of the tithe. For instance, in his exploration of tithes and first fruits in the Pentateuch, Clark sets out to explore these passages as 205 Note Carroll’s similar suggestion that, in Israel, worship serves as a virtue forming practice (Carroll, “What is Good,” 109).

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textual rituals … rituals that operate only in the reading or hearing of a text, as opposed to rituals that are performed or might have been performed. They are designed to be reported as narrative actions or stipulated as legislation, rather than physically replicated. Although they may reflect contemporary, reconstructed, or ideal ritual practices, they are not intended to be enacted as physical rituals directly from the page … [The texts present] a narrative expressed as ritual or ritual law.206

There is, of course, nothing wrong with focusing on the literary aspect of these texts.207 Indeed, Clark and others demonstrate that the Deuteronomic meaning of these rituals is at least partially determined by their literary context; these are narrated rituals, explicitly bound up in Deuteronomy’s specific theological concerns. At the same time, the claim that the tithe festival teaches Israel to fear YHWH suggests that Deuteronomy recognizes the necessity of moral formation through practice in achieving the text’s goals.208 In other words, even if we agree that all we have available to exegete is the text itself, that same text intends for us, in pursuing the ends the text puts before us, to move beyond the text towards the sort of embodied, communal, formative practices presented in Deut 14:22–​29.209 Nor does this require us to imagine the original audience as being summoned to an exact replication of Deut 14:22–​29.210 Deuteronomy may present the tithe practice as a paradigm that ought to influence other practices in other contexts,211 or even cause listeners to create similar practices. This is especially true if the tithe practice itself is one instantiation in a particular time and place of the Sabbath 2 06 Clark, “Tithes and Firstfruits,” 12. 207 For discussion of the purpose and function of law codes in Israel and the ancient Near East, see Raymond Westbrook, Law from the Tigris to the Tiber: The Writings of Raymond Westbrook, ed. F. Rachel Magdalene and Bruce Wells (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 3–​16; J.J. Finkelstein, “Ammisaduqa’s Edict and the Babylonian ‘Law Codes,’ ” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 15.3 (1961), 91–​103; Terence E. Fretheim, “Law in the Service of Life: A Dynamic Understanding of Law in Deuteronomy,” in What Kind of God?: Collected Essays of Terence E. Fretheim, ed. Brent A. Strawn and Michael J. Chan (Winona, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 248–​ 62; Baker, Tight Fists?, 2. 208 “It is not enough for Moses simply to command the community to remember and to guard the commandments. Something must be done, something that ‘has the power to change things’ ” (Melissa D. Ramos, Ritual in Deuteronomy: The Performance of Doom [London: Routledge, 2021], 145). 209 And indeed may reflect more actual ritual practice than is often assumed by scholars. Melissa D. Ramos’s recent work on ritual in Deuteronomy suggests that while these texts are frequently studied as “scribal documents rather than vestigial remnants of embodied performances,” close examination and comparison with other ancient Near Eastern oaths and treaties suggests that true “vestiges of ritual performance are preserved for us in the literary forms of narrative and law” (Ramos, Ritual in Deuteronomy, 11–​12). 210 Nevertheless, within the world of the text, this is certainly the case. 211 On paradigms in OT ethics, see Chris Wright, Old Testament Ethics, 62–​74.

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legislation within the “trajectory” that opens up from the Ten Commandments.212 Appropriating these texts for moral formation in our own day will require us to make similar moves. My point here is simply that the tithe ritual presented in Deut 14:22–​29 does not merely serve a literary function, but rather explicitly gestures towards the limits of literature, summoning God’s people to embrace moral formation through practice.

Fearing YHWH for What? An Excursus on Deut 15 Before concluding this chapter, it is relevant to my argument to consider how the formation at which the tithe practice of 14:22–​29 aims “spills over” into the justly famous social legislation of Deut 15. For while Brueggemann is probably right to call Deut 15 the “most radical summons to obedience” and “the center of the corpus of commands in Deuteronomy,” both the formulation of the law and its execution depend, at least in part, on the moral formation of the tithe festival. This is, in many ways, the fruit of my overall ethical argument: the most important socio-​economic initiative in Deuteronomy depends on the moral formation of the tithe practice. There are clear structural and rhetorical links between 14:22–​29 and 15:1–​23, including the temporal markers in 14:22, 28; 15:1, 12b, and 20 associated with this portion of the law code’s exposition of the fourth commandment;213 the use of infinitive absolutes in key imperative phrases related to economic practices in 14:22, 15:2, 8, 10, 11, and 14;214 and the references to firstlings in 14:22 and 15:19–​23. More thematically, whereas 14:22–​29 seeks to maintain “balance and equity” by “giving access to the wealth of the land to those who had no property rights of their own,” 15:1–​23 approaches the same concern for balance and equity “from another angle:” namely, the shoring up of vulnerable households.215 Yet the connections between the moral formation of the tithe and the politics of debt release can be seen at a deeper level as well, and that in at least three ways. First, the legislation concerning the sabbatical year and release for debt slaves specifically emphasizes the moral character of those members of God’s people who must 212 Patrick D. Miller, The Way of the Lord: Essays in Old Testament Theology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), 9–​16; 42–​6. 213 Cook, Deuteronomy, 130. Cf. also McConville, Deuteronomy, 257–​8; Braulik, “Sequence,” 325; Nelson, Deuteronomy, 183. 214 Cf. Walter Brueggemann, Money and Possessions, Interpretation (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2016), 46. 215 McConville, Deuteronomy, 257. See also Lohfink, “Poverty,” 43–​7.

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carry out these laws. Thus the bodily language of “hand (vv. 1, 2, 7, 8 and 11), heart (vv. 7, 9, and 10), and eye (vv. 9, 18)” suggests that both attitude and action, disposition and conduct, are involved in relation to those who are poor … . … Compassion and openheartedness are the order of God, attitudes that work themselves out in the action of the hand, which, like the heart, must be open and not closed.216

Note for instance v. 7’s command that, when confronted by a needy brother, one not harden one’s heart and thus shut up one’s hand in giving to that brother. Such language not only emphasizes the importance of one’s moral dispositions towards one’s neighbor, but also the need for individuals to exercise their own agency in forming those dispositions.217 Moreover, as v. 10 makes clear, a vicious disposition is problematic even when a person embraces the outward act of generosity required in the passage. The use of bodily language to draw attention to the character required for this legislation to work is even clearer if we understand the phrase “and let your eye be evil” (‫ ;וְ ָרעָ ֣ה ֵ ֽעינְ ָ֗ך‬v. 9) to refer to the ancient Near Eastern conception of the Evil Eye. Throughout the ancient world, people believed that a person with an Evil Eye exerted an ill will against another through their evil gaze; such exertion involved both an “internal disposition” and an “externalized power.”218 Deuteronomy 15:9, however, likely refers to the uniquely biblical emphasis on the Evil Eye as a “moral phenomena.”219 Understood in this light, 15:9 warns against eyeing someone with the moral disposition of “miserliness and an eye that is blind toward, or little moved by, the plight of the poor and needy.”220 The bible understands the Evil Eye as a morally problematic disposition that can be changed by the person with such an Eye.221 Thus, within its cultural milieu, the reference to an Evil Eye in 15:9 underscores the passage’s overall emphasis on moral dispositions—​and human

2 16 Miller, Deuteronomy, 136. 217 As we have seen already and will discuss further in the next chapter, the heart in Deuteronomy can be understood as the seat of moral dispositions, not least in YHWH’s own expressed desire that Israel would have hearts that fear him (5:29a). Verse 9’s command that Israelites guard themselves lest their hearts embrace vicious dispositions towards their neighbors further underscores this point. 218 John Hall Elliott, Beware the Evil Eye: The Evil Eye in the Bible and in the Ancient World (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2016), 28. 219 Ibid.. 220 Ibid., 50. 221 Ibid., 41.

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agency in forming such dispositions—​as part of its presentation of the laws of the sabbatical year and slave release practices. This emphasis on the character or virtue that God’s people must embody in order to apply these laws is, in many ways, a particularly intense example of what Tsai identifies as two “distinctive features of biblical laws that are completely absent” from their contemporary parallels: the “use of second person voice and motive clauses … Both elements shape the affective … and evaluative … dimensions.”222 Deuteronomy intensifies the second person address in ch. 15 through a seemingly unparalleled piling up of infinitive absolutes,223 as well as a number of motive clauses (cf. v. 4, 6, 9, 10, 15), including an explicit reference224 to the exodus narrative, which, as we have seen previously, plays a key role in the moral formation of YHWH’s people.225 In short, the success of Deut 15’s legislation depends on community members acquiring a certain moral character.226 Law alone is not enough.227 But second, there is evidence that the tithe legislation itself plays a role in fostering such virtuous dispositions. The sabbatical year demands that every lender “release the loan of his hand,” an idiomatic phrase that refers to cancelling a debt and/​or releasing the pledge that the lender held in lieu of a debt.228 At the same time, the socioeconomically stable lender is also called not to close up his hand against his brother in need (v. 7), but rather to open it in generous lending (v. 8, 11). But these Israelites have been called in the annual tithe feast’s legislation to 222 Daisy Yulin Tsai, Human Rights in Deuteronomy: With Special Focus on Slave Laws, Beihefte Zur Zeitschrift Für Die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 464 (Boston, MA: de Gruyter, 2014), 62. 223 Brueggemann, Money and Possessions, 46. 224 There are also implicit references to the exodus throughout (cf. McConville, Deuteronomy, 263–​4). 225 Fretheim, “Law,” 257. 226 Cf. Altmann, Persian Period, 73. 227 Moreover, to some extent, this is always the case. The fact that such legislation depends in part on the moral transformation of God’s people does not render it either impractical ethically nor even implausible socially. The accusation that such legislation is impractical “mainly depends on classical economics’ construct of the rational subject who always behaves so as to maximize material benefit” (Houston, Contending, 195–​6). For a contemporary critique of moral thinking over-​determined by “classical economics’ construct of the rational subject” see Brian Fikkert and Michael Rhodes, “Homo Economicus versus Homo Imago Dei,” Journal of Markets & Morality 20.1 (2017), 101–​26. 228 For the use of the language of letting go of the hand in the ancient Near East, see Weinfeld, Social Justice in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient near East (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2000), 161–​3. For a discussion of the various syntactical options, see Nelson, Deuteronomy, 189; McConville, Deuteronomy, 255.

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enclose in their hands their tithe-​turned-​to-​silver on the way towards the joyful celebration oriented towards love of God and welcome of neighbor. If the “act of kneeling … generates a body identified with subordination,”229 the rhetoric of Deuteronomy suggests that the bodily practice of carrying one’s tithe in one’s hand the long distance to the sanctuary in order to share it in a lavish feast alongside one’s neighbors generates a body identified with the solidarity and generosity that the debt legislation of ch. 15 depends on. Moreover, because the tithe legislation explicitly requires the community to engage in a certain corporate practice involving both agricultural goods and “silver” (‫ )ּכֶ ֖סֶ ף‬derived from those goods, it serves to create a certain kind of disposition towards such goods. It is precisely such a disposition that will be required by Deut 15’s legislation, which calls the community to economic policies involving precisely those same goods. For while Deut 15:2’s “whatever he will lend to his neighbor” (‫ֲׁשר י ֶ ַּׁ֖שה ּבְ ֵרעֵ ֑הּו‬ ֥ ֶ ‫ )א‬leaves ambiguous what exactly is lent in this transaction, Deut 23:19–​20’s prohibition on interest makes clear that both food and “silver” (‫ )ּכֶ ֖סֶ ף‬would have been common loan items. Similarly, Deut 15:13–​14 presents the unprecedented command to liberally supply the debt slave with provisions from “your flock, your threshing floor, and your wine vat” upon their release in the seventh year. Thus, those same agricultural goods that lie at the heart of the tithe practice, there oriented towards love of God and welcome of neighbor, are here again deployed in similar fashion, now in a more explicitly “economic” context.230 In other words, the moral dispositions formed through the tithe meal undergird the economic legislation of Deuteronomy 15. Finally, the economic legislation of Deut 15 depends on the politics created by the tithe practice of Deut 14:22–​29. This dynamic can be seen in several ways. The legislation around debt forgiveness and slave release depends on all parties in question understanding each other as equals within the community. This can be seen by the repeated references to the person in need as both “brother” (‫ )אָ ח‬and “neighbor” (ַ‫)רע‬. ֵ 231 This emphasis on brother language “encourages listeners to see 2 29 Bell, Ritual Theory, 100. 230 Note too the humanizing effect of giving to the debt slave an ample portion of that economic surplus to which she or he contributed. If a dominant feature of slavery is the depriving of the benefit to the slave of their own labor, Deut 15:13–​14 strikes precisely at this point. 231 Indeed, 15:1–​18 contains the first 7 of 29 instances in Deuteronomy’s law code in which the language of “brother” is used for a “fellow Israelite” (Lohfink, “Poverty in the Laws,” 46). That this is a particularly Deuteronomic emphasis, one bound up in Deuteronomy’s concern for a more egalitarian solidarity, can be seen by the fact that the language of “your brother” in the law of release for debt slaves is missing from Exod 21:1–​6, a passage that Deut 15 almost certainly adapts (Houston, “Rejoicing,” 10; Nelson, Deuteronomy, 191).

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the neighbor as a member of a family in which they are ‘linked by kinship.’ ”232 Such a political imagination, one which sees all Israelite heads of households as “brothers” and equals, flows out of and extends the political imagination implied and fostered by the tithe practice as outlined above. Moreover, ch. 15’s legislation clearly seeks to shore up or restore “Israel’s traditional communitarian ethos.”233 The limits on debts and debt bondage re��quired by this legislation seeks to interrupt the creation of a permanent underclass among Israelite families.234 These laws “seek to break the cycle of debt and enslave��ment and to reintegrate these poor into the economy as independent productive members.”235 And the language of Deut 15:14, which means to put a necklace around another’s neck (‫)ענק‬, underscores the honor and dignity that the lender ought to bestow on the outgoing debt slave.236 Such language, McConville rightly recognizes, suggests an extravagance that underscores the “dignity” and one might even say equality of the person being released.237 Indeed, the text’s refusal to use language of “master” and reluctance to use the language of “slave” implies that such “social categories of ‘brother Hebrew’ and ‘slave’ are … simply incompatible in the long run.”238 In a vulnerable economy in which the “creditor’s rights” often began to consume the traditional view of the inalienability of family land, Deuteronomy “seeks to establish a system of protection that aims to prevent this dislocation from occurring and, when dislocation occurs, to reinstate displaced people as full participants in the community.”239 But such political systems depend on a communal political ethos that would have been formed and shaped at the tithe feast; having become brothers together at the tithe meal, each brother will be more likely to open their hands in generosity and debt forgiveness to the other when either party fell on hard times. Many commentators however, question the extent of this vision. Houston argues the text addresses patrons in their treatment of lower-​status heads of households, patrons whose obedience to the commands would gain for them “prestige, power, and influence.”240 He even argues those addressed by the laws are 2 32 Houston, Contending, 183; Nelson, Deuteronomy, 199. 233 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 190. 234 Cf. Georg Braulik, “Deuteronomy and Human Rights,” Verbum et Ecclesia 19.2 (1998), 209–​24. 235 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 192. 236 Ibid., 190. 237 McConville, Deuteronomy, 263. 238 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 199. 239 Glanville, “Family,” 47. 240 Houston, “Rejoicing,” 11–​2. Nevertheless, Houston provides one of the better examples of drawing on ideological criticism for theological ends, providing an interpretation of the text as

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a different class than the “poor man.”241 Knight complains that 15:1–​18 has “no teeth, no provisions for enforcement and no remedies for violations;” he suspects that an aspiring elite used the inclusion of such harmless laws to please the populace and try to gain power for their own purposes.242 Furthermore, some argue that the overall program not only shores up the powerful through patronage in general, but also is part of the larger program in Deuteronomy for centralizing power for some elite group over another, “[undermining] familial, local and traditional ways of belonging.”243 Glass argues that the entire program is simply about freeing up debt slaves in order to be able to better exploit them as “free” labor.244 Once suspicion is made the guiding interpretive principle, it is almost impossible to rule out such “against the grain” readings. However, reading “with the grain” and in light of the text’s cultural context, we can make several counter-​points in response. First, the politics of ch. 15’s economic practices are far more complicated than has been articulated by such critics, as we saw above with the tithe practices of 14:22–​29. Debt forgiveness across the ancient Near East was performed in ad hoc fashion by the monarch through the widely-​discussed misarum edicts;245 Deut 15:1–​18 places this obligation on every Israelite household. This is justice enacted by the people, for the people.246 Moreover, establishing debt forgiveness as a fixed pattern rather than an option at the whim of the ruler moves such legislation towards a permanent “reform,”247 the establishing of a “permanent institution … . “utopian” in the sense that it nevertheless can aim to “transform,” rather than “justify the status quo” (Houston, Contending, 176). 241 Houston, Contending, 176. 242 Douglas A. Knight, “Whose Agony? Whose Ecstasy?: The Politics of Deuteronomic Law,” in Shall Not the Judge of All the Earth Do What is Right?: Studies on the Nature of God in Tribute to James L. Crenshaw, ed. David Penchansky and Paul L. Redditt (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000), 111. Note that Knight openly advocates for a consistent application of the hermeneutic of suspicion to the text. It is telling that, in Knight’s reading, the promised judgment of YHWH does not count as a “provision for enforcement” or remedy for failure. 243 Houston, Contending, 177; Knight, “Agony,” 109. 244 Zipporah G. Glass, “Land, Labor, and Law: Viewing Persian Yehud’s Economy through Socio-​ Economic Modeling” (unpublished PhD diss., Vanderbilt, 2010), 66. 245 Cf. Altmann, Persian Period, 33; Nelson, Deuteronomy¸193; McConville, Deuteronomy, 257. 246 Lohfink, “Laws,” 46; Altmann, Persian Period, 74–​5. Berman argues that this summons of a formerly enslaved people to become a “responsible, proactive citizenry” need not be understood as utopian ( Joshua A. Berman, Created Equal: How the Bible Broke with Ancient Political Thought [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008], 71–​2). 247 Note Finkelstein’s point that the misarum one-​offs do not confront, and in some ways provide implicit support for, the appropriateness of those practices which are suspended (Finkelstein, “Edict,” 100). The institutionalizing of debt forgiveness and limitations on debt slavery provide a much more serious check on the nature of these institutions than the royal misarum do.

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… aimed at transforming economic relationships and preventing those burdened by debt from sliding into a permanent underclass.”248 Note also the complexity of the spatial politics of this practice: this debt release occurs, apparently, between literal neighbors. The poor who may need generous loans despite the disincentive of the sabbatical year are “in your gates” (‫)ׁשע ֶ ָ֔ריָך‬. ְ Such language suggests it is deeply misguided to argue that Deuteronomy offers “national solidarity in place of local” solidarity, as if the one inevitably displaces the other.249 Far from obviously shoring up patronage relationships or centralizing power, such a practice might well address every Israelite land-​owning household as a potential recipient of such generous lending practices.250 This would fit the en�� tire tenor of Deuteronomy, which everywhere claims to be a word for the entire people.251 Whereas misarum edicts occasionally are explicit in freeing some from their economic obligations in order to attach them to temple-​building projects,252 here the explicit object seems to be maintaining a family’s social and economic stability within the community (or restoring it).253 Moreover, the prevalence of the patronage relationship in the ancient Near East is far from certain,254 and Altmann is right to suggest more overlap between the concepts of kinship and those of 248 Houston, Contending, 181. Westbrook suggests that fixing the misarum edicts in time would ruin their ability to function (Westbrook, Laws, 158–​9), but this is to confuse a law’s unenforceability with its impracticality or impossibility. The entire thrust of Deuteronomy is that God is creating a people who love God and neighbor from transformed hearts. 249 Houston, “Rejoicing,” 10 (emphasis added). Cf. also Houston, Contending, 177–​8. 250 Here I side with Lohfink (Lohfink, “Laws,” 45) against Houston, who puts too much weight on the idea that ‫ אֶ בְ יֹון‬must refer to someone who has the “constant characteristic” of deprivation (Houston, Contending, 185). Instead, we should understand these laws as genuinely seeking to “reintegrate” struggling households “into the economy as independent and productive members” (Nelson, Deuteronomy, 192). 251 Unterman argues that biblical law uniquely speaks to the entire community ( Jeremiah Unterman, Justice for All: How the Jewish Bible Revolutionized Ethics, JPS Essential Judaism [Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2017], 15–​40). This stands in opposition to Houston’s account of the recipients of the law as a relatively fixed group or class (Houston, Contending, 176). 252 Cf. Weinfeld, Social Justice, 81. 253 Westbrook argues social justice in the ancient Near East is simply about ensuring people can maintain themselves on whichever rung of the social ladder they “ought” to be (Westbrook, Law, 145–​51). However, as I argue above, Deuteronomy envisions a relatively egalitarian political economy in which the viability of all is based on the viability of households. Thus, Deut 14:27–​29 shores up the position of those who could fall between the cracks of such a household system (and 14:22–​26 provides opportunities for such vulnerable populations to become attached to such a household system). 15:1–​18, on the other hand, focuses on the relative equality and viability of the heads of households, and thus the households themselves. 254 Cf. Westbrook, Laws, 218–​21.

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patronage than Houston allows for.255 If 15:1–​18 is understood within Boer’s cate��gory of “credit,” in which loans are understood as exchanges based on trust within the village economy,256 then, as Altmann argues, “helping out one’s neighbor … could likely prove beneficial in the long run to all.”257 Finally, there is ample evidence that at least some of the misarum edicts actually were enacted,258 and while it is certainly the case that 15:1–​18 presents laws that are unenforceable, this in no way implies they are not presented as real economic possibilities.259 Indeed, to hear the text on its own terms is to take seriously the idea that these laws are the demands of a God willing to intercede on behalf of the poor against those who fail to enact them (15:9). Within a canonical perspective, the entire vision of the Torah’s economic policy is built around the maintenance of Israelite families in the land. There is thus every reason to understand 15:1–​18 as genuinely intended to preserve or restore the viability of every Israelite household.260 To see such rhetoric as simply the cleverness of elite “foxes” intent on amassing power at the peasant’s expense is suspicious indeed.261 In the end, then, I suggest that the politics of this legislation recognize that “economic matters must yield to social reality; and the social reality is that if the needy are kept in debt, they cannot be viable neighbors.”262 Furthermore, it is not the practitioners of a hermeneutics of suspicion who first pointed out that the laws of Deut 15:1–​18 cannot be enforced—​the passage itself explicitly recognizes that 2 55 Altmann, Persian Period, 185–​6; Houston, Rejoicing, 11–​12. 256 Boer provides a heuristic distinction between debt, which “provides the necessary lubricant for the mechanisms of extraction” (Boer, Sacred Economy, 156) and credit, which is based in a “complex pattern of reciprocal relationships within a known community … [which] is an indispensable element for the functioning of such communities” (Ibid., 157). This heuristic is helpful, but only to a point, not least because of the reductionism of Boer’s overall program (cf. Altmann, Persian Period, 24–​7, 41–​4, 56–​73). 257 Altmann, Persian Period, 186. 258 See the Edict of Ammisaduqa, which provides detailed stipulations for what is and is not included and a description of the punishment for failure to comply (death!) (ANET, 526–​8). Finkelstein rightly suggests that this document “appears to record a bona fide piece of ‘legislation’ couched in specific terms, designed to meet certain specific existing situations” (Finkelstein, “Edict,” 91–​2). He also suggests that the misarum-​acts probably “had at least some real force in the economic life of the period, as evidenced by references to the acts in the private documents” (Ibid., 101). 259 See Weinfeld, Social Justice, 156, 162–​5; Altmann, Persian Period, 75, fn. 98. 260 Houston therefore creates too strong a distinction between a “social revolution” and a “moral revolution” (Houston, Contending, 186). Cf. Nelson, Deuteronomy, 199; Miller, Deuteronomy, 137; Glanville, “Family,” 47. 261 Knight, “Agony,” 111. 262 Brueggemann, Money and Possessions, 45.

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economic justice in the community depends in part on the members of the community being transformed, both morally and politically! And it is the tithe meal, at least in part, that promises to shape Israel, politically and morally, individually and collectively, to be the sort of community capable of obeying such economic legislation.

Conclusion As our exegesis has demonstrated, both the tithe-​feast and the triennial tithe fulfill every element of our definition of formative practices as telos-​shaped, embodied, social actions that carry an embedded intention to shape the character of the individual practitioner, the politics of the community, and the world “out there.” These practices work the way they do by offering counter-​cultural ritualizations of ancient Near Eastern practices that engage the community in an inclusive festival of worship and celebration that overflows into village-​level systems of care for the vulnerable. These practices foster the virtuous character Deuteronomy refers to as the “fear of YHWH.” This fear includes a habituated, virtuous, second-​personal disposition towards YHWH, as well as a habituated, virtuous disposition to share YHWH’s stance towards his world and one’s neighbors. It is precisely such virtuous character that is required if the community is to practice the concrete acts of economic solidarity and justice demanded in Deut 15:1–​18. Evaluating Deut 14:22–​29 through the lens of formative practices, and the legislation of Deut 15:1–​18 as depending on that formation, thus makes significant contributions to our understanding of how the practice works and what the practice seeks to achieve. But how does interpreting the tithe feast as a formative practice affect our overall understanding of moral formation within Deuteronomy’s larger ethical agenda? It is to this question that we now turn.

CHAPTER FIVE

Forgetful Feasting: Meals and Moral Formation in the Frame of Deuteronomy

Deuteronomy 14:22–​29 presents the tithe feast as a formative practice intended to foster the virtuous character God requires, described in 14:23 as the fear of YHWH. Yet our model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation suggested that moral formation does not occur solely through practice. In order to more fully understand moral formation in Deuteronomy, the tithe practice itself, and the nature of the relationship between formative practices and the other elements in our model, then, we must explore the overarching formative goals of the book of Deuteronomy and the variety of ways the book seeks to accomplish these goals. Drawing on our discussion in Chapter Three, we need to explore whether Deuteronomy depicts moral formation as occurring not only through practice, but also through the community’s larger stories, politics, and account of character. We need to understand to what extent the formation of the tithe meal contributes to, and depends on, this larger structure. We need to consider the interplay of divine and human agency in moral formation within Deuteronomy. Most importantly, we need to explore all of these questions in the context of Deut 14:22–​29’s own concerns: what it means to fear YHWH in relationship to God and neighbor, particularly when it comes to economic and agricultural abundance.

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Feasting for Fear or Getting Fat and Forgetting? Given the lavish consumption commanded by YHWH in 14:22–​27 and elsewhere in the law code, it is somewhat shocking to discover the deep suspicion of lavish eating and economic prosperity that characterizes much of the frame of Deuteronomy. In the frame, “eating and being sated are not positive descriptions of Israel’s feasting,” but rather major threats to “Israel’s memory” and moral character.1 Food in 14:22–​29 is a means of remembering the story of YHWH’s faithfulness and acquiring the fear of YHWH. Outside the law code, it is primarily a means of forgetting that same story and falling into moral failure.2 Understanding this irony is crucial both to understand the moral formation of the tithe meal itself and Deuteronomy’s larger formative program.

Deuteronomy 6:1–​25 Deuteronomy 6:1–​25 resonates deeply with my account of the tithe meal as a formative practice intended to foster the fear of YHWH. First, concern with the character of God’s people can be seen in v. 4–​5’s summary of the law in terms of the command to “love YHWH your God with all your ‫ לֵבָ ב‬and with all of your ‫ ֶנפֶׁש‬and with all of your ‫מאֹ ד‬.” ְ The Hebrew terms left untranslated—​traditionally translated “heart,” “soul,” and “might,” respectively—​clearly refer to a person’s total and all encompassing “love” of YHWH, including their thoughts, passions, will, power, and actions.3 While loving YHWH has often been treated in a mono��chrome fashion as “covenantal love” defined exclusively “in terms of loyalty, service and obedience,”4 recent interpreters have rightly recognized, as I argued in relation to the fear of YHWH, that “love” includes an affective, passionate dimension as well.5 Such an understanding of love, then, contributes to our understanding of the virtuous character YHWH requires of his people.

1 MacDonald, Not Bread Alone, 83. 2 Cf. Altmann, “Feast, Famine, History,” 564. 3 Cf. McConville, Being Human in God’s World, 54. 4 Following William L. Moran, “The Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in Deuteronomy,” CBQ 25 (1963), 77–​87. 5 See Tigay, Deuteronomy, 77; McConville, Being Human, 54; Dennis T. Olson, Deuteronomy and the Death of Moses: A Theological Reading (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2005), 51; Moberly, “Toward an Interpretation of the Shema,” 173, fn. 19; Kooy, “The Fear and Love of God in Deuteronomy,” 110, 113; Arnold, “Fear-​Love,” 556.

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Second, the text emphasizes the role of cognitive instruction and formation through practice in attaining this holistic character. The Israelites learn the laws and do them in order that (‫ )לְ ַ֙מעַן‬they will fear YHWH by keeping (‫ ) ֠לִ ְׁשמֹ ר‬the law (6:2). Tigay argues Torah-​obedience is both “an expression of [the fear of YHWH] and a means of teaching [the fear of YHWH],” noting the later rabbinic idea that “the habit of observing God’s laws has the long-​term effect of instilling [the fear of YHWH].”6 Similarly, after reiterating that the law is to be on their ‫( לֵבָ ב‬6:6), understood generally as the interior “seat of thought, intention, and feeling,”7 the passage provides a prescription for attaining such a “heart” that includes both constant cognitive teaching (v. 7) and the embodied practice of placing YHWH’s words on one’s body, on the door frames of one’s house, and on the gates of the village (v. 8–​ 9). Culp connects such practices with the development of a habitus, or “situational competence.”8 In other words, one way a person acquires the holistic character of loving and fearing YHWH is through what I have been describing as formative practices. Such practices “sediment” Torah obedience and the memory of God’s saving acts in the body through practice.9 Clearly, then, both 14:22–​29 and 6:1–​25 emphasize character formation through practice. But Deut 6:1–​25 also gives us the first substantive account of one of the primary threats to faithfulness that the tithe meal seeks to address: satiated forgetfulness leading to idolatry. The text presents the promised land as a “pure gift,”10 Eden-​like in its abundance (6:10–​12).11 Given that this promised territory comprises the geographic telos of the book and a significant portion of the promise to the patriarchs alluded to in 6:10, it comes as a significant shock that here, this rhetoric of abundance is marshalled primarily as a warning. The author’s reference to the time “when YHWH brings you into the land” frames the command of v. 12: “guard yourself (‫ )הִ ָ ּׁ֣שמֶ ר לְ ָ֔ך‬lest you forget YHWH who brought you out … . .” The text recognizes the significant and ironic danger that it is the very abundance of the land that threatens the faithfulness of the people in that land, and calls God’s people to actively resist the temptation to forgetful faithlessness. Forgetting in Deuteronomy is no mere mental lapse. It includes a rejection of Israel’s story with YHWH and a refusal to obey his commands. It emerges from a 6 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 75. Miller calls such fear the “end” to which “all education among the people of God is set” (Miller, Deuteronomy, 107). 7 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 77. See also TWOT, 1071a; BDB, 523. 8 Culp, Memoir, 185–​70. 9 Ibid., 125. 10 Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 85–​6. 11 McConville, Deuteronomy, 143.

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disorder of the heart, will, mind, and memory; it is the polar opposite of the command to love YHWH with all of one’s self provided in 6:5.12 And it presents one of the primary threats to Israel’s worship and long-​term flourishing in the land. If the virtuous disposition that Deuteronomy labels “fearing YHWH” includes “constant awareness of God”13 and faithfulness to his commands, then forgetting YHWH is one way Deuteronomy talks about the vice that stands as fearing YHWH’s opposite. And abundant food, which in 14:22–​29 is one means of cultivating the fear of YHWH, becomes in 6:10–​15 a “means of forgetting” him.14 Important for our purposes, 6:13 presents fearing YHWH as the antidote to forgetfulness, an antidote that must be learned ritually both here and in 14:22–​29. Intriguingly, if satiated Israel does not fear YHWH, the inevitable result is apostasy: “You must not go after other gods, those of the surrounding peoples” (6:14). One final aspect of 6:1–​25 that resonates with 14:22–​29 is the way the text explicitly draws together both covenantal and creational theology in its description of Torah-​obedience as the path to true human flourishing. Deut 6:18 describes obedience to the law as for the community’s “good” in their life in the “good land.” Just a few verses later, fearing YHWH is also said to be for the community’s “good” (6:24). This goodness is both the creational goodness of living in line with God’s world and the covenantal reward for doing what is “just” (‫)יָׁשָ ר‬, “good” (‫)טֹוב‬, and “righteous” (‫ )צְ דָ קָ ה‬in YHWH’s eyes (cf. 6:18, 25).15 The human flourishing that results from fearing YHWH, then, is not simply the result of the active intervention of the covenant God, but also the logical result of living with the grain of God’s world.16 Deuteronomy 6:1–​25 thus highlights economic abundance leading to forgetful idolatry as one of the primary threats to the faithful YHWH-​fearing that Deut 14:22–​29 seeks to foster. To forget YHWH is to forget the story of his lavish promises to the patriarchs (6:3, 10, 24), his miraculous redemption from Egypt (6:10, 21), and his unexpected provision in the wilderness (6:16). Further, to forget that story inevitably leads to a neglect of the covenantal obligations that emerge from that story (6:20–​21, 24). The embodied practices of ch. 6, as well as the festival practices of the law code (cf. 14:22–​29; 16:1–​17), provide Israel with practical strategies for holistic remembering. To reject the law, then, is to reject the means by

12 Ibid., 171–​2. 13 Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 281. 14 Altmann, “Feast, Famine, History,” 564. 15 Cf. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 307–​8. 16 See also Fretheim, “Law,” 256–​7.

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which the community will remember; to disobey the law, including the virtuous tithe practice of 14:22–​29, is to practice the vice of forgetfulness. Here, though, we also glimpse the way Israel’s narratives and practices work in mutually reinforcing ways in the process of moral formation. The story of YHWH’s liberation grounds the practices of faithfulness and funds the telos of Israel’s moral life: the love and service of God. To forget the story is to embrace disobedience. At the same time, practicing obedience through the embodied pedagogy described in 6:6–​9 forms people capable of remembering and re-​telling the story of YHWH’s love and care for Israel. Furthermore, the text’s recognition that the alternative to remembering YHWH is to worship other gods reminds us that Israel’s moral pedagogy must be an act of counter-​formation practiced by a counter-​cultural community living in the midst of and often under pressure by other cultures and communities (see Figure 3.2). Such moral counter-​formation involves s a story-​and-​ritual-​shaped-​way of orienting one’s life to this God rather than those would-​be gods.

Deuteronomy 8:1–​20 Deuteronomy 8:1–​20 takes up and expands 6:1–​25’s concern with satiated forgetfulness leading to faithless idolatry. But while 6:1–​25 focuses on the need for the Israelites to teach future generations the commands, in part through the parents initiating their children into an embodied pedagogy, 8:1–​20 focuses on the exhortation to remember YHWH’s own paternal (and somewhat painful) pedagogy17 in the wilderness “training ground.”18 Such a pedagogy sought to form a people shaped by and living under “divine instruction.”19 The idea of law-​keeping emerging from the heart (8:2) echoes the admonition of 6:5 and indicates that YHWH is interested in the formation of Israel’s character in terms of their “settled disposition, attitudes, and thinking.”20 Unsurprisingly given our study thus far, the text also points to formative practices as one key to such character formation. The Piel form of the verb ‫ענה‬ 17 The fact that this divine pedagogy is paternal undermines Millar’s overly-​negative interpretation of the wilderness experience ( J.G. Millar, Now Choose Life: Theology and Ethics in Deuteronomy, NSBT [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1999], 167). 18 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 108. “Like other events in biblical history … the wilderness wandering is presented to us both as arising out of human sin and rebellion and as having a divine purpose” (Wright, Deuteronomy, 122). 19 Moberly, Old Testament Theology, 79. 20 Wright, Deuteronomy, 122.

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captures the painful aspect of YHWH’s testing of Israel in the wilderness (v. 2, 16); elsewhere it describes the harsh treatment Israel received in Egypt (Gen 15:13; Deut 26:6). This painful testing, however, has a purifying, pedagogical intent.21 Indeed, such testing is one of God’s means of catechetical formation.22 This becomes most explicit in 8:5’s call for Israel to recognize in their hearts that YHWH has merely been “disciplining” or “training” (‫ )יסר‬his people as any good father would. For our purposes, the central role that manna plays in this wilderness pedagogy is important. Unexpected, previously unknown bread, given in a context of extreme vulnerability, serves as the centerpiece of YHWH’s strategy to teach Israel to depend on and obey him in this passage. Eating daily bread given by YHWH serves as a formative practice intended to teach them to know that humanity does not live merely by bread—​and certainly not on the bread produced by the imperial oppression of Egypt!—​but on everything which comes out of the mouth of YHWH.23 This is a sort of eating that orients the eater towards the LORD.24 Verse 7 shifts the focus away from the lessons Israel ought to have learned in the wilderness and towards Israel’s life in the new context of the abundant land. Two lengthy sentences providing Deuteronomy’s “most vivid portrayal” of the land’s “natural richness”25 comprise v. 7–​10 and v. 12–​13. This land has ample water (v. 7), ideal conditions for a variety of agricultural crops (v. 8), and the opportunity for mining (v. 9). It is a land in which Israel will lack nothing. Verse 11’s imperatival “guard yourself (‫ )הִ ָ ּׁ֣שמֶ ר לְ ָ֔ך‬lest you forget YHWH your God”26 is the point on which the entire chapter turns. Whether we understand v. 10a as a command that Israel bless YHWH after receiving the good gift of this 21 The wilderness experience then, “highlights the grace of Yahweh,” depicting the training received there as neither “punitive, rebellious or idyllic, but educative” (Paul A. Barker, The Triumph of Grace in Deuteronomy: Faithless Israel, Faithful Yahweh in Deuteronomy [Waynesboro, GA: Paternoster, 2004], 65). Even the “painful and unwelcome” parts of such “discipline” are “part of the process of forming good character and appropriate lifestyle” within the OT (Moberly, Old Testament Theology, 96). 22 Cook, Deuteronomy, 89. Moberly eloquently writes: “manna, a divine provision, can be seen to function as a symbolic concretization of divine grace” (Moberly, Old Testament Theology, 84). 23 Barker rightly notes that this is a statement of YHWH’s lavish grace (Barker, Triumph, 67). 24 On the socio-​economic aspects of manna, see Ellen Davis, Scripture, Culture, and Agriculture: An Agrarian Reading of the Bible (Cambridge, NY: Cambridge University, 2009), 66–​79; Walter Brueggemann, The Land: Place as Gift, Promise, and Challenge in Biblical Faith (Minneapolis, MI: Fortress, 2002), 32. 25 McConville, Deuteronomy, 170. 26 This is true however the syntax of v. 10–​11 is read. For options, see Tigay, Deuteronomy, 94; Olson, Death, 55; Barker, Triumph, 62–​75.

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incredible land or simply a statement that such blessing is the logical result of that gift, v. 11 shocks the listener into recognizing that grateful blessing is by no means guaranteed. Indeed, a life of appropriate, worshipful gratitude must be cultivated through practice; the required response of praise to YHWH’s good gifts depends on Israel guarding/​keeping themselves27 lest they forget YHWH and fail to guard/​ keep his commands. The wordplay created through the repeated use of ‫“( ׁשמר‬guard” or “keep”) ties the disposition of the worshipper which must be guarded to the worshipper’s careful obedience to the law. It therefore reflects an emphasis on obedience that comprises the whole person and emerges particularly from the “heart.” The obedience that matters emerges from a person’s dispositions, but the command to guard oneself implies that these dispositions can be affected by human acts. This resonates with Reformed virtue ethicists’ emphasis on the third use of the law as providing God’s people with morally formative practices. The ingratitude of failing to guard themselves through such remembering obedience is “exposed by means of the portrayal of the unstinting gift” of the land itself.28 Thus v. 12 repeats v. 10’s triad of eating, being satiated, and blessing, but with the reference to blessing absent in v. 12 and replaced by “forgetting YHWH” in v. 14.29 Between v. 12a and v. 14’s exhortation not to forget YHWH comes another lavish depiction of the land that adds clarity to the threat that satiation poses to faithfulness. Whereas in v. 7–​9 the emphasis appears to be on a static picture of an incredible land ready to be inherited, v. 12–​13’s depiction of building and dwelling in good houses and experiencing an increase of livestock subtly points to the role of human effort in this abundance.30 Moreover, whereas v. 7–​9 includes no second person possessive pronouns, v. 12–​13 contains four of them: “your cattle … your flocks … gold and silver increase for you and all which is yours increases.”31 This shift prepares the audience for the added element in v. 14a: to forget YHWH is also to “exalt your heart.” This exalting of the heart is expounded in v. 17, when satiated forgetfulness leaves Israelites declaring in their hearts “my power and the might of my hand made for me this wealth.” To embrace such pride, hubris, and self-​absorption in one’s socio-​economic life is to forget YHWH (v. 14); it is also, 27 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 108. 28 McConville, Deuteronomy, 171. 29 Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 109. Thus, this section portrays a reversal from the first half of the chapter’s depiction of plenty leading to praise (McConville, Deuteronomy, 172). 30 Wright, Deuteronomy, 127. 31 Such language presents a similar dynamic to Qoheleth’s monologue in Eccl 2:1–​11 and the so-​ called “rich fool” of Luke 12:13–​21.

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by extension, to reject his commands (v. 11b) and embrace idolatry (v. 19). Such prideful, hubristic dispositions represent some of the Deuteronomic vices that oppose the character YHWH desires and sought to inculcate through the provision of manna.32 Placing 8:1–​20 in conversation with 14:22–​29 is illuminating. Deut 8:1–​20 identifies different kinds of eating as bound up in the question of whether Israel is becoming faithful YHWH-​fearers or not. Intriguingly, however, while this concern with abundance leads Cook to speak of “a program of austerity as the best means of getting … back on track,”33 the type of eating actually prescribed in the law code itself, and in 14:22–​29 in particular, explicitly rejects such an approach. In the wilderness, daily bread given in a context of deep vulnerability does indeed aim at fostering faithfulness in Israel. Satiation in the land may well lead to faithlessness and idolatry. But 14:22–​29 addresses this challenge, not through fasting, but rather through feasting.34 The gifts of abundance are not to be avoided, at least according to 14:22–​29, but rather re-​oriented away from the self-​congratulatory and self-​obsessed posture of 8:12, 13, and 17 and towards the joyful worship of YHWH and joyful welcome of one’s neighbor. Moreover, while the language of satiation poses moral problems in Deuteronomy’s frame, in one of the rare uses of the verb within the law code, it is the vulnerable who “eat and are satisfied” through the triennial tithe (14:29). The satiation of the vulnerable, it seems, poses no threat to faithfulness, and indeed, is one of the primary aims of the tithe practice.35 Deuteronomy 8:1–​20, then, reiterates the importance of the tithe practice by again highlighting the dangers of satiation in the land and by couching the need for moral formation within the larger narrative of YHWH’s relationship with Israel. Our discussion of this passage also makes clear that self-​aggrandizing pride stands as one of the primary vices opposed to the “fear of YHWH” that the tithe seeks to foster. Moreover, this chapter’s concern that the shift from the vulnerability of the wilderness to the abundance of the promised land will lead to faithlessness highlights the unexpected pedagogy of the tithe meal, which seeks to overcome the temptation of abundance, not through avoidance, but through community-​wide, joyful indulgence.

32 Moberly, Old Testament Theology, 84, 98. 33 Ibid. See also Wright, Deuteronomy, 127; Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 109. 34 Although note Glanville’s argument that periodic fasting may have been required to provision both the tithe feast and the triennial tithe (Glanville, Adopting the Stranger, 200–​1). 35 And, as we saw above, the nature of the practice is determined by the telos at which it aims. See also Deut 26:1–​16.

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Deuteronomy 10:12–​11:20 Deut 10:12–​11:32 reiterates and expands the themes we have been tracing in Chapters 6 and 8. Once again, Israel is commanded to fear, follow, love, and serve YHWH with all of their thinking and being (‫לֵבָ ב‬, ‫ ; ֶנפֶׁש‬10:12, 20, 11:1, 11:13b). And once again, Israel is exhorted to guard themselves carefully against a faithless heart (11:16). What is added to this theme is the provocative and important metaphor contained in the command that Israel “circumcise [their] heart” rather than give in to stubbornness (10:16). Tigay suggests that the structure of this section, coming immediately on the heels of a particularly unflattering story of Israel’s failures, is designed to show Israel that their “history of rebellion” demonstrates that they lack essential qualities they must seek in the future.36 The grace-​filled message that YHWH is unwilling to destroy Israel despite her failures (10:10) moves seamlessly into the command that Israel address her root problem: a disposition of the heart towards disobedience in both “attitude and action.”37 Without such a heart change, Israel will not be able to fear and love YHWH aright.38 Deuteronomy’s “new ‘circumcision’ has an even more visceral and transformative impact” on the people than the “invasive and bloody” physical rite.39 The idea seems to be that Israel ought to “cut away all cumbersome, numbing thickening about the heart”40 that “blocks” the heart and “renders it inaccessible to God’s teachings.”41 Given the strong connection between circumcision, covenant, and election, we can understand the command as a call for Israel “to discipline itself to a more intentional obedience.”42 Election, in other words, “must have an inner reality … in terms of the character of the people.”43 The transformation YHWH demands must occur at the “innermost orientation and aspirations of the human” person, and Deut 10:16 commands the people “to take an active part in this process.”44 36 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 107. 37 Barker, Triumph, 103–​4. See also John D. Meade, “Circumcision of the Heart in Leviticus and Deuteronomy: Divine Means for Resolving Curse and Bringing Blessing,” The Southern Baptist Journal of Theology 18.3 (2014), 70. 38 Barker, Triumph, 105. 39 Cook, Deuteronomy, 100. 40 Ibid. 41 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 107. Tigay’s description of the foreskin as a “metaphor for a mental block that has made Israel stubborn” risks being misunderstood in an overly-​cognitive direction. 42 Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 130. 43 McConville, Deuteronomy, 200. 44 Werner E. Lemke, “Circumcision of the Heart: The Journey of a Biblical Metaphor,” in Strawn and Bowen, A God So Near, 304.

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This inner reality in terms of the people’s character is grounded in the character of God. YHWH’s character which is to be emulated is here summarized by reference to his own just and loving provision for the most vulnerable in the community: the orphan, the widow, and the dependent stranger (10:17–​ 18). Indeed, the obedience everywhere commended in Deuteronomy is here implicitly summed up in terms of the imitatio Dei towards the marginalized.45 Moreover, Deuteronomy again marshals the story of YHWH’s life with Israel in order to shape the community’s character: “you must love the immigrant because you were an immigrant in the land of Egypt” (10:19). Deuteronomy 10:12–​11:1 thus reiterates the character YHWH demands and calls humans to actively pursue formation in line with that character. 11:2–​20 reiterates these concerns in relation to the challenge of faithfulness in the promised land. 11:2–​7 tells the story of YHWH’s “discipline” or “training” (‫)מּוסָ ר‬, both at the exodus crossing and in the judgment against Dathan and Abiram, thus echoing 8:1–​20’s attention to YHWH’s wilderness pedagogy. Meanwhile, 11:18–​ 20 echoes ch. 6’s command that Israel embrace an embodied pedagogy of their own, comprised of putting the law on door frames, city gates, and bodies, as well as through constant rehearsal of the law with one’s children. It is both fitting to the metaphor of circumcising the heart and essential to the logic of formation through practice that runs through much of Deuteronomy that such practical, external acts as writing the law on one’s door frame are seen as one way to “place these words … on your ‫ לֵבָ ב‬and on your ‫( ” ֶנפֶׁש‬11:18). Obedience from a fixed disposition at the heart of one’s identity is essential, but fidelity to the external requirements of the law is one way of fostering just such a disposition.46 Deuteronomy 11:8–​15 returns to another “quasi-​poetic” description of the good land. As elsewhere, the text posits a close relationship between obedience to YHWH and flourishing in the land. However, 11:10–​15 adds a new note: a distinction between the land of Egypt and the promised land. What are we to make of this? 11:10–​17 begins by explaining what the promised land is not like: the land of Egypt. In the “good land” to which YHWH is bringing them, they will not “sow [their] seed and provide water with [their feet] as in a vegetable garden.” The much-​discussed language concerning irrigating by foot almost certainly refers to 45 Houston rightly argues that imitation is indeed one important element, but by no means the “key to unlock all doors in the ethics of the Old Testament” (Walter J. Houston, “The Character of YHWH and the Ethics of the Old Testament: Is Imitatio Dei Appropriate?,” JTS 58.1 [2007], 1–​25). 46 See Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 138.

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the labor-​intensive nature of agriculture in Egypt.47 While the Nile meant that Egypt did not need to depend on the rains, “the slave-​memory … is able to recall that connecting the waters of the Nile with the arid land is hard work.”48 In other words, Egypt’s economic vitality depended on a constant supply of river water, but it also required a constant supply of free or cheap labor to get that river water to the fields.49 In contrast, the promised land simply cannot be irrigated primarily through human labor, both because it lacks an equivalent to the Nile50 and because of the hills and valleys mentioned in v. 11.51 While in Egypt it is humans who bring the water to the agricultural land,52 the promised land drinks up water provided from the heavens. Deuteronomy recognizes that the very “fragility” of the land marks “the land of Canaan as a place under the immediate, particular care of God:”53 his eyes are on it “continually.” This passage captures the “relationship between Yahweh and his land … at its most intimate.”54 Indeed, YHWH is present in the land, and it is he who ensures that the rains come in the right amount and in the proper season (11:14). The reference to grain, wine, and oil in 11:14 employs identical language to that used to describe the crops which are tithed in 12:17 and 14:24, while the reference to “livestock” (‫ ;ּבְ הֵ מָ ה‬11:15) includes the firstlings of “herd and flock” in those passages. Read in light of the tithe passages, then, we can see that Israel’s festivals depend on YHWH’s meteorological provision. Such provision is, in turn, dependent in part on Israel’s obedience. Reading 14:22–​29 in light of ch. 11 underscores the extent to which the human formation that occurs through feasting is utterly dependent on and framed by the creating and covenanting LORD’s own action.55 At the same time, reading these texts together draws attention to how the formation at which 14:22–​29 aims includes a different kind of politics, based in part on a different understanding of creation, than the politics Israel experienced in the land of Egypt. This resonates 47 For options, see Nelson, Deuteronomy, 139. 48 Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 137. Cf. also Nelson, Deuteronomy, 139; Wright, Deuteronomy, 154 49 Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 137. 50 Davis, Scripture, Culture, Agriculture, 26–​7; Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 138. 51 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 112. 52 Note the Hiphil form of the verb ‫ׁשקה‬, meaning to give water or drink to someone or something. 53 Davis, Scripture, Culture, Agriculture, 26–​7. 54 McConville, Deuteronomy, 204. 55 Indeed, humanity’s joyous indulgence in the goodness of creation depends on YHWH’s ongoing sustenance of and delight in that creation (Fretheim, “God, Creation, and the Pursuit of Happiness,” 41).

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strongly with the account of creation and creation’s relationship to the dynamic interplay between the counter-​cultural people of God and the broader culture within which they find themselves explored in Chapter Three (cf. Figure 3.3). But, as we have come to expect, the experience of satiation can lead to faithlessness, not least by embracing de-​forming stories or practices from the surrounding culture. This can be seen in the now familiar command that Israel guard themselves (‫)הִ ָ ּֽׁש ְמ ֣רּו ָל ֶ֔כם‬. What is guarded against in 11:16 is that one’s heart not be foolishly56 opened to the sort of deception that culminates in the worship of false gods. Israel must not be seduced into the foolish belief that some other deity or power besides YHWH oversees rain and fertility in the promised land.57 It is not Baal and Mot58 who control abundance, but rather the one, sovereign God. And, as “Hosea and Amos preached” and “Elijah proved,”59 YHWH is willing to demonstrate this reality by answering Israel’s false worship with precipitation-​ less drought (11:17). The end result is expulsion from the land (11:17b), and it is this dismal possibility which catalyzes 11:18–​21’s reiterated program of embodied pedagogy and moral formation. Read in light of 14:22–​29, we can see that feasting that fosters the fear of YHWH is one way that Israel practices the command to circumcise the heart and avoids the threat of idolatry posed by economic and agricultural abundance. Indeed, by orienting their God-​given abundance towards worship of their divine king, they train their hearts to resist gullible worship of would-​be gods. At the same time, by aiming their abundant festivals at the inclusion of the entire community, they embody and foster the character desired and demonstrated by God, who himself takes a special interest in giving food and provision to the most vulnerable.

Deuteronomy 28:1–​68 Deuteronomy’s concern with food, faithfulness, and formation continues after the conclusion of the law code, albeit with some noticeable distinctives. Deuteronomy 28:1–​68 presents the blessings for obedience and curses for disobedience that often conclude covenant documents in the ancient Near East. Ramos’ argument that these curses should be understood as part of the ritual performance commanded in Deut 27 suggests that the ritual recitation of such curses and blessings provides 56 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 139. 57 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 114. 58 Cook, Deuteronomy, 103. 59 Wright, Deuteronomy, 155.

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yet another example of Deuteronomy’s emphasis on formation through practice as essential for acquiring the character YHWH requires.60 Reading this chapter in conversation with 14:22–​29’s fear-​forming tithe feast and our model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation, we can make two main points. First, the blessings and curses reflect the idea that YHWH will richly bless Israel’s agricultural life in the land if they obey, but will send agricultural decimation if they disobey. This is obvious in any cursory reading of the chapter. But what is less obvious is the allusion to feasts and festivals just under the surface of the text. Thus, Deut 28:31a declares that one result of disobedience will be that “Your ox will be slaughtered before your eyes, but you will not eat any of it.” Although not explicit, it seems likely that the only normal time a full-​grown bull (‫ )ׁשֹור‬would be slaughtered for food would be at a feast. This is so both because of the large quantity of edible meat produced by slaughtering such a large animal, and because slaughtering for food an animal essential for agricultural work would be decidedly uneconomical for the purposes of a regular meal. Moreover, Deut 28:47 criticizes Israel because they “did not serve YHWH your God in joy and in happiness of heart because of the abundance of everything.” Although not often discussed by commentators, this passage clearly grounds the judgment against Israel in their failure to feast aright before the LORD. The word ‫ׂש ְמחָ ה‬, ִ translated “joy,” can literally refer to a feast, as in Neh 8:12, which speaks of “making a ‫”ׂש ְמחָ ה‬ ִ in the context of eating and drinking.61 The verbal form of the word is used 10 times in Deuteronomy; all but two are explicitly in the context of feasts or festivals in the presence of YHWH.62 Deuteronomy therefore explains the coming disaster in terms of the people’s failure to feast with God.63 The first half of the following verse explains the result of their failure to feast: “you will serve your enemies, who YHWH will send against you, in famine and in thirst and in nakedness and lacking everything.” Braulik rightly connects Israel’s failure to serve (‫ )עבד‬YHWH through feasting with the exodus narrative, in which “Israel demanded freedom in order to be able to bring YHWH a sacrifice and celebrate a feast.”64 In other words, Israel’s failure to feast aright represents a rejection of their own story as a people rescued from bondage for sacrificial, festal service to God. 60 Cf. Ramos, Ritual in Deuteronomy, 118–​40. 61 See BDB, 970; Houston, “Rejoicing before the Lord,” 2–​3. 62 Deut 12:7, 12, 18; 14:26; 16:11, 14; 24:5; 27:7; 33:18. The two exceptions are 24:5 (which is in the Piel, rather than the Qal) and 33:18. 63 Braulik, Theology, 34. 64 Ibid.

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Yet Israel’s rejection of YHWH’s feast leads not to freedom from service, but rather service to enemies. The destitution described represents the ironic opposite of the possibility of the promised land: whereas 8:9 had spoken of the good land as the context for eating bread without lack (‫)חָ סֵ ר‬, disobedience ends with the Israelites toiling in a context of total lack (‫)חֹ סֶ ר‬. Whereas the Israelites’ clothing survived even the horrifying decades in the desert because of YHWH’s care (8:4), even in the promised land the Israelites will serve their enemies in nakedness if they fail to feast with him. The final irony is that Israel’s failure to feast with joy and in the fear of YHWH lands them at the ultimate anti-​feast, the cannibalistic, isolated eating created by impending siege conditions. The selfish hoarding of human flesh vividly depicts the final, gruesome end of the sort of attitude embodied in the faithless forgetfulness of the early parts of the book, and particularly the self-​centeredness of 8:17.65 Deuteronomy recognizes, then, that if the Israelites do not orient their abundance towards worshipping YHWH at the feast, the results will be catastrophic. The only safe telos for Israel’s agricultural and economic abundance is joy-​filled feasting that includes love of YHWH and welcome of neighbor as constituent aspects of the celebration. Second, we must note that there is a “grammatical shift” in v. 45–​48 that moves the curses from possibility to “a declared state of fact that will happen in the narrated future.”66 Because Israel will not serve YHWH, they will experience the curses of the chapter as a whole.67 This shift gets unpacked throughout chs. 29–​32. Olson is right that, at least in a final form reading, these chapters “constitute a … fulcrum for the book as a whole.”68 But how are we to interpret this apparently pessimistic view of the inevitability of abject failure to obey the law with the early part of the book’s apparent seriousness in advocating obedience to that law as a means of learning to fear YHWH? To answer this question, we must explore the chapters that follow.

65 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 332. 66 Olson, Death, 122. Olson rightfully argues the text thus creates a tension that highlights the “paradox and interplay of divine determination with human freedom and power” (Dennis T. Olson, “How Does Deuteronomy Do Theology? Literary Juxtaposition and Paradox in the New Moab Covenant in Deuteronomy 29–​32,” in Strawn and Bowen, A God So Near, 207). 67 This seems to undermine Wright’s reference to the “conditional nature of this whole section” (Wright, Deuteronomy, 283). 68 Olson, Death, 123.

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Deuteronomy 29:1–​7 and 30:1–​14 In 29:1–​7, Moses interrupts another rehearsal of the story of YHWH’s liberation of Israel in order to remind them that while their dependence on YHWH’s provision in the wilderness should have led to their knowing YHWH,69 they have yet “to gain a sure understanding or recognition of God.”70 Interesting for our purposes is that here YHWH describes the wilderness training in terms of Israel neither eating bread nor drinking wine and ‫ׁשֵ כָר‬, or “strong drink.” The only other use of ‫ ׁשֵ כָר‬in Deuteronomy is in 14:26’s declaration that the Israelites should drink whatever their hearts desire, including ‫ׁשֵ כָר‬, at the tithe meal. Once again we see the intriguing way that the wilderness’s pedagogy—​in which Israel receives somewhat meager rations of daily bread in the barren wasteland—​gives way to the pedagogy of the promised land—​in which lavish abundance aimed at love of YHWH and welcome of neighbor fosters the fear of the LORD. What is most shocking, however, is Moses’ bold declaration that Israel’s moral failure is bound up with YHWH’s having not yet given them such hearts, eyes, and ears (29:4).71 Such language reflects a core moral concern hinted at throughout Deuteronomy, “namely the people’s disposition to unfaithfulness.”72 The rhetoric of this section of Deuteronomy makes it clear that Israel is “responsible for their lack of spiritual perceptivity.”73 But what are we to make of the idea that YHWH has, at the same time, not given them what is needed for understanding? Moreover, how can Moses say YHWH has not given them what they need for faithfulness in v. 3, when YHWH’s own voice “intrudes” in v. 5b,74 declaring that he gave Israel their miraculous meals in the wilderness precisely so that they might know him? The tension created here clearly connects to the pessimistic shift we noticed in 28:45–​48 and looks forward both to the increasingly prophetic nature of that pessimism about Israel’s future disobedience and

69 Cf. Miller, Deuteronomy, 203. 70 Barker, Triumph, 117. 71 Noting the similarities between this section and Chapter Eight, McConville suggests that the new idea is that YHWH must give Israel different dispositions (McConville, Deuteronomy, 414–​5). 72 Ibid., 415. 73 Michael A. Grisanti, “Was Israel Unable to Respond to God?: A Study of Deuteronomy 29:2–​ 4,” Bibliotecha Sacra 163.650 (2006), 183. 74 McConville, Deuteronomy, 415.

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YHWH’s future action to transform Israel’s character in ch. 30. What are we to make of this?75 Tigay decries the implication that “even now Israel lacks the capacity to understand its experiences properly,” suggesting that such a view makes the “appeal that Israel observe the covenant … hopeless.”76 Instead, he argues Israel’s willingness to go to war, remembered in 29:6–​7, suggests that the generation Moses speaks to “had indeed gained a mature trust in God’s power.”77 Such a view runs up against the plain sense of the phrase “until this day” (‫)עַ ֖ד הַ ּי֥ ֹום הַ ֶּזֽה‬, which seemingly refers to a reality true up until the literal present in every other Deuteronomic occurrence (2:22; 3:14; 10:8; 11:4; 34:6). Moreover, it fails to connect these words to the broader context’s pessimism about Israel’s future obedience due to their underlying dispositions or tendencies (cf. 31:21). Millar’s interpretation lies on the complete opposite end of the spectrum. He sees the entire chapter as essentially commanding Israel to “do all that she can to obey, knowing that ultimately she is doomed to fail.”78 The problem, as he sees it, is intimately tied to the nature of the law itself: “laws do not change people. Both the Horeb and Moab covenants are fatally flawed, because they can do nothing about the problem of human nature.”79 Yet the legally required tithe-​festival explicitly aims at changing people by teaching them to fear YHWH. Moreover, the appeals of 30:15–​ 20, and, one might add, the rest of Deuteronomy, would be a “cynical charade if God had somehow decreed in advance that Israel could not respond” to them.80 Ultimately, the tension created is both intentional and theologically significant, welcoming the audience further into the nature of YHWH’s gracious choosing of Israel and commitment to their ultimate transformation alongside YHWH’s equally serious demand of obedience.81 Indeed, against the backdrop 75 For an overview of various options to approaching this tension, see Grisanti, “Unable to Respond,” 184–​9. 76 Tigay, Deuteornomy, 275. 77 Ibid., 276. 78 Millar, Choose Life, 174. 79 Ibid. 80 Wright, Deuteronomy, 286. 81 Deut 10:10–​16 similarly articulates YHWH’s simultaneous unwillingness to destroy Israel and his serious demand that they “circumcise their hearts” (cf. Olson, “Do Theology,” 202–​207).Of course, one interpretive option throughout the latter portion of Deuteronomy is to argue that much of the content comes from a later redactor working in the late exilic or early post-​exilic period. Such an account sees the increasingly prophetic predictions of failure as bound up in the actual horrifying experience of exile (see Walter Brueggemann, “The Travail of Pardon: Reflections on slh,” in Strawn and Bowen, A God So Near, 285–​7, 294; Miller, Deuteronomy, 213; Lemke, “Circumcision of the Heart,” 308–​9). Seitz rightly argues that even in a canonical approach

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of Deuteronomy, in which Israel is called to embrace morally-​formative practices, this paradox also holds in tension humanity’s responsibility to engage in formative discipleship on the one hand, and their need for divine intervention on the other. Deuteronomy 30:1–​10 further develops this theme. Verse 1a returns to a view of Israel’s future as inevitably consisting of serious failure, looking ahead to a day when Israel will have experienced both the blessings and the curses of the covenant. Scholars note a chiastic structure in 30:1–​10 dominated by an interweaving of various forms of the verb ‫ׁשוב‬, some with YHWH as the subject and others with Israel as the subject.82 “Israel turns, Yahweh turns to Israel, and Yahweh turns Israel toward himself.”83 The pivotal expression is 30:6’s declaration that YHWH him�� self will circumcise Israel’s hearts and the hearts of their offspring, freeing them to love YHWH with the totality of their being. Such a promise ascribes to YHWH’s agency the heart surgery that in 10:16 Israel itself is called to accomplish;84 the remedy to Israel’s “sinful disposition”85 will be provided through YHWH’s own action. Tigay understands the repentance of 30:2 as human activity that sets in motion this process whereby YHWH will remove the “impediments to wholehearted devotion.”86 Opposing this, Barker argues “the priority, even initiative, for return is that prioritizes the final form of the text, redaction and source critical insights can provide insight into the nature of that final form (Christopher R. Seitz, “The Canonical Approach and Theological Interpretation,” in Canon and Biblical Interpretation, Scripture and Hermeneutics Series 7, ed. Craig G. Bartholomew, Scott Hahn, Robin Parry, Christopher Seitz, and Al Wolters [Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2006], 65–​8). As an example of what such an interpretation might look like, Olson presents a reading of the latter part of Deuteronomy as heavily influenced by late exilic/​post-​exilic redactors that highlights the way these redactors “create a mosaic of paradoxes and juxtapositions that work theologically with some of the most basic and ultimate issues of theology and faith,” including the “paradox and interplay of divine determination with human freedom and power” (Olson, “Do Theology,” 202, 207). His reading embodies a way of drawing on redaction criticism to draw out the theological depth and richness of the final, canonical form of the text. Nevertheless, for my own literary approach to the final, canonical form, I will not expend energy in arguing whether literary paradoxes have their source in identifiable redaction units. 82 See, for instance, Tigay, Deuteronomy, 283–​4; Barker, Triumph, 145–​81. 83 Ryan O’Dowd, The Wisdom of Torah: Epistemology in Deuteronomy and the Wisdom Literature, Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testatments 225 (Germany: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 95. 84 A dynamic not all that dissimilar to that of 9:1–​3, in which Moses first tells Israel that they are going over to dispossess the nations currently living in the promised land, and then immediately reminds them that it is YHWH himself who is doing this dispossessing work. 85 McConville, Deuteronomy, 427. 86 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 284.

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the action of Yahweh and not Israel.”87 Brueggemann’s argument falls somewhere in the middle, arguing that 30:1–​10 offers a “limited offer via repentance” that the tradition later recognizes is not “sufficient.”88 Barker overstates his case at points, at times drifting from his own claim that human responsibility and divine action need not be construed as “either/​or.”89 Further, he wrongly construes the law’s “graced” nature only in terms of its revealing Israel’s need, rather than understanding the law as also providing a gracious path towards moral formation.90 Nevertheless, we must agree that the accent and priority of 30:1–​10 is on YHWH’s commitment to rectify the problem of Israel’s heart-​level dispositions in a way that Israel cannot ultimately accomplish on her own. Thus “Israel’s obedience to the law depends on Yahweh’s grace and is not merely a response to it.”91 Once again, though, the tension seems to be intentional, with the language and chiastic structure interweaving the “divine and the human very powerfully.”92 O’Dowd argues that the form and content of the pericope present a “paradox or tension between divine grace and Israelite repentance” that ought to be “sustained,” rather than dissolved in one direction or another.93 While “the hope in the grace and power of God is integrally linked to the need for Israel to turn and obey … The fundamental demand of the law … is presented as the ultimate fruit of God’s grace in the human heart.”94 This demand is nothing less than the totality of one’s being, all of one’s ‫ לֵבָ ב‬and ‫ ֶנפֶׁש‬, turning to YHWH. What YHWH will enable, then, is nothing less than the hope of moral formation in the Thomistic virtue tradition: the gift of transformed hearts that live out the law as a “second nature.”95 Deuteronomy 30:11–​14 abruptly shifts from this future back to the present, taking up again a tone of “persuading and encouraging.”96 Here, the emphasis is 87 Barker, Triumph, 150. 88 Brueggemann, “Travail of Pardon,” 292–​4. 89 Barker, Triumph, 148. 90 Ibid, 176–​77. This is a problem to which we will return below. 91 Ibid. 92 Wright, Deuteronomy, 289. 93 O’Dowd, Wisdom of Torah, 94–​7. He thus agrees with Barker about the emphasis on YHWH’s grace, but does not dissolve the paradox by understating the role of human agency. 94 Wright, Deuteronomy, 289–​90. 95 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 348. The use of “second nature” is interesting here, given the emphasis of that idea in virtue theory. 96 Ibid., 349. Both Barker and Millar see the language of the law not being difficult as possibly referring to Israel’s experience after YHWH has circumcised their heart. Such an explanation ignores the clear language of “today” in v. 11 just as badly, albeit for the opposite reasons, as Tigay’s misreading of the language “until this day” in 29:3 (cf. Barker, Triumph, 192; Millar, Choose Life, 94, 114).

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once again on Israel’s ability to do the law.97 Nevertheless, as McConville suggests, the blurring of future and present experience in v. 8–​10 and the placement of v. 11–​14 immediately after v. 1–​10 are intentional. Thus the affirmation of the accessibility of the commands comes directly under the influence of the promises in 30:3–​7, with v. 6 at their heart. The appeal to the Moab generation has its own integrity, but ultimately the realization of an obedient people will depend on Yahweh’s new act of grace.98 In summary, the passage holds in tension a paradox that commentators too often seek to resolve. Olson argues that we sense in this portion of Deuteronomy that we are bumping up against “the ‘secret things’ (see Deut 29:29), truths that transcend human knowing and thus require paradox and the affirmation of seemingly contradictory positions to articulate them.”99 From the perspective of theological ethics, the relationship between divine and human agency in moral transformation is precisely one such paradox.100 If Sonderegger is correct that to speak theologically often requires a “redoubling” of language, a speaking twice, each time saying something true, but with the language of each statement standing in tension with the other, then Deut 30:1–​14 may present a brilliant exegetical instance of just such theologizing.101 To read 30:6 back into 10:16 in such a way as to suggest that the command to “circumcise your heart” is “tantamount to telling a kleptomaniac to stop stealing without giving him or her any power to overcome the extreme desire to steal”102 misses the theological point entirely. The Moab covenant is “emphatic in calling Israel to exercise its own will and freedom to ‘choose life.’ ”103 This is not because YHWH is setting them up to fail, but because divine and human agency are both at work in moral transformation. To say (rightly) that priority is given to YHWH’s own gracious initiative does not in Deuteronomy104 and should not in Christian ethics generally eclipse the legitimate, essential role of human agency in formation.

97 Wright, Deuteronomy; Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 268–​70; McConville, Deuteronomy, 429. 98 McConville, Deuteronomy, 429. 99 Olson, “Do Theology,” 209. 100 On which, see Chapter Three above. 101 Katherine Sonderegger, unpublished paper presented at the 2018 Annual Trinity College Bristol Research Conference. 102 Meade, “Circumcision of the Heart,” 79. 103 Olson, “Do Theology,” 209. 104 Olson identifies a series of statements in Deuteronomy that stand in paradoxical relationship with one another and lie at the intersection of our understanding of divine and human agency (Ibid., 207–​8).

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Furthermore, as we have seen, Deuteronomy understands that the result of YHWH’s circumcision of the heart will be obedience to the law. Given that the “commandments and statutes written in this book of the law” (30:10b) include laws explicitly oriented towards the formation of Israel’s character (including Deut 14:22–​29), this account is at very least open to the Thomistic insistence that while God graciously gives the virtues to his people, they nevertheless take greater root in their character through practice.

Deuteronomy 31:10 McConville wisely suggests that both Deuteronomy and the OT in general issue genuine invitations to humans to “construct the ‘good life,’ albeit in the most acute awareness of the moral dangers that attend the attempt.”105 Thus even after the pessimistic shift of chs. 29–​30, 31:10–​13 commands the Israelites to hold a public reading of the law every seven years during the Feast of Booths so that all the people in Israel, including men, women, children, and dependent strangers, will learn to fear YHWH and keep his commandments (v. 12). This reading therefore shares an explicit telos with the tithe-​meal practice,106 and indeed may have coincided with it.107 Moreover, the joy of the feast would be increased exponentially by its coinciding with the sabbatical year’s liberation from debt.108 Thus, even after dire predictions of Israel’s future failures and attendant judgment, Deuteronomy portrays the law as a means for fostering the right disposition towards YHWH in a context of joy, liberation, and celebration. That the reading of the law every seven years at the Feast of Booths and the tithe meal of 14:22–​27 both aim at forming the fear of the LORD in participants by no means undermines our earlier argument that it is in part through ritual practice that God’s people acquire the character he desires for his people. Instead, these parallel passages point to the necessity of both verbal, cognitive teaching and embodied practice. I have argued that Israel cannot learn to fear YHWH apart from the moral formation through practice described in 14:22–​27 and elsewhere. Deuteronomy 31:10–​13 makes clear that such formation through practice 1 05 McConville, Being Human, 57. 106 And the law of the king in 17:14–​20. 107 See Mayes, Deuteronomy, 245; Ian Wilson, “Central Sanctuary or Local Settlement?,” 338; McConville, Deuteronomy, 380. 108 Wright, Deuteronomy, 295. Such a release from debt is itself a recapitulation of the narrative of YHWH’s exodus, welcoming the community to experience again YHWH’s liberation from bondage.

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is itself insufficient apart from the more cognitively-​oriented reading of the law. Liturgical practice and cognitive instruction should not be played off against each other. Indeed, they are mutually reinforcing to such an extent that either is ultimately insufficient without the other (cf. Figure 3.1).

Deuteronomy 31:16–​32:18 Finally, 31:16–​32:18 draws together the latter part of the book’s prophecy of Israel’s future failure with the theme of satiation leading to faithlessness. For the first time since the conclusion of the law code in 26:19, 31:20 returns explicitly to the theme of satiation in the land as a preeminent threat to Israel’s faithfulness. Indeed, it is striking that in 31:19 Israel’s idolatrous rebellion is directly associated with their consuming the abundance of the promised land. To these well-​worn themes from chs. 6, 8, and 11, Deuteronomy adds the idea of “growing fat” (‫;ּדָ ׁשֵ ן‬ 31:19). Such language adds color to the earlier idea that overabundance can lead to self-​absorption, self-​aggrandizement, and a need to perpetuate such abundance that easily leads to idolatrous service to other gods and oppressive treatment of one’s neighbors. 32:8–​18 only adds depth to this overall picture. YHWH especially chose Israel as his allotment (v. 9) simply because of his love and care for her (v. 10–​11).109 In v. 13, the language of Israel being “suckled” points to the most intimate language imaginable for YHWH’s care for his people, picturing YHWH as a mother feeding her children at her breast.110 Such an image also underscores the passive and helpless posture of Israel before her God.111 YHWH feeds his people in this way by providing rich food (honey and oil) even in “unpromising places,”112 as the reference to such items coming “from the flinty rock” alludes. Verse 14 continues with a list of particularly delectable foods, including fattened lambs, livestock from verdant Bashan, and literally “ ‘the fat of the kidneys of wheat,’ that is, the very best portion.”113 Nevertheless, vs. 15–​18 rehearses the now familiar turn. When Israel grew fat, they kicked, forsook God, and scoffed at the “Rock of salvation.” Jeshurun is a somewhat unique name for Israel, and is here used ironically, since it means 1 09 McConville, Deuteronomy, 455; Tigay, Deuteronomy, 304. 110 Nelson, Deuteronomy, 372. 111 Ibid. 112 Ibid. 113 Ibid.

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“upright.”114 The repetition of language for growing fat “suggest[s]‌gorging … the people reject Yahweh even as they over-​indulge in his gifts.”115 The piling up of language for this bloated, kicking creature placed right alongside some of the most poetic depictions of YHWH’s lavish food provision in the land creates a decidedly unattractive picture of Israel’s character. While the allusion to a fat animal kicking certainly summons up images conducive to the earlier concerns with self-​absorption and aggrandizement, the text quickly goes on to detail the way Israel’s over-​satiation led them to idolatry and forgetting the LORD who is depicted as both father and mother (32:18).116 This forgetfulness is, as earlier in Deuteronomy, a somewhat natural result of Israel’s over-​consumption: “no longer needy, [they] could not remember [their] dependence upon YHWH.”117 Their punishment will fit the crime: because they offered their sacrifices to rival gods, presumably at festal meals that defied Deuteronomy’s design for the tithe meal and festival calendar (32:37–​38), they will experience, among other punishments, the exhaustion of famine (32:24a). Moses goes on to detail YHWH’s future redemption despite Israel’s sin, but the cost of their overindulgence and faithlessness will be severe.

Conclusion Bringing our model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation into dialogue with Deuteronomy illuminates the complexity of the process of moral formation and contributes to our understanding of the goals of formation within Deuteronomy. The conclusions of this chapter can be summarized by the following points. First, Deuteronomy makes clear that Israel is the recipient of God’s lavish generosity. But outside of the law code, the abundance associated with God’s generosity is perceived as a major threat to Israel’s faithfulness. This threat is primarily understood in terms of an overstuffed, self-​aggrandizing pride that is bound up in the vices of both forgetting YHWH and embracing idolatry. The latter concern with idolatry reminds us of our argument in Chapter Three that, if the people of God’s formation includes ritualizations of culturally available practices, other communities’ narratives and practices can also coopt or corrupt the character of the people of God. 1 14 Tigay, Deuteronomy, 306. 115 McConville, Deuteronomy, 456.. 116 So also Tigay, Deuteronomy, 307. 117 Brueggemann, Deuteronomy, 279.

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Such an understanding helps us frame the tithe meal practice as we explored it in the previous chapter. In the face of temptations to idolatry and self-​indulgence amidst economic abundance, the tithe meal seeks to shape the people’s character through a lavish, desire-​driven feast that orients the entire community towards love of YHWH and love of neighbor. Whereas satiation is always a moral problem facing presumably well-​off Israelites outside the law code, within the law code the language of satiation is strictly applied to the experience of the vulnerable as a result of Israel’s obedience to the triennial tithe legislation (14:29; 26:12). Against this background, it becomes clear that the only morally safe way for the community to embrace economic abundance is by orienting that abundance towards joyful celebration with God and neighbor. Second, drawing on our model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation, we have seen the way that Deuteronomy deploys the community’s story, account of character, and formative practices as part of its program of moral formation. Furthermore, we have seen time and again the way each of these discrete elements is mutually reinforcing.118 Third, and finally, we have seen that Deuteronomy’s account of the interplay of divine and human agency in moral formation is complex and paradoxical. This resonates with our model’s recognition that human agency in moral formation depends on the prior reality of the Triune God’s transforming work in his world. Our formative practice hermeneutic and model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation, then, have illuminated the tithe of Deut 14:22–​29 and the way the tithe fits with the program of moral formation within Deuteronomy as a whole. But is this an isolated phenomenon? Do other biblical meals play a similar role in moral formation?

118 We have not highlighted the “politics” of the community in this chapter because much of what we might call the “politics” of Deuteronomy is found in the law code.

PA R T I I I

FORMATIVE PRACTICES, HOLISTIC ECCLESIAL FORMATION, AND THE LORD’S SUPPER IN CORINTH

CHAPTER SIX

Approaching the Meal: Morally Formative Practices … In Paul?

In the previous two chapters, I argued that there is serious synergy between my model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation and Deut 14:22–​29. Understanding the feast as a formative practice sheds light on both the way formative practices work and the way that Deuteronomy’s tithe functions within the ethics of the book. But this raises further questions. Is this an isolated phenomenon restricted to one ancient meal, or does this same dynamic exist elsewhere in the canon? For that matter, does the OT’s emphasis on formation through practice get overturned in the NT’s emphasis on grace? Does the NT leave behind the OT’s concerns with the rich, socio-​political character of the tithe feast in favor of more strictly “spiritual” concerns? To answer these questions, in the next chapter, I will explore whether 1 Cor 11:17–​34’s presentation of the Lord’s Supper depicts the meal as a formative practice whose telos and embedded intentions are similar to those explored in Deut 14:22–​29. In this chapter, however, we must first confront an obvious possible defeater to my argument. At its most basic, the language of formative practices names the idea that what we do shapes who we are. Surely, someone might say, no such notion can be ascribed to the apostle Paul! Other parts of the canon perhaps, but Paul? Not only Paul’s (nearly) complete eschewal of the language of virtue,1 but indeed the 1

Phil 4:8 is the exception to Paul’s avoidance of the word ἀρετή.

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centrality of grace and his teaching on justification by faith have been understood as eliminating any possibility for a Pauline account of character formation through practice. Especially for Protestants informed by Luther’s account of the Christian life as simul justus et peccator, the idea of formation through practice seems unfaithful to Paul, if not to Christian theology itself.2 Moreover, recent so-​called “apocalyptic” approaches to Paul have brought this challenge into even more acute focus. In the first part of this chapter, then, I will explore some broad trends in Pauline interpretation to discover whether they do in fact shut down the possibility of formative practices playing a major role in Paul’s ethics.

Formative Practices and the “Apocalyptic” Challenge I begin with the so-​called “apocalyptic” approach to Pauline interpretation, not least because it seems, at least on the surface, to provide two of the strongest objections to emphasizing moral formation through practice in Paul.3 In broad strokes, proponents suggest that Paul’s theology operates in an “apocalyptic mood” that resonates with the theology and worldview of the apocalyptic literature of his day.4 Such a mood emphasizes the “invasion” of the world through the radically new, cosmos-​altering action of God in the Christ-​event.5 For our purposes, this trend appears to challenge a straightforward approach to moral formation through practice on several fronts.

2

On which see the illuminating treatment in Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 112–​3. Cf. also Victor Paul Furnish, Theology and Ethics in Paul (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 1968), 9; Samuli Siikavirta, Baptism and Cognition in Romans 6–​8: Paul’s Ethics beyond ‘Indicative’ and ‘Imperative,’ Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2.Reihe 407 (Germany: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 14–​51; Rollin Grams, “Gospel and Mission in Paul’s Ethics” (unpublished PhD diss., Duke University, 1989), 43–​50. 3 The debate around the so-​called “apocalyptic Paul” has generated an enormous amount of scholarly literature in recent decades, and so my treatment here necessarily paints with a broad brush and focuses only on those aspects of “apocalyptic” interpretation that relate directly to the idea of formation through practice in Paul. 4 On the emergence of a “Union School” interested in Apocalyptic theology and drawing on the work of J. Louis Martyn, see J.P. Davies, Paul Among the Apocalypses?: An Evaluation of the ‘Apocalyptic Paul’ in the Context of Jewish and Christian Apocalyptic Literature, Library of New Testament Studies (New York: T&T Clark, 2016), 18. 5 Cf. Ziegler’s excellent presentation of and constructive engagement with the “apocalyptic turn” (Philip Ziegler, Militant Grace: The Apocalyptic Turn and the Future of Christian Theology [Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2018]).

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First, such an “apocalyptic” approach presents a challenge to an account of moral formation through practice in terms of its understanding of human agency. “Apocalyptic”6 readings argue that, for Paul, the human story is not a “two-​actor moral drama” comprised of God on the one hand and humans who commit sins on the other. Instead, they argue that after Adam’s sin, every “human agent plays his or her part in a three-​actor moral drama,” with “ ‘the Flesh’ and ‘Sin’ ” as examples of the third party.7 Such language comes out, for instance, in Paul’s description of “Jews and gentiles alike” as “all under sin (ὑϕ᾽ ἁμαρτίαν; Rom 3:9),” i.e. under Sin’s lordship. In his discussion of Paul’s deployment of the story of Adam in Romans 5:12–​21, De Boer argues that what is distinctive here is Paul’s “characterization of sin and death as cosmological forces that have invaded the human cosmos as alien intruders.”8 Such language indicates that humanity apart from Christ is “held captive by powers which are alien to God and hostile to his purpose.”9 As Ziegler powerfully articulates: To be at home in the world of Adam is to be claimed, formed, and driven by its constellation of overlapping and mutual contesting sovereignties; it is to be possessed by the “ravishing and enslaving powers” of the rebellious creation.10

Does such a view deny the human agency required to speak of moral formation through practice? It certainly could be construed as doing so. Indeed, Ziegler suggests that both Bonhoeffer and Luther understood God’s solution to the enslaving power of sin as an exodus “not from vice to virtue, but from vice and virtue to the grace of Christ.”11 Such an “apocalyptic” interpretation would seem to rule out any Pauline account of virtue-​forming practices. Yet I suggest that the situation is actually more complex. On the one hand, because “all humanity is always already claimed humanity,”12 those outside of Christ cannot hope to gain adequate traction in moral formation through their 6

The use of scare quotes here indicates that by “apocalyptic” I am referring to the interpretative trends embodied by those apocalyptic theologians drawing heavily on the work of J. Louis Martyn. 7 J. Louis Martyn, “Epilogue: An Essay in Pauline Meta-​ Ethics,” in Divine and Human Agency in Paul and his Cultural Environment, ed. John M.G. Barclay and Simon J. Gathercole (New York: T&T Clark, 2008), 179. 8 Martinus C. De Boer, “Paul’s Mythologizing Program in Romans 5–​ 8,” in Apocalyptic Paul: Cosmos and Anthropos in Romans 5–​8, ed. Beverly R. Gaventa (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2013), 13. 9 Furnish, Theology and Ethics, 116. 10 Ziegler, Militant Grace, 45. 11 Ziegler, “ ‘Completely Within God’s Doing,” 109. 12 Ziegler, Militant Grace, 57.

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own efforts. This is true both because of the power of Sin and Death as relentless taskmasters, and because life lived under their lordship “works itself inside the self … making us ‘of a piece’ with that world of which we are a part.”13 For humans living under the dominion of Sin, then, life lived in such moral “space” habituates human agents into active complicity with the anti-​God powers through individual acts of sinful rebellion.14 In other words, living in homes battered by the hurricane forces of Sin’s power, we do not seek shelter on higher ground, but rather jump in a boat, trim the sails, and actively set off in the direction the wind wants to take us.15 Under the rule of Sin, all humanity become sinners, with no hope of lasting moral progress through practice under such conditions.16 As Brown argues, 1 Corinthians itself bears witness to both this apocalyptic account of Sin as agent (1 Cor 15:54) and of sins as acts committed by human agents.17 An apocalyptic account of “Sin dwelling in me,” then, is “not a denial of human agency … but a denial of the human agent’s independent operations.”18 In terms of moral formation though, at least for those outside of Christ, the only formation 13 Ibid, 58. 14 Ibid., 62. See also J. Louis Martyn, “Afterword: The Human Moral Drama,” in Gaventa, Apocalyptic Paul, 163. Davies rightly recognizes that Martyn’s embrace of the concept of “complicity” is a helpful move that addresses some of the false dichotomies of Martyn’s earlier work (Davies, Paul, 191). Wright argues similarly that “Idolatry becomes habit-​forming, character-​ shaping, progressively more destructive” (PFG, 744). Wright, of course, has been involved in a significant and public debate with those promoting the “apocalyptic Paul.” Nevertheless, it seems to me that, on the issue of Sin and Death as powers at work in the world, Wright and the “apocalyptic” school seem to be essentially in agreement. 15 Eastman makes a strong case that this complicity happens through second-​personal relationships that include “human involvement in the realm of sin and death, Christ’s participation in that realm of human bondage, and human involvement in a new interpersonal regime inaugurated and indwelt by Christ” (Susan Eastman, Paul and the Person: Reframing Paul’s Anthropology [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2017], 10). Eastman’s account draws on similar studies to those used by Pinsent in his second-​personal account of Thomistic ethics and theology. 16 Cf. Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 508. Macaskill is correct to suggest that “Barclay is not, in a simple sense, a representative of the ‘apocalyptic Paul’ approach and is critical at points in his own work … but has also contributed to publications associated with the approach” (Grant Macaskill, “History, Providence, and the Apocalyptic Paul,” SJT 70.4 [2017], 410, fn. 2). I will draw heavily on Barclay in my discussion of this “apocalyptic” trend in Pauline studies, both because of his affinities with the “apocalyptic” project and because I believe he provides one of the most helpful presentations of those themes I treat here while avoiding some of the “apocalyptic” approach’s weaknesses. 17 Alexandra Brown, “Sin and Its Consequences in 1 Corinthians,” paper presented to the Institute for Biblical Research, November 16, 2018, 1–​10. 18 Kyle B. Wells, Grace and Agency in Paul and Second Temple Judaism: Interpreting the Transformation of the Heart, Novum Testamentum Supplements (Netherlands: Brill, 2015), 248.

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through practice possible under the lordship of Sin and Death appears to be an inescapable habituation into vice.19 On the other hand, however, this dismal account of humanity’s moral incompetency outside of Christ paves the way for understanding the Christ-​event as God’s own world-​altering and agency-​altering intervention.20 God’s gracious action “characteristically subverts” human agency apart from Christ, but also “recreates” renewed human agency for those in Christ.21 Believers experience a liberation from lordship to Sin and are ushered into new life lived under the dominion of grace (Rom 6:14).22 As Wells argues, “being joined to Christ through baptism thus marks a believer’s decisive break with the old world-​aeon (6:3–​4).”23 Crucifixion to the old world/​age under Sin and Death in Christ enables believers also to share in Christ’s resurrection as they are united to him by grace. This opens the door for a powerful, “apocalyptic” account of renewed human agency that is utterly dependent on the divine agency expressed in the Christ-​ event. In Christ, “God is eschatologically recreating moral agents … As believers are transferred into the realm of the Spirit via Christ’s death and resurrection, they begin to participate in this new world and be reshaped by it.”24 Such believers are living “literally ‘ahead’ of themselves, living on the basis of the kingdom that ‘is coming toward’ them yet is already present and effective for them in the ‘event of the Spirit.’ ”25 God’s action thus changes human lives by “altering the conditions they exist under.”26 19 Indeed, an account of de-​forming practice and habituation into vice might well add explanatory power to what scholars in this school mean when they speak of human agents becoming complicit with the powers of Sin and Death. 20 “Apocalyptic” interpreters would prefer to speak of a punctiliar “invasion,” but, with Davies, I agree that such language problematically implies “an inappropriate cosmological dualism.” Genuinely apocalyptic cosmology eschews such dualism (Davies, Paul, 144). This is not a mundane lexical debate, but points to serious problems, both exegetically and theologically, for some “apocalyptic” accounts. On this point, see also Macaskill’s “Providence, History, and Apocalyptic” in its entirety. 21 John M.G. Barclay, “ ‘By the Grace of God I Am What I Am:’ Grace and Agency in Philo and Paul,” in Barclay and Gathercole, Divine and Human Agency in Paul and His Cultural Environment, 150. See also Martyn, “Epilogue,” 180. 22 Furnish, Theology and Ethics, 168–​75. 23 Wells, Grace and Agency, 254. 24 Ibid., 296. 25 Ziegler, Militant Grace, 78. 26 Webster, “Eschatology,” 13. See also J. Louis Martyn, “The Gospel Invades Philosophy,” in Paul, Philosophy, and the Theopolitical Vision: Critical Engagements with Agamben, Badiou, Zizek and Others, ed. Douglas Harink (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2010), 28. The influence of Barth on the “apocalyptic” approach to Pauline scholarship is clear. There is thus an important parallel

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This “apocalyptic” understanding of renewed agency creates the proper frame for an account of ongoing moral formation through practice.27 Christ-​followers are transformed agents engaged in ongoing moral formation through practice as they live with Christ as their “very context”28 within a world still influenced by the defeated but active powers of Sin and Death.29 Within this context, the Christian “self is trained as a responsible agent, indeed as a solider who is to present her bodily members as ‘weapons of righteousness’ (Rom 6:13).”30 And while “apocalyptic” readings have often not focused on this dynamic, Barclay provides a salutary and noteworthy exception.31 Barclay argues that Paul sees human agency as neither in competitive relationship with nor dissolvable into divine agency.32 He suggests between the Reformed recovery of virtue explored above and the account of renewed human agency in Paul in an “apocalyptic” key that I am describing here. My thanks to Jamie Davies and Jon Coutts for helping me identify the connection between these two scholarly conversations (personal conversation). 27 At least if one takes an “apocalyptic” ethic in this direction. My account stands in tension with the view that the centrality of the drama of salvation in moral reality almost completely displaces the possibility of “investigation and analysis of human moral potential, moral psychology and moral formation.” Instead, I am arguing that “the coming of the God of grace in Christ” does indeed “terraform the moral field,” establishing “the living Savior [as] the fundamental context within which the Christian moral life is set,” but in a way that leads to the recovery of creaturely, dependent, contingent human agency in moral formation, rather than rendering such unimportant or irrelevant (cf. Ziegler, “ ‘Completely Within God’s Doing,’ ” 111–​14). 28 Ziegler, Militant Grace, 199. Thiselton uses the helpful language of God’s newness “crowding out” the old in a process that takes time but whose outcome is assured (cf. Anthony C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text, NIGTC [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000], 404). 29 This does not mean that proponents of such “apocalyptic” ethics have always recognized the potential for a transformed human agency capable of moral progress. Ziegler, for instance, speaks of Christians as “free to love and serve God and neighbor without fear or moral calculation” (Ziegler, Militant Grace, 51). But moral calculation seems to be both an essential feature of formation through practice and of Paul’s own rhetoric (cf. 1 Cor 11:28; Rom 12:2; 8:5, etc.; cf. also Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 517). Similarly, Martyn speaks of renewed human agency in almost exclusively corporate terms (Martyn, “Epilogue,” 181; idem., “The Gospel Invades Philosophy,” 31). This blunts the possibility of individual engagement in a corporate project of moral formation and sidelines precisely those places where Paul calls individuals to engage in moral discernment and practice in light of the community, not least 1 Cor 11:17–​24. 30 Ibid. Cf. also Ziegler, Militant Grace, 43; Furnish, Theology and Ethics, 130–​1, 173–​5. 31 See especially John M. G. Barclay, “Grace and the Transformation of Agency in Christ,” in Redefining First-​Century Jewish and Christian Identities: Essays in Honor of Ed Parish Sanders, ed. F.E. Udoh, S. Heschel, M. Chancey, and G. Tatum (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), 372–​89; idem., “By the Grace of God;” and idem., Paul and the Gift. 32 John M. G. Barclay, “Introduction,” in Barclay and Gathercole, Divine and Human Agency, 6–​7.

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Paul entertains a self-​consciously complex view of agency in relation to Christian work. In all cases, the logical sequence … places divine grace anterior to human action, and affirms the continuation of that grace in human activity. But in no case does the human actor become passive or inactive in the face of divine grace, but is rather energized by that grace to action.33

Barclay thus prioritizes God’s past and ongoing gracious action, while also speaking of a “pattern of ‘energism’ in Pauline agency.”34 Energism allows “human agency [to be] reconceived without being abandoned, the self not merely relocated but reconstituted by its absorption within the non-​coercive power of grace.”35 Barclay applies this account of agency in his monumental Paul and the Gift through his discussion of grace and the formation of an alternative Christian habitus. He argues that in Galatians Paul depicts God’s grace as an unconditioned but not unconditional gift to humanity. This gift “disrupted” the Galatian church’s “habitus.” Here Barclay draws on Bourdieu’s account of habitus as “a system of lasting, transposable dispositions” acquired by humans in community.36 Barclay’s deployment of the concept adds explanatory power to Ziegler’s description of human “complicity” in the reign of Sin through sinful acts. But Barclay goes further, describing how such a habitus explains in part the mechanism whereby renewed human agents become complicit in the reign of grace through their own faithful, obedient action. He argues, for instance, that fruit that “springs from the Spirit’s life [in Gal 5:26–​6:10] is here identified in the delicate negotiation of communal relation, in behavioral qualities fostered over time.”37 For Barclay, this in no way downplays humanity’s radical dependence on divine action in acquiring such fostered behavioral qualities. Instead, the social practices that embody and foster such an alternative habitus are themselves the “necessary expression of the Christ-​gift.”38 Indeed, it is within social practice that the Christ-​gift is fully realized: “the relationship between ‘theology’ and ‘social practice’ is thus mutually constitutive.”39 God gives “the unfitting gift” in order to “create a fit, to turn lawless gentiles into those who do the Law (Rom 2:12–​15), and trespassing Jews into Spirit-​ circumcised servants who bear fruit for God (Rom 2:29; 7:5–​6).”40 Part of what 33 Barclay, “By the Grace of God,” 153. 34 He contrasts this with the opposite alternatives of either monergism (God does it all exclusively) or synergism (God does his part and we do ours). Cf. Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 442. 35 Barclay, “By the Grace of God,” 156. 36 Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 506–​7. See my own discussion of Bourdieu above in Chapter Two. 37 Ibid., 430 (italics added). 38 Ibid., 425. 39 Ibid., 439. 40 Ibid., 497.

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makes God’s gift gracious is that it includes the transformation of human agents, in part through the agency of transformed agents whose agency always depends on the incongruity of God’s ongoing gracious action in Christ.41 Formation through practice, then, is one aspect of how God graciously enables humans to acquire a new, graced disposition towards faithfulness.42 What is striking about all this is that while Barclay uses the concept of habitus to offer a powerful account of the transformation of human agency in Christ in an “apocalyptic” mode, that account bears remarkable similarity to virtue ethics. As we have seen, virtue ethicists see the virtues as durable dispositions analogous in many ways to Bourdieu’s depiction of habitus. Moreover, Aquinas uses the concept of infused virtues to acknowledge the reality that fallen humans could never attain true virtue, while also depicting the process whereby redeemed humanity exercises their renewed agency through habituation, growing deeper into the gifted virtues they receive from Christ. There is, then, in my view, a salutary connection between the “apocalyptic” account of divine and human agency and a theological account of virtue-​forming practices. There is, however, another challenge to an account of moral formation through practice associated with the “apocalyptic” program:43 the tendency by many scholars to completely reject those forms of human knowledge and creational theology more often associated with wisdom literature. Because both human knowledge and creational theology are central to accounts of moral formation through practice, such an “apocalyptic” interpretation poses a second potential problem for my argument.44 In his evaluation of the “apocalyptic” school in light of close readings of 2nd Temple Jewish apocalypses and the book of Revelation, Davies argues that “apocalyptic” interpretation has made an enormous contribution to our understanding of Pauline motifs in what it affirms.45 Nevertheless, he suggests that the 41 Ibid., 517–​519. Or as Herdt puts it, “That God brings us to our ultimate good through our own agency does not render us any less dependent on God” (Herdt, “Redeeming Acquired,” 735). 42 Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 569. In a similar vein, Lewis critiques Martyn, who at times seems to see the Christian life as a “perpetual return to baptism,” for not going “far enough when exploring the ramifications of Paul’s apocalyptic (i.e. revelatory) perspective” ( John G. Lewis, Looking for Life: The Role of ‘Theo-​Ethical Reasoning’ in Paul’s Religion [New York: T & T Clark, 2005], 10). For Lewis, the “content of Paul’s gospel” includes a “behavioral standard,” and simultaneously presents “conduct conforming to Christ’s cruciform pattern” as one way “humans participate with God in the ongoing cosmic warfare” (Ibid., 10–​11). 43 Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 150, fn. 211. 44 For an account of the connection between Israelite wisdom, creational norms, and virtue ethics, see Davis, “Preserving Virtues,” 186–​97. 45 Davies, Paul, 2.

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“corresponding denials” of this approach—​“revelatory epistemology therefore not human wisdom; ‘apocalyptic eschatology’ therefore not salvation history; a cosmology of invasion therefore not forensic justification”—​present false dichotomies that are reductionistic when compared to the way that apocalyptic literature actually works.46 Davies provides an important corrective, not by rejecting such an approach but rather ensuring that it is truly apocalyptic.47 Most important for our purposes is Davies’ discussion of the generic compatibility of wisdom and apocalyptic literature. He argues that in actual apocalyptic literature “a sapiential epistemology based on the exercise of human noetic faculties is not set in strict dichotomy with an apocalyptic epistemology based on divine disclosure: the two are intertwined.”48 Indeed, following Macaskill, Davies suggests that the epistemology of apocalyptic can be summarized as “revealed wisdom.”49 What this means is that the eschatological arrival of such revealed wisdom does not signal the destruction of “human knowledge,” but rather its transformation.50 Similarly, Wright argues that an epistemology transformed by the Christ-​event does not “cancel out ordinary knowledge of the world but rather [takes] it up within itself.”51 A similar case can be made in relation to the “apocalyptic” school’s emphasis on the unexpected, world-​altering nature of the Christ-​event, not least in its impact on our understanding of cosmology. Ziegler is right, for instance, to suggest that “the world remade by the saving action of God simply is the site of this human life,”52 and that there is therefore serious “discontinuity” between “Paul’s understanding of the world made, unmade, and remade.”53 Yet some doing “apocalyptic” interpretation have wrongly taken this to mean total discontinuity with all that has gone before, both epistemologically and cosmologically.54 Here again, Davies 46 Ibid. 47 Not least his powerful exegetical argument that 2nd Temple Jewish apocalypses, the book of Revelation, and the Pauline corpus all require an “apocalyptic eschatology of both the continuity of redemption history and the discontinuity of God’s dramatic acts” (Ibid., 96). 48 Ibid., 51. 49 Ibid., 55. 50 Ibid., 63. 51 N.T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, Christian Origins and the Question of God (London, UK: SPCK Press, 2013), 1365. 52 Ziegler, Militant Grace, 14. 53 Ibid., 163. 54 Ibid., 133–​4. While Ziegler is no doubt correct that “the chief business of a Christian ethic” is “attending to what the Word makes of the world and we in it,” there appears to be a risk in underemphasizing the relationship between the “ontological transformations of the world” and the original goodness of God’s creation (Ziegler, “Completely Within God’s Doing,” 107–​8). Long’s appreciation for Ziegler’s “apocalyptic” ethic paired with questions about the relationship

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rightly argues that if such a total dualism may appear necessary to contemporary scholars, no such dualism seems to have constrained early Jewish and Christian apocalypses. This is so not least in Second Temple apocalyptic cosmologies, which, as both Davies and Wright note, are a major feature of Paul’s own theological apocalypticism as well.55 Wright is correct, then, to suggest that just as revealed wisdom takes up and includes human wisdom within itself, so also the “new creation” is also the “new creation.”56 If this is so, then to separate the apocalyptic imagination from creation would be disastrous, not least because “eschatology is the vindication of creation not its destruction.”57 Intriguingly for our purposes, Pennington has drawn on the idea of generic compatibility between wisdom and apocalyptic to argue that the Sermon on the Mount is best understood as “eschatological wisdom teaching on virtue.”58 In other words, the Sermon reveals the appropriate, wise shape of human life lived in light of the inauguration of the eschaton. Such wisdom is, of necessity, revealed wisdom. I want to suggest similarly that Paul’s ethics embody both wisdom’s interest in practical and habituated knowledge and virtuous character in line with the created world and an “apocalyptic” account of revealed mysteries and the inbreaking of God’s power through Christ. Wright captures something of this when he suggests that the “strong point of today’s so-​called ‘apocalyptic’ interpretation” is their recognition that Paul does indeed see “everything in a new light because the new world has come into existence.”59 I would only add that another strong point of the “apocalyptic” approach is that it is not just the shape of the new world that is revealed to God’s people, but a new power that is accessible to believers now living under the reign of grace within that new world. But to talk about habituation by the power of the Spirit into the wise way of the revealed new creation given in Christ is to find oneself talking in the idiom of an apocalyptic wisdom. If Paul does indeed employ such an idiom, and if our interpretive ears are attuned to it, perhaps we will notice motifs more commonly associated with wisdom literature—​including moral formation through practice—​in Paul after all. If we do, the work of Davies,

of such an ethic to a theology of creation mirrors my sentiments here (D. Stephen Long, “Response to Ziegler’s Militant Grace,” paper presented to the Society of Biblical Literature, November 17th, 2018). 55 Cf. Davies, Paul, 124–​147 and N.T. Wright’s Gifford Lectures on this theme. 56 Wright, PFG, 1100. 57 Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics, 249–​50. 58 Pennington, Sermon on the Mount, 294. 59 Wright, PFG, 1100.

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Macaskill, and Wright suggests this may not be despite Paul’s apocalypticism, but because of it.

Moral Formation through Practice in Pauline Interpretation: Beyond the “Apocalyptic” Paul The challenges the “apocalyptic” approach poses to an account of moral formation, then, can be overcome. Indeed, along at least some interpretations, the “apocalyptic” approach creates space for thinking about formative practices as authentically human actions whereby the people of God become complicit with the reign of grace. Having overcome a primary challenge to my argument, then, it’s worth noting more briefly that other scholarly approaches to Pauline interpretation and ethics have emphasized the role of practices, moral growth, and formation in Paul’s rhetoric and theology. This can be seen in the work of a group of well-​known scholars providing “ethnographic description of the social world of the early Christians,”60 especially Wayne Meeks and David Horrell.61 At the same time, scholars working with more explicitly theological concerns have also highlighted Paul’s emphasis on the process of transformation and the need for moral and spiritual growth among believers.62 This group includes those who have framed the process of moral transformation within an account of theosis,63 such as Michael

60 Richard B. Hays, “Mapping the Field: Approaches to New Testament Ethics,” in Identity, Ethics, and Ethos in the New Testament, Beihefte Zur Zeitschrift Fur Die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Und Die Kunde Der Alteren Kirche, ed. Jan G. van der Watt (Germany: De Gruyter, 2006), 6–​8. 61 See Wayne A. Meeks, The Origins of Christian Morality: The First Two Centuries (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1993); David G. Horrell, Solidarity and Difference: A Contemporary Reading of Paul’s Ethics. 2nd ed. (London, UK: T&T Clark, 2015). While such accounts can be reductionistic, note Wright’s extremely theological deployment of Horrell’s work in Wright, PFG, 392–​3. 62 See J. Paul Sampley, Walking in Love: Moral Progress and Spiritual Growth with the Apostle Paul (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2016); James G. Samra, Being Conformed to Christ in Community: A Study of Maturity, Maturation, and the Local Church in the Undisputed Pauline Epistles, Library of New Testament Studies (New York: T & T Clark, 2006). 63 See Gorman, Becoming the Gospel; idem., Inhabiting the Cruciform God: Kenosis, Justification, and Theosis in Paul’s Narrative Soteriology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009); Perry T. Hamalis and Aristotle Papanikolaou, “Toward a Godly Mode of Being: Virtue as Embodied Deification,” Studies in Christian Ethics 26.3 (2013); M. David Litwa, “2 Corinthians 3:18 and

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Gorman, as well as Wright’s recent articulation of Paul’s ethics as a “virtue ethic.”64 Taken together, then, recent research on Paul’s ethics opens up the possibility for understanding formative practices as one aspect of an apocalyptic ethic focused on character formation similar to the one outlined in ch. 3.

Apocalyptic Character Formation in 1 Corinthians Outside of 1 Cor 11:17–​34 The test of this hypothesis, however, must be a close reading of Pauline texts. To that end, I will now explore evidence for an apocalyptic ethic focused on character formation in 1 Corinthians in general, before turning to a close reading of 1 Cor 11:17–​34 as a possible formative practice operating within such an account in the next chapter.

“Sanctified in Christ:” The Triune God Acts to Transform His People The opening words of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians locate his audience within the “eschatological point of collision between the old age and the new”65 inaugurated through the Christ-​event. These opening words indicate that Paul’s ethical concerns are inextricably bound to this apocalyptic context,66 and in line with that context, Paul emphasizes the Triune God’s all-​important agency in actively transforming his people. For Paul, the Corinthian congregation is an apocalyptic community67 made up of those who:

• “have been sanctified” (perfect passive participle; ἡγιασμένοις),68 • are presently “called saints” (ἁγίοις),

Its Implications for Theosis,” Journal of Theological Interpretation 2.1 (2008); idem., We Are Being Transformed: Deification in Paul’s Soteriology, BZAW (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012). 64 Wright, PFG, 1374. See also N.T. Wright, After You Believe: The Forgotten Role of Virtue in the Christian Life (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2010). 65 Hays, 1 Corinthians, 162. 66 Wright, PFG, 439. 67 Roy E. Ciampa and Brian Rosner, The First Letter to the Corinthians, PNTC (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 55; Samra, Being Conformed, 134. 68 This construction “denotes a past event with present effects which remain” (Thiselton, Corinthians, 76).

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• and who can be confident that God will “sustain/​strengthen” (βεβαιώσει) them until the “end” (τέλους) so that they will be “blameless” (ἀνεγκλήτους) on the day of Jesus Christ.

The Corinthians’ status as sanctified saints is utterly dependent on the grace of God which has been given to them in Christ. This can be seen both through the language of gift in 1:4b and in the description of the Corinthians as those “called saints.” Calling, as Barclay argues, represents Paul’s “favorite terminology for the saving initiative of God, which creates new realities without regard to conditions of capacity, status, or moral worth.”69 In short, Paul describes the Corinthians as those in some ways already transformed and renewed by the grace of God given through their inclusion in the Messiah.70 Moreover, because God is faithful (1:9a) and has called the Corinthians into the graced κοινωνία of Jesus (1:9b), the Corinthians can be confident that his grace will establish them blameless in the end (1:8a). Due weight must be given to the moral aspects of Paul’s language in these important first words of the letter. The language of ἁγιάζω in v. 2 is clearly drawn from the OT’s ascription of holiness to the community of faith, and within the OT this identity as “holy” always has moral implications.71 God is the one who calls and creates such communities, and thus the use of holiness language points to the “divine action that sanctifies or sets apart God’s people,”72 while also emphasizing the moral and vocational aspects associated with being those who are both called “holy ones” and “made holy” by the action of God. This moral language is not limited to the lexical domain of the ἁγιάζω/​ἅγιος word family, however. The eschatological telos for these believers is their being found ἀνέγκλητος, that is “blameless” or “irreproachable”73 on the day of the lord.74 Moreover, in her study of the language of κοινωνία, Vining argues that such

69 Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 354. 70 Brock and Wannenwetsch emphasize this aspect (Brian Brock and Bernd Wannenwetsch, The Malady of the Christian Body: A Theological Exposition of Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, vol. 1 [Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2016], 4). 71 Cf. Lewis, Looking, 40; Thompson, Moral Formation, 54–​ 5; Fee, Corinthians, 28–​ 9; Hays, Corinthians, 16. 72 Lewis, Looking, 40. 73 BDAG, 76. Other NT usage emphasizes the moral nature of this description (1 Tim 3:10, Tit 1:6–​7; Col 1:22). 74 Even if one understands this language of blamelessness to emphasize a judicial metaphor, it “has a moral sense that complements its legal flavor” (Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 67). Cf. also Fee, Corinthians, 42; Thiselton, Corinthians, 102; Samra, Being Conformed, 133–​7.

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language is itself eschatological, describing a community that is “always on its way toward perfection.”75 In short, Paul’s greeting presents us with an account of the irruption of God’s grace in the Christ-​event described in morally-​dense language. These believers live “already and not yet” lives. They are, in the present, those who have been sanctified and called saints. And they are those who live with a future hope, equally dependent on God’s gracious gift, as those who will be found blameless when Christ returns. The rest of the letter emphasizes this good news that the Triune God is graciously transforming his people. 1 Corinthians 1:17–​31 makes clear that this transformation does not come through any of the predictable channels, but rather through the “logic of the cross” (1:18).76 Indeed the Corinthian failure to fully appropriate this truth lies at the root of their moral and spiritual failures.77 Through the cross, God “calls for an end to the world defined by the Corinthian categories of wisdom and power.”78 Because of this, what might be considered normal sources of moral and spiritual transformation for both Jews and gentiles in the first century (1:23)—​wisdom, power, and good breeding (1:26)—​are brought to nothing (1:28b; καταργέω).79 Indeed, God has underscored the logic of the cross by calling to himself primarily those who are not wise, powerful, or well-​born.80 God graciously ignores and even overturns human classifications based on culturally acceptable forms of social capital.81 In doing so, God acts in Corinth as he acted in ancient Israel and in the person of Jesus himself, and that for at least two reasons.82 75 Peggy A. Vining, “Galatians and First Century Ethical Theory” (unpublished PhD diss., Catholic University of America, 2008), 182–​3. 76 Patterson argues that the translation “logic of the cross” is to be preferred over “word of the cross” so as not to miss the phrase’s “active, moral function” ( Jane Lancaster Patterson, Keeping the Feast: Metaphors of Sacrifice in 1 Corinthians and Philippians [Atlanta, GA: SBL Press, 2015], 125–​6). On this “logic” as the apocalyptic ground of “genuinely Christian character” in 1 Corinthians, see Alexandra R. Brown, “Character Formation or Character Transformation?,” in Brown, Character and Scripture, 266. 77 Brown, “Character Formation?,” 269. 78 Alexandra Brown, The Cross and Human Transformation: Paul’s Apocalyptic Word in 1 Corinthians (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 2000), 163; Hays, 1 Corinthians, 27. 79 Cf. Lewis, Looking, 56. 80 Ibid., 58. 81 Social capital, we hasten to add, that has serious economic implications: as Martin writes, “it is economic relationship, rather than wealth per se, that is important for an analysis of early Christianity” (Dale Martin, The Corinthian Body [New Haven, CT: Yale University Press], xvi). This theme, then, has major implications for understanding the socio-​economic ethics of 1 Corinthians. 82 Cf. Hays, Corinthians, 32–​35.

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First, in order that through this community God might shame the pretensions of the wise, powerful, and well-​bred, replacing common worldly conventions83 with a “status system [that] is an inversion of what the Corinthians see all around them.”84 The shocking nature of this cruciform, world-​altering perspective can hardly be overstated. “Roman society was a steep-​sided pyramid, with carefully defined grades and an insistence on the natural, immutable place each person was to occupy in the hierarchy.”85 Paul depicts God as literally overturning this pyramid. Indeed, the “deliberate purpose (a purpose reiterated three times) of God’s choosing the foolish, weak, lowborn, despised nobodies is to shame and overthrow the powerful and prominent.”86 To the extent that the Corinthians receive this “logic of the cross,” they also receive a political reality: the establishment of “an ‘alternative society’ within the setting of the Roman Empire.”87 To embrace the wisdom of this “logic of the cross,” then, “is not just to sidestep the wisdom framework of the world, but to disturb its claims and to confront its hegemony.”88 But second, God overturns such human classifications so that his lavish grace might be made visible in all its world-​restructuring and humanity-​transforming glory. In God’s wisdom, this visibility occurs not least as such unusual suspects are united to Christ who is himself their “wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption” (1:30) and who washes, sanctifies, and justifies his people (6:11). Towards the end of the letter, Paul describes in vivid detail the way that Christ’s own resurrection guarantees believers’ future resurrection transformation (cf. 15:22), and indeed signals Christ’s defeat of Sin and Death, understood as agential powers arrayed against God and his purposes (15:54).89 This future resurrection life, however, does not remain solely future, but rushes forward to meet Christians in their daily lives.90 Paul summarizes this passage with a resurrection-​founded, 83 “[I]‌ncluding conventions about power” (Brown, Cross, 153). 84 Martin, Corinthian Body, 68. 85 Ibid., 30. 86 See also David G. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence: Interests and ideology from 1 Corinthians to 1 Clement (New York: T & T Clark, 2000), 133; John Barclay, “Crucifixion as Wisdom: Exploring the Ideology of a Disreputable Social Movement,” in The Wisdom and Foolishness of God: First Corinthians 1–​2 in Theological Exploration, ed. Christophe Chalamet and Hans-​Christoph Askani (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2015), 15. 87 Richard A. Horsley, “1 Corinthians: A Case Study of Paul’s Assembly as an Alternative Society,” in Christianity at Corinth: The Quest for the Pauline Church, ed. Edward Adams and David G. Horrell (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2004), 228, 237. 88 Barclay, “Crucifixion as Wisdom,” 5. 89 Brown argues that here we glimpse a Corinthian account of Sin as apocalyptic agent similar to, if not as developed as, that of Romans 5–​7 (Brown, “Sin and Its Remedy,” 4). 90 Samra, Being Conformed, 104.

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moral hope: “therefore my beloved brothers and sisters, be steadfast, immovable, abounding always in every work of the lord, knowing that your labor in the lord is not κενός (empty/​vain)” (15:58).91 1 Corinthians, then, clearly describes a moral, human transformation that God effects through Christ. The transformation of the saints in Corinth can be described as a past, present, and future reality created miraculously through the unexpected work of the Triune God. This, truly, is “apocalyptic” character transformation! But does the letter’s “apocalyptic” theology, with its emphasis on God’s intervening, transforming work, leave any room for human participation in ongoing moral formation and growth in the virtues?

“We Do Speak Wisdom among the Mature:” Humans Act through Formative Practices Grounded in the Apocalyptic Grace of God The answer to this question is a resounding yes. Paul not only locates his audience within the character-​transforming eschatological inauguration of God’s reign; he also calls that audience to participate in that transformation through formative practices. Such practices are the means by which the Corinthians must participate in the ongoing, apocalyptic, grace-​dependent work of character transformation. They provide the practical means whereby the Corinthians can become complicit with the reign of grace. To see this, we must first recognize the extent to which Paul encourages the Corinthians to actively pursue moral formation. Thus, while the “logic of the cross” does deconstruct and even destroy human wisdom and paths to moral maturity, this is the end neither of wisdom nor moral growth per se.92 “But we do speak wisdom among the mature/​perfect” (τελείοις; 2:6a), Paul writes, and such τέλειος language directly connects to a concern for “growth, perfection, completeness and maturation.”93 At first this strikes us as problematic, inasmuch as Paul seems to share the convictions of his Corinthian opponents that the Christian life is about the acquisition of maturity, moral and spiritual perfection, and wisdom.94 Yet it

91 Cf. Litwa, Transformed, 221. 92 “It is not the terms per se to which Paul objects but the particular meanings the Corinthians assign to them” (Brown, The Cross, 109). 93 Samra, Being Conformed, 61–​2. 94 See Brock and Wannenwetsch, Malady, 43–​49.

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is precisely here that we begin to glimpse the contours of his teaching on moral growth. Paul deploys τέλειος language at this point both to “beat the Corinthians at their own game”95 and to teach them something essential about life in Christ. The Corinthians ought to be experiencing Spirit-​directed growth towards maturity.96 Elsewhere, the language of maturity describes “things related to the kingdom of God, [and therefore] it can also be used to label as ‘mature’ those believers now who to some extent are realizing their status as members of God’s kingdom.”97 But while the Corinthians are currently falling short of such growth through their moral and spiritual immaturity (3:1–​3),98 the possibility of moral and spiritual growth serves as a summons for the Corinthians to grow in maturity, not least through formative practices.99 First, however, Paul quickly reminds his readers that this maturity is decidedly not of this age nor of the rulers of this age. Instead, it is founded on the wisdom of the cross. Paul’s association of wisdom with the cross offers clear proof that the world’s understanding of wisdom completely fails “to grasp what God is doing in the world.”100 But while this wisdom is utterly counter-​cultural and utterly dependent on the gracious gift of the Spirit (2:11–​16),101 it nevertheless shares aspects of human wisdom.102 For example, those who have the Spirit can and do examine and discern situations from the perspective of this Spirit-​ empowered wisdom (2:14–​ 15). The word ἀνακρίνω103 traffics in traditional conceptions of moral formation and discernment.104

95 Hays, Corinthians, 42. 96 Thiselton, Corinthians, 225. 97 Samra, Being Conformed, 63. 98 Cf. Sampley, Walking, 100–​1. 99 Sampley rightly makes much of the language of maturation and perfection in his discussion of growth in the Christian life (Ibid., 105). 100 Ibid., 11–​12. 101 See Brown, Cross, 124. 102 Paul’s treatment of a true wisdom that only God can grant but that nonetheless shares some of the characteristics of human wisdom thus has interesting parallels with Aquinas’s account of the infused virtues. 103 Fee, Corinthians, 125. It is part of a word-​group that includes κρίνω, διακρίνω, and κατακρίνω. I find Paul’s regular use of such language difficult to square with accounts that see moral judgment and discernment as inherently problematic, such as Ziegler’s description of Bonhoeffer on this issue (cf. Ziegler, “ ‘Completely Within God’s Doing,’ ” 110). 104 Sampley, Walking, 55–​7.

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Of course, this ability to judge/​discern all things depends on God’s apocalyptic gift of the mind of Christ to believers.105 Nevertheless, immediately after declaring that believers have this “mind of Christ” (2:16), Paul criticizes the Corinthians, saints who have been sanctified in Christ, for not being mature enough to receive the solid food they require to attain greater maturity (3:1–​3). Their immature/​fleshly character (σάρκινος; 3:1) is embodied in a way of life that Paul describes as walking κατὰ ἄνθρωπον (“according to human standards;” 3:3 NRSV). Such language points to behavioral patterns associated with the age that is passing away;106 their κατὰ ἄνθρωπον way of life stands in stark contrast to the cruciform disposition implied by the idea of having the “mind of Christ.”107 The clear inference is that the Corinthians are regressing morally and spiritually, and that they should seek to “grow up, to mature, in faith.”108 The moral dynamic at work here thus clearly resonates with theological accounts of virtue that recognize that the virtues are gifts from God, but gifts that take greater root in our character through practice, and can become dulled or thwarted in our lives if we embrace sinful patterns and dispositions. The Corinthians’ immaturity is contrasted implicitly with Paul’s own example, whose work as “a wise builder” is the result of a life lived κατὰ τὴν χάριν τοῦ θεοῦ τὴν δοθεῖσάν μοι (“according to the grace of God which was given to me;” 3:10a). But while Paul’s wise building is utterly dependent on the prior and ongoing action of the Triune God (3:7b), he nevertheless speaks of a believer’s work as being truly theirs (cf. 3:8b) and of believers as “co-​workers” under and with God (συνεργοί; 3:9).109 Furthermore, Paul speaks of saints building up the community (ἐποικοδομέω).110 Such language describes the “growth, progress, and development” of the community, while also looking ahead to 8:1, where Paul speaks of love “building up” (οἰκοδομέω),111 and finally to 14:1’s call to the Corinthians to pursue such love. 105 Samra explores the apocalyptic nature of such a claim as it relates to growth in maturity (Samra, Being Conformed, 71–​3). 106 Ibid., 58–​60. 107 Brown, Cross, 145–​7. 108 Sampley, Walking, 104. 109 Fee argues against interpreting this passage to mean the apostles are co-​workers with God, not least for theological reasons (Gordon Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, rev. NICNT [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014], 144; cf. also Thiselton, Corinthians, 306; Hays, Corinthians, 53). But that is precisely the thrust of the language of, for instance, 1 Cor 15:10, where the grace of God works “with” (σὺν) Paul. In any case, Paul immediately describes himself as working according to God’s grace, thus implying some level of co-​labor. 110 Sampley, Walking, 98. Lewis also argues that the οἰκο-​word group is normally employed by Paul “in moral exhortation, suggesting a parenetic function here as well” (Lewis, Looking, 73). 111 Eastman, “Love’s Folly,” 13.

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Read in the light of this trajectory, 3:1–​14 suggests that growing wise and mature in Christ requires the active pursuit of the virtue of love in order to be able to contribute to the growth and progress of others.112 There is, after all, a path to virtuous wisdom, albeit not the one “the Corinthians have chosen.”113 This is the force of Paul’s command that those who think themselves wise “in this age” must become fools so that they might become truly wise.114 If higher status Corinthians “wish to count themselves among those called by God they must reject the valuation which society enables them to obtain.”115 They must do so because God has arranged their community precisely to destroy that value system (1:27–​29). Moreover, such active rejection of that value system must take place through an active practice of cruciform love. Paul thus calls the believers to pursue maturity in Christ through cruciform reasoning and practice.116 Later, Paul criticizes the Corinthians for their failure to find someone wise enough to judge (διακρίνω) in conflicts between believers (6:5), a failure all the more culpable given that the eschatological activity of the saints includes judging (κρίνω) both the world and the angels (6:2–​3). Paul chastises the church for failing to embody in the present the sort of wisdom associated with this future task. Paul sees them as lacking the sort of practical wisdom the community requires, a wisdom that is both counter-​cultural and sociologically astute.117 As we argued above, then, the eschatological arrival of revealed wisdom does not signal the destruction of “human knowledge,” but rather its transformation.118 Christians do not just receive apocalyptic wisdom, they exercise revealed wisdom through practical acts that build up the body of Christ (or fail to!). Moreover, such wisdom is experienced differently by those who are mature than it is by those who are mere “infants,” with the obvious implication that the Corinthians ought 112 This section also clarifies aspects of the dynamic between individual and corporate character. In 3:8–​9, Paul begins and ends by emphasizing the corporate aspect. However, standing in the middle of this corporate frame is a strong statement by Paul that each individual receives a reward for their own work. Eastman describes human existence as interpersonal “all the way down,” while at the same time not dissolving the individual into the corporate identity (Eastman, Paul and the Person, 74). Such is the sort of theological anthropology needed to undergird a Pauline account of formation that is essentially corporate without neglecting the individual as “distinct” and “particular.” 113 Samra, Being Conformed, 145. 114 See Thiselton, Corinthians, 321. 115 Horrell, Social Ethos, 134. 116 Contra Brock and Wannenwetsch, Malady, 72. 117 Cf. Thiselton, Corinthians, 434–​5; Brock and Wannenwetsch, Malady, 113–​8; Eastman, “Love’s Folly,” 15. 118 Davies, Paul, 63.

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to seek to become wise and mature in the ways of the Spirit.119 In these ways, then, the apocalyptic transformation that the Corinthians are experiencing “[takes up] within itself ”120 what we might call creational aspects of wise-​reasoning, virtuous habituation, and moral formation. Moreover, such growth occurs in part through formative practices. What becoming truly wise entails is both entirely counter-​cultural and eminently practical, as can be seen in ch. 4. There, Paul ironically derides the church for believing that their social status indicates they are really and truly full, rich, and reigning (4:8).121 Instead, Paul believes that they must become truly wise through the formative practice of imitating Paul and indeed Christ’s own example of downward mobility (1 Cor 4:16).122 Following in the footsteps of the apostle’s life of cruciform enemy-​ love and service is an essential formative practice on the path to true wisdom in the way of the crucified king.123 Litwa argues that such imitation is a “form of assimilation to God … a process of gaining Christ’s virtues.”124 Our discussion of the second-​personal relationship in theological ethics above prepares us to understand this kind of assimilation through imitation in deeply interpersonal ways. Indeed, drawing on social cognition studies of second-​personal relationships, Eastman describes mimetic movement as intersubjective movement, in which a person’s movements are their own, and yet at the same time they are moved.125 Thus, through constant engagement with Jesus and with his body embodied in the form of other believers, imitation 1 19 An implication that is explicit in 3:18b. 120 Wright, PFG, 1365. 121 Hays, Corinthians, 70–​2; Fee, Corinthians, 188–​9; Thiselton, Corinthians, 357; Martin, Corinthian Body, 68. Brock and Wannenwetsch’s attempt to read the entire section as straightforward language lacking any irony is intriguing, but ultimately fails to account adequately for Paul’s (a) summons to the Corinthians to imitate him in his cruciform, downward mobility, (b) contrast between their alleged wisdom in Christ and Paul’s foolishness, which traffics in contrasts Paul has preserved throughout the letter, and (c) with the fact that “admonishment” is often confrontational. Throughout the letter, Paul calls Corinthians who think they are wise, rich, reigning, and mature to a downwardly mobile, cruciform love that they can see embodied in Paul’s own life. To downplay the contrast Paul presents between his own life and that of the Corinthians at this point seriously undermines the rhetoric and intention of this section of the letter (cf. Brock and Wannenwetsch, Malady, 81–​7). 122 See Martin, Corinthian Body, 68; Brown, “Character Formation?,” 271; Lewis, Looking, 79. 123 On imitation and moral formation in Paul, see Horrell, Solidarity, 234; Wright, After You Believe, 174–​5; Samra, Being Conformed, 132. 124 Litwa, Being Transformed, 283. 125 Eastman, Paul and the Person, 68. Webster goes so far as to say that “the more God moves the creature, the more the creature moves itself ” (Webster, God Without Measure, vol. II, 188–​9).

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becomes one way in which believers develop a shared stance towards God and towards God’s world. This is all the more true if, as scholars have recently argued, Paul understands Christ in part against the backdrop of discourse on the “ideal king.” Such discourse suggested that the king’s perfect embodiment of virtue as the “living law” allowed his subjects to rid themselves of vice and acquire virtue by gazing upon and imitating him.126 Of course, imitating the oft-​imprisoned Paul imitating the crucified Jesus is, from a Greco-​Roman perspective, an anti-​paideia that leads in the opposite direction of virtuous character.127 This is so because, in a Greco-​Roman context, virtue is supposed to gain you “self-​mastery … social esteem and influence,” not earn you the catalogue of suffering Paul describes in 4:9–​13.128 However, as Wright skillfully argues, this does not mean the dissolution of virtue in terms of habituated character. Instead, for Paul, the classical virtues must die and be raised to new life as the distinctly Christian virtues associated with corporate and individual character conformed to the crucified Jesus, who is himself the goal of all human life.129 Within such an account, the practice of imitation is a formative practice that shapes the character of the individual and the community.130 Chapter Five continues this theme by calling the Corinthians to mournful repentance and the active exercise of the formative practice of communal discipline in response to gross sexual immorality. This practice of church discipline is eschatological all the way down; the wayward believer is to be put out of the realm of Christ and handed over to the realm of satan.131 At the same time, the practice also is relational, enacted when the church is gathered and both the apostle and 126 See Joshua W. Jipp, Christ is King: Paul’s Royal Ideology (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2015), 43–​76; Julien C.H. Smith, Paul and the Good Life: Transformation and Citizenship in the Commonwealth of God (Waco, TX: Baylor University, 2020), 68–​113. 127 Susan Eastman, “Imitating Christ Imitating Us: Paul’s Educational Project in Philippians,” in The Word Leaps the Gap: Essays on Scripture and Theology in Honor of Richard B. Hays, ed. J. Ross Wagner, C. Kavin Rowe, and A. Katherine Grieb (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 436. 128 Ibid., 449. Cf. also Litwa, Being Transformed, 213–​5. 129 N.T. Wright, “Faith, Virtue, Justification, and the Journey to Freedom,” in Wagner, Rowe, and Grieb, The Word Leaps the Gap, 478–​80. 130 Brock and Wannenwetsch admit to harboring “reservations about giving mimesis too central of a role in Christian formation, reservations that extend from over against Schleiermacherian Protestantism to Aristotelian/​Thomist/​MacIntyrian virtue theories” (Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 158, fn. 11). Similarly, Brown attributes to Paul an “apocalyptic worldview that radically distrusts human reason and imitative ethics as a means of passing on life-​giving truth” (Brown, “Character Formation?,” 285). Yet Paul’s rhetoric could hardly be clearer in presenting imitation as a major part of the moral life, not least in 1 Corinthians. 131 Fee, Corinthians, 229.

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the lord Jesus are said to be present (5:4–​5).132 Here again the second-​personal insights of Pinsent, Eastman, and others are helpful. Paul’s criticism is that they are failing to see, feel, and act appropriately in relation to the sexual immorality occurring among members of the congregation. Performing this practice of moral discernment and action in the presence of Jesus is thus one way the church must develop a virtuous “shared stance” with God towards God, the church’s members, and the rest of the world. This practice, moreover, is done for the sake of both the long-​term health of the errant brother (“so that his soul may be saved on the day of the Lord”) and the moral formation of the community. Thus Paul draws on the Passover ritual’s association of leaven with sin to call the church to practice their gatherings in morally formative ways.133 Here again the eschatological tension is powerful: Clean out the old leaven, so that you may be a new batch of dough, as you are unleavened. For Christ, our Passover sacrifice, has been slaughtered. Therefore, let us celebrate the feast, not with the leaven of malice, nor with the leaven of wickedness, but in unleavened sincerity and truth. (1 Cor 5:7–​8)

In other words, Paul believes that the Corinthians’ graced status as a transformed community (those who “are unleavened”) requires them to actively purify themselves of individual and corporate vice (“clean out the old leaven”), so that they may live the life to which God has called them (“let us celebrate the feast … in unleavened sincerity and truth”).134 This is an excellent example of Barclay’s argument that social practice, inasmuch as it allows the community to embody the gracious gift of God, is a constitutive, essential aspect of the gift itself, one that must be actively sought after and worked for. Here, it is clearly sought after and worked for through the formative practice of church discipline.135 It is important to note that the practice to which the Corinthians are summoned is not simply to expel the guilty party. They are simultaneously called to practice moral judgment.136 The practice of such judgment is a politically-​formative practice that includes corporate and individual discernment, as well as the active pursuit of those virtuous dispositions appropriate to the celebration of festive life 1 32 See Samra, Being Conformed, 160–​1; Fee, Corinthians, 226. 133 Patterson, Keeping the Feast, 117. 134 Cf. Thiselton, Corinthians, 403–​7; Fee, Corinthians, 238. 135 I do not think it is accidental that Paul draws on the Passover meal celebration to describe their corporate life together, nor that many of the vices listed in 5:10 would be exercised most often at actual meals, such as at the pagan meals Paul considers in chs. 8–​10 or the (abusive) Lord’s Supper Paul criticizes in 11:17–​34. 136 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Malady, 102.

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in Christ. From this perspective, the “ ‘old leaven’ is presumably both the behavior of the man who is living with his father’s wife and the community’s unworthy handling of his case.”137 Thiselton rightly highlights the way Paul’s challenge to the church to be a new unleavened lump of dough, as in fact they are, makes it clear that the “possibility of ‘ethics’ … depends on the reality of the new life,” a life whose newness “has the eschatological quality of God’s untarnished new creation.”138 Thus the formative practices of communal judgment, discernment, discipline, and the pursuit of virtue are part and parcel of the church’s participation in the Spirit’s work of transforming them into the sort of “Christian community and [Christian] believer [they] will become.”139 Such practices are practices of receptivity whereby the church actively seeks to “become what [they] have been given to become.”140 Chapters 8–​10 provide one of the most thoroughgoing examples of Paul’s application of his own practice of cruciform love.141 Paul uses the important verb οἰκοδομέω (“build up;” 8:1), signaling the extent to which he sees “the concept of community edification” as a “central component” of his ethics.142 In the question of whether the Corinthians should eat meat sacrificed to idols or not, Paul first identifies himself to some extent with those whose knowledge allows them to see that meat sacrificed to idols poses no inherent problem (8:4b). Yet Paul shockingly declares that these believers’ exercise of their legitimate knowledge may, if they ignore their brothers and sisters in Christ, “destroy the one who is weak in knowledge,” who is also and at the same time “the brother or sister for whom Christ died” (8:11). Drawing the tightest possible connection between Christ and the church, Paul declares that to exercise one’s freedom in this way is to sin against Christ (8:12b).143 Indeed, this is in part because the “strong” person’s behavior might “build up” (οἰκοδομέω) the weaker brother to sin (8:10). The solution, then, is for those Corinthians who have freer consciences to imitate Paul (11:1) in his cruciform way of life. Paul sacrificially and consistently gives up his rights for the sake of the gospel (cf. 9:1–​14; 10:31–​11:1) and the building up of the church. In a context in which meals could facilitate important social connections and economic relations, this could be costly: for “the strong to withdraw from some of their important social contacts” might cost them “friends 1 37 Patterson, Keep the Feast, 134. 138 Thiselton, Corinthians, 403–​4. 139 Ibid. 140 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Malady, 12. See also Patterson, Keep the Feast, 135. 141 For this language, see Horrell, Solidarity, 190–​1. 142 Lewis, Looking, 94. 143 Cf. Horrell, Solidarity, 190–​207.

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and position in the city.”144 Yet such a life is the practical outworking of love itself (8:1). As Hays suggests, Paul is calling the “strong” to become “weak,” and “offering himself as a model for imitation.”145 In 9:24–​27, Paul uses the language of athletic training to call the Corinthians to a life of active discipleship and moral formation in imitation of Paul’s own practice.146 Here Paul draws directly on the Greco-​Roman and Hellenistic Jewish virtue tradition, which saw athletics as a metaphor for character formation that included practice.147 Paul draws on this tradition to describe the discipline and exercise of self-​control (ἐγκρατεύομαι) by which the community is to acquire the character it needs. However, the virtues that Paul calls the Corinthians to acquire through such discipline would be utterly counter-​cultural to the classical virtue tradition, namely cruciform love in the downwardly mobile way of Jesus.148 Moreover, as mentioned above, the corporate nature of Paul’s other-​regarding love stands in stark contrast to the individual emphasis and even self-​absorption of the accounts of virtue in Paul’s day.149 In contrast to such a virtue account, Paul practices an active enslavement of his life “to larger apostolic purposes.”150 At the same time, for Paul to fail to embrace such active, habituated cruciform love is to risk being found ἀδόκιμος, unfit for the task to which Jesus had called him.151 Paul’s disciplined exercise of self-​control, then, aims at the cultivation of those virtues which will build up the community, and particularly the cruciform love he himself embodies and exhorts the Corinthians to imitate.152 Therefore, when Paul declares that he is addressing the Corinthians “as wise people” (ὡς ϕρονίμοις) who must judge (κρίνω) for themselves what he is saying (1 Cor 10:15), he calls them to embrace the reasoning and practice of an apocalyptic, revealed wisdom which, while utter foolishness to the world, must be embraced and embodied among God’s people. Habituation into such virtuous wisdom is precisely what is required, habituation which will require transformed thinking 1 44 Horrell, Social Ethos, 148. 145 Richard B. Hays, “Ecclesiology and Ethics in 1 Corinthians,” Ex Auditu 10 (1994), 37. 146 Sampley, Walking, 101–​2. See also Smith’s similar interpretation of this passage in Smith, Paul and the Good Life, 109. 147 Cf. Philo, Mut., 1:81; Seneca, Ep. Mor. 83.16 [LCL Gummere]; Thiselton, Corinthians, 714–​6. 148 See James R. Harrison, “Paul and the Athletic Ideal in Antiquity: A Case Study in Wrestling with Word and Image,” in Paul’s World, ed. Stanley Porter (Boston, MA: Brill, 2008), 108–​9. 149 Cf. Vining, “Galatians and First Century Ethics,” 216; Eastman, Paul and the Person, 57. 150 Thiselton, Corinthians, 715. 151 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Malady, 223. 152 Ibid., 214.

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and reasoning, but also transformed and transforming practices that participate in God’s own work. This is imminently clear in what immediately follows. In 10:16–​24, Paul points to the eucharist, a formative, liturgical practice that ought to participate in the community’s habituation into the cruciform love that builds up the corporate body. He writes: The cup of blessing which we bless, is it not a κοινωνία in the blood of Christ? The bread which we break, is it not a κοινωνία in the body of Christ? Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, for we all share (μετέχομεν)153 from the one bread (1 Cor 10:16–​17).

For Paul, to share the eucharistic cup and bread is both to share in the κοινωνία of the blood and body of Christ (v. 16) and to be members of the “one body” which is Christ’s church (v. 17). At one level, then, Paul reminds them that their practice of eucharist has a straightforwardly observable sociological function. As with associational meals around the ancient world, to sit at the group’s table simply was to be a member of that group, with all that entailed.154 Such a practice requires the Corinthians to embrace a political-​religious solidarity over against the dominant society, which was constituted precisely in such banquets … . … For the members of the new alternative community that meant cutting themselves off from the very means by which their previously essential socio-​economic relations were maintained.155

Thus the Corinthian eucharistic meal and attendant meal practices aim at confirming and consolidating their communal solidarity in ways that resonate with the social scientific ethnographic approach to Paul’s ethics of Horrell and others.156 But at the same time, this fellowship that is experienced is fellowship with Jesus himself. Paul describes such fellowship with Jesus in 1:1–​9 as bound up in 1 53 Moulton and Milligan argue that μετέχω is equivalent to κοινωνία (VGNT, 405). 154 Cf. Dennis E. Smith, “Meals and Morality in Paul and his World,” Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers 20 (1981), 322–​33; Rachel M. McRae, “Eating with Honor: The Corinthian Lord’s Supper in Light of Voluntary Association Meal Practices,” Journal of Biblical Literature 130.1 (2011), 169; Richard S. Ascough, “Social and Political Characteristics of Greco-​ Roman Association Meals,” in Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, ed. Dennis E. Smith and Hal Taussig (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2012), 59. 155 Horsley, “1 Corinthians,” 234. 156 Horrell, Solidarity, 120.

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God’s uniting believers to Jesus, sanctifying them, calling them saints, and giving them gifts as part of his ongoing work to present them blameless on the day of the lord. Through the meal, the Corinthians engage in mutually transforming second-​ person relationships in which they develop a shared stance with Christ towards the lord himself and towards his world. This sociologically observable meal, then, is also the “apocalyptic” site of transformation; it is the practice of a community rescued from the reign of Sin and living under the lordship of grace. As such, it stands in utter contrast to meals over which demonic, shadowy powers preside (10:20–​21).157 Moreover, the very language of being one “body” presents us with a “split-​reference” metaphor that captures both the socio-​political metaphor and the apocalyptic frame of Paul’s thought. On the one hand, to refer to the church as “one body” because of eucharistic participation simply draws on a widespread “established political term for the unity of a community.”158 On the other hand, however, Paul’s language makes clear that this “body politic” exists only because the Corinthians truly are “in Christ,” who has created such a possibility through the giving of his body and blood, and has united believers to himself in his death and resurrection. The Corinthians live—​and in this case eat—​with Christ as their “very context.”159 Such a meal therefore must be described both in terms of social science and an “apocalyptic” theology. Moreover, this meal practice is one of the means, in all of its sociological meaning and apocalyptic-​metaphysical depth, whereby the community grows in the cruciform love that Paul sees as the path towards mature wisdom in the time between the times. Becoming the “one bread” community at the table fosters the sorts of relationships in which each seeks the good of the other (10:23b, 32–​33). The eucharist, then, stands as a “a place in which right appetites are given and formed.”160 It is a social, apocalyptic practice aimed at formation. The cruciform love at which their eucharistic practice aims is that virtue without which the other gifts of the Spirit are useless (13:1–​3).161 Paul presents love as a comprehensive virtue in that it includes the active practice of mercy, truth-​ telling, hope, faith, and endurance (13:4a, 7), and the active avoidance of pride, self-​absorption, anger, etc. (13:4b–​6a).162 The exercise of such love is especially 157 This theme of God’s presence as key to the transforming power of the eucharist resonates strongly with our account of YHWH’s presence as key to the transforming power of the tithe feast. 158 Thiselton, Corinthians, 769. 159 Ziegler, Militant Grace, 199. 160 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 16. 161 Cf. Hays, Corinthians, 221. 162 Cf. Wright, “Virtue,” 481.

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appropriate in the time between the times, because it is one of the virtues that will remain when the end of the age and the perfection of human maturity arrive (13:8–​10, 13). In this context, Paul again refers to the metaphor of human maturity to describe growth in Christian character, and he makes clear that love is that supreme virtue which belongs to the life of the age to come. Thiselton rightly suggests that the language of τέλειος here emphasizes, in addition to the element of “maturity” highlighted in 2:6 and 14:20, the idea of a “goal” that is attained.163 Paul thus deploys the language of perfection and maturity to remind the Corinthians that they will not attain full maturity or perfection this side of the eschaton.164 Paul invites his audience “to embrace a type of maturity that is incomplete at its best and that can only be willingly received by those travelling the way of love.”165 But read in conversation with Paul’s earlier declaration that there is a wisdom available to the currently mature and 14:1’s command to pursue love, Paul’s teaching clearly suggests that Christian character formation requires us to appropriate and imitate that virtuous character in the present which will be ours in full only in the future.166 For the Christian, virtue is the practiced art of being the sort of person who is already anticipating, in the present, the life of the age to come. The point of 1 Corinthians 13 is that love is not our duty; it is our destiny. It is the song they sing in God’s new world.167

Growth in such love requires human agency, while at the same time depending on the “ ‘power of the new age’ breaking into the present.”168 Indeed, maturity and wisdom depend ultimately on the resurrection itself.169 Thus in 1 Cor 15:9–​10, Paul names his own agency in his labors while simultaneously reframing that agency within God’s grace, which has worked “with” him. Paul’s description of his labor (κοπιάω) here is telling; Paul’s labors, including his active pursuit of cruciform love,170 represent his legitimate work.171 Here again, then, we see that God’s work 1 63 Thiselton, Corinthians, 1065. 164 Ibid. 165 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 147. 166 Here as elsewhere, Brock and Wannenwetsch seem overly concerned to protect Paul from suggesting Christian maturity is a major aspect of Christian living (Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 147). 167 Wright, “Virtue,” 481. 168 Thiselton, Corinthians, 1035. 169 Wright, “Virtue,” 479. 170 Note that Paul uses the verb κοπιάω to describe how he humbly worked with his own hands, a practice that he makes clear elsewhere was part and parcel of his concern for others (cf. 1 Thess 2:9). 171 See Wells, Grace and Agency, 297–​301.

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in Christ and by the power of the Spirit does not “cancel out human moral effort,” but rather makes it possible.172 As we have seen, in ch. 15, it is the resurrection of Jesus that empowers Paul’s work, allowing him to declare that God’s grace to him has not been in “vain” (κενός), but has welled up in human acts of loving service. This fruit of future resurrection can and must be embodied in the Corinthians’ present, mortal bodies also. As Barclay suggests, “the body is the place where the resurrection life of Jesus (the new self ) becomes visible and active in human lives … the body is the critical site of resistance. Once appropriated by sin, the body is reappropriated by Christ.”173 This occurs in part as the Corinthians practice “Christ’s victory over death [through] … . … patiently and continually [undertaking] … . … day-​to-​day practices in which the humiliation that is dying is embraced.”174

Conclusion In summary, in the first half of this chapter, I suggested that recent trends in Pauline interpretation, including the “apocalyptic” Paul school, create space for the possibility of a Pauline account of virtue forming practices. Such an account would, like the theological account offered in Chapter Three, see the virtues as gifted dispositions given by God that can nonetheless be deepened through practices. These practices would serve to foster deeper complicity with the reign of grace. In the second half, I argued that Paul’s ethics in 1 Corinthians fit such an account. Within such a theological ethics, formative practices play a major role within the larger story of the Triune God’s work to transform his people so that they might be found holy and blameless when Christ returns. In particular, Paul calls the Corinthians to embrace practices of downward mobility and cruciform love that follow in the footsteps of the crucified Christ. This conclusion allows us to approach the eucharistic meal of 1 Cor 11:17–​34 with the question: does Paul understand this meal as a formative practice that participates in this “apocalyptic” character transformation?

1 72 Wright, PFG, 1107. 173 Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 505. 174 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 226.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Forward Unto Virtue: The Lord’s Supper in 1 Corinthians 11:17–​34 as a Formative Practice

In the previous chapter, I argued that an “apocalyptic” character ethic focused on formation best captures aspects of Paul’s ethics in 1 Corinthians. In this chapter, I will consider whether Paul understands the Lord’s Supper meal in 1 Cor 11:17–​ 34 as a formative practice within this ethic. In other words, does Paul understand the meal as a telos-​shaped, embodied, social action that carries an embedded intention to shape the character of the individual practitioner, the politics of the community, and the world “out there” within an “apocalyptic” mode? If so, how does interpreting the eucharist as such a formative practice contribute to our overall understanding of Paul’s ethics and theology?

For Better or for Worse1 Paul begins his discussion of the Corinthians’ meal practice by declaring that they gather together for the worse rather than for the better (11:17b). Does this suggest that Paul criticizes the Corinthians because he believes the eucharist is a morally 1

Portions of this chapter appeared previously in compressed form in Rhodes, “Forward Unto Virtue” and idem., “Arranging the Chairs” (with the latter explicitly exploring the implications of the passage for contemporary multi-​racial churches).

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and politically formative practice that, through the congregation’s moral failures, has become deforming? Such an interpretation stands or falls on a close reading of the entire passage, but it would be strengthened if it could be shown that other first-​century meals that influenced either the apostle or the Corinthians’ understanding of the Lord’s Supper also operated as formative practices. Before turning to an exegesis of 1 Cor 11:17–​34, then, I will first explore whether first-​century Greco-​Roman meals, including associational banquets and the Jewish Passover meal, served as formative practices.

The Greco-​Roman Banquet as Formative Practice Klinghardt and Smith argue that “there was a common meal tradition throughout the Greco-​Roman Mediterranean” that undergirded meals of all kinds, “whether they be gentile, Jewish, or Christian.”2 This banqueting tradition provides an important background for how both Paul and the Corinthians might have understood their eucharistic banquet. In this section I will explore whether there is evidence that such meals served as formative practices, particularly in relation to association3 banquets, since such associations have proven “good to think with” in terms of the early Pauline communities.4 2 3

4

Hal Taussig, “Introduction,” in Smith and Taussig, Meals in the Early Christian World, 1. Scholars use the term “association” to describe a wide range of voluntary associations “organized around a common ethnic identity, deity or cult, occupation, neighborhood, or extended household, albeit with overlaps in one or more of these categories” (Richard S. Ascough, “What Are They Now Saying about Christ Groups and Associations?,” CBR 13.2 [2015], 208). Ibid., 234–​6. See also John S. Kloppenborg, “The Moralizing of Discourse in Greco-​Roman Associations,” in “The One Who Sows Bountifully:” Essays in Honor of Stanley K. Stowers, ed. Caroline Johnson Hodge (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2013), 217. We need to name at the outset the danger of speaking of either “social status” on the one hand or of economic “class” on the other in relation to the Greco-​Roman world in general and associations specifically. The latter, as has been argued extensively, fails to take into account the real concerns about honor and shame that seem to have been a major feature of Greco-​Roman life (Cf. McRae, “Eating with Honor,” 166; Zeba A. Crook, “Economic Location of Benefactors in Pauline Communities,” in Paul and Economics: A Handbook, ed. Thomas R. Blanton, IV and Raymond Pickett [Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2017], 199; Idem., “Honor, Shame, and Social Status Revisited,” JBL 128.3 [2009], 591–​611; Dennis E. Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World [Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 2003], 195–​6; Smith, “Meals and Morality,” 328–​9). Reducing everything to economic class subtly distorts the “experience of poverty in the notion that the poor are possessed of some common and singular ‘prime concern,’ as though their economic constraints somehow have robbed them of the complex of interest and motivations—​social, emotional, religious, and so on—​that the rest of us navigate” (Ryan S. Schellenberg, “Subsistence, Swapping, and Paul’s Rhetoric of Generosity,” JBL 137.1 [2018], 220).

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Banquets played a major role in shaping the politics of associations. Such associations included individuals from across the socio-​economic spectrum, and they may have been particularly popular among the “lower” classes.5 Because such associations were simultaneously “autonomous in their structure” and “part of the urban structure of Roman society,” their meals provided the community with a politically formative space that could either support or undermine the broader political realities within which the community found itself.6 Thus, in support of that broader political reality, the innerworkings of associations mimicked the structures of the polis, and created space for lower status people to “play at democracy”7 by acquiring honors and titles and participating in

5

6 7

At the same time, some scholars rightly criticize an emphasis on social status for often functioning to obscure the “economic conflict and economic exploitation” at work in Greco-​ Roman life (Richard A. Horsley, “Paul’s Shift in Economic ‘Location’ in the Locations of the Roman Imperial Economy,” in Blanton and Pickett, Paul and Economics: A Handbook, 89–​124. Cf. also Steven J. Friesen, “Paul and Economics: The Jerusalem Collection as an Alternative to Patronage,” in Paul Unbound: Other Perspectives on the Apostle, ed. Mark D. Given [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2010], 28–​32; idem., “Poverty in Pauline Studies: Beyond the So-​Called New Consensus,” JSNT 26.3 [2004], 323–​37). The rhetoric on either side of this debate is often unhelpful, and both perspectives are reductionistic if taken to an extreme. My interest is in both social and economic issues, and so throughout this chapter any reference to social status should be read as referring to a category bound up in issues of power, status, and the forces of marginalization, including, and often primarily that of various sorts of economic oppression. At the same time, any reference to economic class should be read as referring both to the economic and social aspects of class. This seems to me the best way to account for the actual dynamics of both the Greco-​Roman world, and, for that matter, our own. See Ascough, “Social and Political Characteristics,” 59; Schellenberg, “Subsistence, Swapping,” 217; James R. Harrison, “Paul and the Agonothetai at Corinth: Engaging the Civic Values in Antiquity,” in The First Urban Churches 2: Roman Corinth, ed. James R. Harrison and L.L. Wellborn (Atlanta, GA: SBL Press, 2016), 273–​274. While Liu may be right that the very poorest may have been unable to join associations ( Jinyu Liu, “Urban Poverty in the Roman Empire: Material Conditions,” in Blanton and Pickett, Paul and Economics, 54), he fails to appreciate the way that associations had mechanisms for allowing the poor to participate, such as sliding scale membership fees (cf. Philip A. Harland, “Associations and the Economics of Group Life: A Preliminary Case Study of Asia Minor and the Aegean Islands,” Svensk Exegetisk Arsbok 80 [2015], 16; John S. Kloppenborg, “Precedence at the Communal Meal in Corinth,” Novum Testamentum 58.2 [2016], 189–​93). Ascough, “Social and Political,” 60. John S. Kloppenborg, “Associations, Christ Groups, and their Place in the Polis,” ZNW 108.1 (2017), 14–​17; Matthias Klinghardt, “A Typology of the Communal Meal,” in Smith and Taussig, Meals in the Early Christian World, 9.

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group decision making.8 Moreover, the banquet itself would often be overseen by, and perhaps provided by, those members who had acquired such titles.9 The association also supported the existing Roman social structure by allowing the group to create socio-​political relationships with those outside the group. Associations recruited outside patrons10 and repaid them with honor, often at banquets.11 Associations also gave benefactions that allowed members to acquire honor and status outside the group. They often participated in the imperial cult, not least through prayers and libations offered to the emperor at the banquet table.12 Even the architecture of the homes, temple dining rooms, and rented apartments allowed individuals and the group to “secure a place within the polis and empire,”13 inasmuch as they provided “semi-​public” space for the group’s feasts.14 At the same time, because an association could serve as a mini-​polis, associations could also foster political negotiation of and resistance to the broader political system. Within the ritual space of an association meal, participants could “recast their social order in a way counter to the domination system set up by Rome.”15 Small wonder, then, that there is ample evidence that Rome at least occasionally saw associations as a political threat and acted accordingly.16 Indeed, the entire shape of an association banquet served as a “hidden transcript” that both expressed and created certain relationships between meal participants and 8 9 10

11

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13 14 15 16

Cf. Kloppenborg, “Associations, Christ Groups,” 18. Kloppenborg argues extensively that many associations had a rotating leadership precisely in order to allow more members to “play” this honorific role (Kloppenborg, “Precedence,” 186–​8). Kloppenborg rightly notes an important heuristic distinction between “patronage and benefaction, that is, between the relation of elite persons and their dependents, on the one hand, and peer benefaction on the other” ( John S. Kloppenborg, “Greco-​Roman Thiasoi, the Ekklesia at Corinth, and Conflict Management,” in Redescribing Paul and the Corinthians, ed. Ron Cameron and Merrill P. Miller [Atlanta, GA: SBL Press, 2012], 212). Cf. McRae, “Eating with Honor,” 171–​3; Kloppenborg, “Associations, Christ Groups,” 18–​23; John K. Chow, Patronage and Power: A Study of Social Networks in Corinth (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 31–​75; Richard Ascough, “Forms of Commensality,” Classical World 102.1 (2008), 42; Dennis E. Smith, “The Greco-​Roman Banquet as a Social Institution,” in Smith and Taussig, Meals in the Early Christian World, 25. The fact that such libations would not be poured out to Caesar during Christian banquets provides support for Streett’s argument that early Christian meals were, in at least some senses, inherently subversive (R. Alan Streett, Subversive Meals: An Analysis of the Lord’s Super under Roman Domination during the First Century [Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2013], 50). Ascough, “Forms of Commensality,” 42, 44; Kloppenborg, “Associations, Christ Groups,” 1–​4. Hal Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation & Early Christian Identity (Minneapolis, MI: Fortress Press, 2009), 102–​3. Ibid., 121–​5. Ibid., 121; Streett, Subversive Meals, 47–​9.

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cultivated certain dispositions among them.17 This dynamic operated right at the site of one of the Greco-​Roman banquet’s deepest tensions, namely the tension between social equality and social stratification.18 And it is here that we see most clearly the power of the Greco-​Roman banquet in forming both the politics and the moral character of participants. Social Equality-​In relation to the value of social equality, this is true because, on the one hand, the most important stated values of the banquet included κοινωνία (“fellowship,” “community,” or “mutual participation”) and ἰσότης (“equality”).19 These communal virtues could be embedded in the shape of the meal, as banqueters often “ate the same food, drank the same wine from the same krater, sang the paean together in unison, and contributed their share to the sympotic entertainment and sometimes even to the food (as in a potluck party).”20 Moreover, the practice of adopting “a ‘flat hierarchy’ whereby members were chosen on a rotating basis to serve as [leaders]” could foster and create a sense of equality at meals. Dining together in such ways formed the participants politically, because eating and drinking together allowed an association to “become ‘visible’ to itself,” to become a “we” made up of individuals who understood who was in and who was out.21 Such conviviality created social obligations, as can be seen in regulations that fined members for not coming to the aid of their fellow members in distress.22 Indeed, Smith argues that banquets both confirmed in-​group boundaries and created ties between banqueters “that did not exist previously.”23 This can be seen in Plutarch’s discussion of how best to arrange a banquet in line with the “friendship making character” (ϕιλοποιός) of the table.24 For Plutarch, the banquet creates friendship, which Aristotle identifies as a virtue25 associated with the corollary virtues of κοινωνία26 and ἰσότης.27 Here we see the connection between associational banquets and moral formation; as Smith suggests, “what emerges from an analysis of Plutarch’s material is a definition of an ethical relationship … created by the sharing of the meal.”28 17 Ascough, “Social and Political,” 61. 18 Smith, “Greco-​Roman Banquet,” 28–​9. Cf. also Klinghardt, “Typology,” 13–​14. 19 Streett, Subversive Meals, 23–​5. 20 Klinghardt, “Typology,” 14–​15. 21 Ascough, “Social and Political,” 37. 22 Ibid., 62. 23 Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist, 10. 24 Plutarch, Quaest. conv. (I.612). 25 Aristotle, Eth. nic. VIII.i.1. 26 “κοινωνία is the essence of friendship” (Aristotle, Eth. nic. VIII.ix.2). 27 Aristotle, Eth. nic. VIII.vi.7. 28 Smith, “Meals and Morality,” 322.

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Moreover, the meal fostered virtuous dispositions among participants in line with its emphasis on solidarity in other ways as well. The well-​attested fact that “associations enforced codes of behavior on members had the double effect of eliminating untrustworthy members and creating internal ‘networks of trust.’ ”29 More importantly for our understanding of 1 Cor 11:17–​34, a number of associational inscriptions use language from the δοκιμ-​word group to refer to associations’ evaluation of the character of potential members. In doing so, associations appear to be mimicking an Athenian political practice of publicly “examining candidates for office.”30 But such testing clearly included debate about the moral character of those examined, a practice also attested, for instance, in a second century C.E. associational inscription which speaks of vetting members to discern whether they are “pure and pious and good.”31 Indeed, associations regularly celebrated the “standard set of civic virtues,”32 not least in order to stir up the “requisite benefaction for and maintenance of the group.”33 Nor was such benefaction solely the domain of the elite. Schellenberg argues that even the very poor can and do participate in networks of reciprocity and exchange through what he refers to as “swapping.”34 The evidence of such swapping suggests the moralizing discourse of associations should not be seen as simply addressing higher status members, but also as presenting ideals that could be practiced at the banquet by even the fairly poor.35 Social Stratification-​Nevertheless, the value of social equality stood in strong tension with the other primary aspect of the banquet, namely the reality of social stratification. In a culture in which issues of honor, shame, and reciprocity constituted primary categories for economic and interpersonal relationships, meals provided an essential context for earning, distributing, and competing for honor and in the ongoing attempt to acquire status, power, and economic advantage. These aspects, too, could be embodied in the performance of the banquet. Thus, a major function of banquets was “to pay tribute to merited members”36 or honored guests, and the status of those guests “was to be marked by symbols 29 Kloppenborg, “Moralizing,” 217. Cf. also Smith, “Greco-​Roman Banquets,” 30; Alicia Batten, “The Moral World of Greco-​Roman Associations,” Studies in Religion 36.1 (2007), 143–​4. 30 Ibid., 218. 31 Ibid., 219; cf. also Batten’s discussion of those virtues especially celebrated by the associations (Batten, “The Moral World,” 137–​43). 32 Kloppenborg, “Moralizing,” 225. 33 Batten, “Moral World,” 136. 34 Schellenberg, “Subsistence, Swapping,” 217. 35 Cf. Crook, “Economic Location,” 194–​97. 36 Klinghardt, “Typology,” 15.

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embedded in meal practice.”37 This could happen through participants receiving larger or higher quality fare in food or wine, a practice attested in both the elite literature38 and in the inscriptions and by-​laws of some associations.39 Moreover, while this could be altered by participants eating equal portions and qualities of food, as Pliny suggests,40 the fact that seating arrangements also recognized and created social hierarchies was practically unavoidable.41 Thus associations could fine members who competitively tried to “move up” the social hierarchy—​quite literally—​by fighting over seating arrangements or taking the seat of another.42 Indeed, whether associations met in elite homes, rented dining facilities, or in the tenement housing of lower-​status members, the very architectural structure could often exacerbate the social segregation of members.43 The awarding of titles, the creation of dedications and inscriptions listing members’ benefactions, and more all participated in a moral economy in which honor was created, competed for, earned, and distributed.44 In short, if banquets fostered certain moral and political dispositions related to equality, banquets also represented a morally and politically formative practice that recognized that “some were more equal than others.”45 These dynamics of social stratification at meals are widely discussed in the literature, but the implications for understanding first-​century meals as virtue-​forming 37 Smith, “Greco-​Roman Banquet,” 28. 38 Cf. Martial, Epigrams, I.20, 3.60 [Bailey]; Pliny, Ep. II.vi [Melmoth]; Gerd Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity: Essays on Corinth, ed. and trans. John H. Schutz (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982), 158. 39 See IDelos 1520, trans. Philip Harland, available at http://​philip​harl​and.com/​greco-​roman-​ assoc​iati​ons/​224-​hon​ors-​by-​beryt​ian-​imm​igra​nts-​for-​a-​roman-​ban​ker/​. See also Kloppenborg, “Associations, Christ Groups,” 24; Ascough, “Social and Political Charactersitics,” 59; Markus Öhler, “Cultic Meals in Associations and the Early Christian Eucharist,” Early Christianity 4.5 (2014), 496. 40 Pliny, Ep. II.vi. 41 Klinghardt, “Typology,” 15. 42 Smith, “Meals and Morality,” 324; Chow, Patronage, 68; McRae, “Eating with Honor,” 167; Theissen, Social Setting, 156; Jerome Murphy-​O’Connor, Keys to First Corinthians: Revisiting the Major Issues (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 182. 43 Murphy-​O’Connor made this case most forcefully in his argument that the Corinthian church met in a home like the large Anapaloga villa excavated in Corinth. But he has also rightly responded more recently to proposals such as Horrell’s that even if we imagine a much lower-​ status church meeting in lower-​status accommodations, architecture would push the community towards social stratification. Cf. Jerome Murphy-​O’Connor, St. Paul’s Corinth: Texts and Archaeology (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2002), 182–​85; see also the chapter on “House Church and the Eucharist” in idem, Keys to First Corinthians, 182–​92. 44 Cf. Kloppenborg, “Precedence,” 192–​3. 45 Smith, “Greco-​Roman Banquet,” 29.

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practices becomes clear once we recognize that such stratification could also be understood as morally virtuous. For Aristotle, for instance, the virtues include “magnificence”46 (μεγαλοπρεπής)—​defined in part as giving more honor and material gifts to those who are more honorable and less to those who are less honorable—​and “greatness of soul” (μεγαλοψυχία)—​defined in part as claiming as much honor as one deserves.47 It is precisely such competitive virtues that could be practiced in the banquet’s funding and execution, and such virtues are celebrated in associational inscriptions.48 Moreover, one of the primary virtues celebrated in association inscriptions is ϕιλοτιμια, a virtue that might be translated “act with public spirit”49 or “ambition,”50 and that manifested itself in a “love of honor” oriented towards the “pursuit of public honours, usually through monetary benefaction.”51 Associational inscriptions provide honors for members’ display of ϕιλοτιμια,52 and often explicitly state that such honors are designed to encourage others to compete for such ϕιλοτιμια in confidence of also receiving honors from the association as well.53 In other words, while we tend to think of character traits associated with social stratification as vices, within the Greco-​Roman world, the practice of competing for honor and accolades at meals could be understand as demonstrating, requiring, and fostering virtue among those who so competed. Critically, arguments about what constituted the best performance of a meal practice could center around which performance best served the formation of virtue and creation of relationships 46 Aristotle, Eth. nic. II.vii.6–​10. 47 Ibid. 48 On μεγαλοπρεπής see AGRW 184, available at http://​philip​harl​and.com/​greco-​roman-​assoc​iati​ ons/​184-​hon​ors-​by-​dionys​iac-​world-​wide-​per​form​ers-​for-​t-​ael​ius-​alc​ibia​des. On μεγαλοψυχία, see INysaMcCabe 2, available at http://​philip​harl​and.com/​greco-​roman-​assoc​iati​ons/​hon​ors-​ for-​alk​ibia​des-​the-​foun​der-​of-​a-​colleg​ium-​of-​nysai​ans-​at-​rome-​ca-​142-​ce/​; AGRW 21, available at http://​philip​harl​and.com/​greco-​roman-​assoc​iati​ons/​21-​dec​ree-​of-​the-​dion​ysia​sts-​reco​ gniz​ing-​a-​hero/​. 49 VGNT, 672. 50 Kloppenborg, “Moralizing,” 225. 51 Ascough, “What Are They Now Saying?,” 224. Cf. also Batten, “Moral World,” 140. 52 Cf. GRA I 19, available at http://​philip​harl​and.com/​greco-​roman-​assoc​iati​ons/​hon​ors-​by-​club-​ memb​ers-​for-​offic​ers-​mid-​iii-​bce/​. 53 Cf. AGRW 17, available at http://​philip​harl​and.com/​greco-​roman-​assoc​iati​ons/​17-​dec​ree-​of-​ the-​sacr​ific​ing-​ass​ocia​tes-​of-​ben​dis-​honor​ing-​two-​memb​ers/​; GRA I 37, available at http://​ philip​harl​and.com/​greco-​roman-​assoc​iati​ons/​hon​ors-​by-​the-​sacr​ific​ing-​ass​ocia​tes-​of-​the-​mot​ her-​of-​the-​gods-​for-​a-​secret​ary-​175​174-​bce/​; GRA I 17, available at http://​philip​harl​and. com/​greco-​roman-​assoc​iati​ons/​dec​ree-​of-​soci​ety-​memb​ers-​272​271-​bce/​. Ascough has thus overstated his case that associations unambiguously understood themselves as places free from “the agonistic exchanges typical of the Greco-​Roman culture” (Ascough, “Forms,” 38).

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that constituted the telos of the meal.54 So, for instance, in Plutarch’s argument with Timon about whether hierarchical seating arrangements are good or bad, both ground their otherwise contradictory arguments in which arrangement best serves the “friendship making character” of the table.55 Thus competitive, socially-​ stratifying meal practices could be understood as virtuous, rather than vicious. Smith is right therefore to suggest that what we might simply understand as “etiquette,” the ancients understood as a “significant component of moral philosophy.”56 For my purposes, the essential point is that the practice of such etiquette by Greco-​Roman banqueters—​whether it tended more towards social equality or social stratification—​both shaped the community politically and fostered certain moral dispositions understood by practitioners as virtuous.

First Century Passover Meals as Formative Practices If Greco-​ Roman congregants in Corinth would have understood the Lord’s Supper at least partially by way of analogy with association banquets, the Jewish apostle Paul and the rest of the NT clearly connect the Lord’s Supper with the Passover celebration.57 Since the Passover provides another important banquet that shaped Paul and the Corinthians’ perspective on the eucharist, it is worth exploring whether this particular banquet also served as a formative practice in Paul’s day.58 The OT clearly presents the Passover as a formative practice. In Exodus, the meal is offered as an ongoing ritual practice that would shape the politics of Israel’s identity. Exodus 12:48 instructs foreigners who want to participate to be circumcised first. The Passover meal is here intertwined with the primary sign of membership in the covenant community, and failure to keep it leads to expulsion from that community (Num 9:13).59 The Passover served as a politically-​formative practice under Hezekiah as well. This can be seen in Hezekiah’s emphasis that all 54 Smith, “Meals and Morality,” 322. Cf. also Pliny, Ep. II.vi.1–​6. 55 Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.615–​17. 56 Smith, “Greco-​Roman Banquet,” 30. 57 As I have argued in detail elsewhere (Rhodes, “Forward unto Virtue,” 128–​30). 58 This is true even if all Jewish meals in the first century were, at least in form, simply variants of a more common Greco-​Roman banquet institution, as argued by Klinghardt and Smith (on which see their respective essays in Meals in the Early Christian World). I, however, am sympathetic with Patterson’s argument that the Passover provided the primary background for Paul’s own understanding, and that the apostle expected his audience to know about Passover as well (cf. Patterson, Keeping the Feast, 150). 59 For a reiteration of this theme, cf. Jub. 49:9 in the Second Temple period and m. Pesah 3:6; 9:1–​4 in the rabbinic.

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the people from across the divided kingdom should join (2 Chron 30:1–​9). Ezra 6:19–​22 indicates that the feast included Jews returning from exile and all of those who had joined them from other people groups. In short, to celebrate Passover in the OT is to be a part of God’s people, and provisions are made for everyone to participate.60 Moreover, the Passover meal in the OT forms moral vision and the virtue of memory in participants.61 Banqueters at the Passover participated in a “compressed narrative” of the exodus. Israel was to embed future generations into the community’s story of salvation such that each generation could say they were celebrating Passover because of what “the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt” (Exod 13:8 NRSV, italics added). The close connection between the virtue-​ forming power of the embodied reenactment of the exodus and the Passover meal itself comes out in Exod 13:9, where YHWH declares that the meal will be a sign and memorial “so that the law of the Lord may be in your mouth.” The righteous requirements of the law are, in some sense, ingested in the Passover, as the meal practice forms the virtuous habits of memory, gratitude, and obedience in participants.62 But was Passover celebrated as a formative practice in Jesus’s day? Many scholars suggest that first century Passover meals lacked the “distinctive elements … interpreted for the edification of the participants in a ritual retelling” that would link such elements to the exodus.63 If true, this would obviously undermine the case for understanding the first century Passover banquet as a formative practice. There are, however, good reasons for rejecting these scholars’ arguments. First, there is clear evidence that the Passover of the Second Temple period was a requirement for all Israel, that failure to celebrate the Passover led to expulsion from the community,64 and that foreigners could be excluded from eating 60 This is implied through the universal participation required in Exod 12:47. In the later rabbinic period, it is made explicit (m. Pesah 10:1). 61 See Brant Pitre, Jesus and the Last Supper (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015), 378; Streett, Subversive Meals, 56–​8. 62 Furthermore, the Passover’s formation of memory and moral vision among participants not only looked back to the exodus, but could also look forward to the coming restoration (2 Chron 30:9). This movement culminates in the association of the Passover with the Lord’s future eschatological redemption, a development at least as old as the Septuagint’s translation of Jer 38:7–​9, which declares that God’s redemption will come “during the feast of Passover” (Pitre, Jesus and the Last Supper, 388). On the eschatological anti-​imperialism of first-​century Passover celebrations, see Streett, Subversive Meals, 76–​78. 63 Marcus, “Passover,” 304–​6; Joshua Kulp, “The Origins of the Seder and Haggadah,” CBR 4.1 (2005), 113. 64 Jub. 49:9–​10.

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it.65 As in Exod 12:48 and Num 9:13–​14, then, the Passover meal of the Second Temple served as an ongoing practice that shaped the politics of Israel’s identity. Second, it is clear that Philo, Josephus, and the author of Jubilees all saw the ongoing Passover festival as commemorating the exodus from Egypt.66 Indeed, the memory-​forming function of the Passover meal is emphasized in several texts.67 Third, there is evidence that a symbolic interpretation of the ritual elements of the meal in line with the exodus story could be an explicit part of the Second Temple Passover festival. Thus, Philo provides an interpretation of the unleavened bread as a sign of the speed with which the Israelites left Egypt, and the bitter herbs as a sign of their bitter lives in slavery.68 That the Synoptic Gospels, rooted in pre-​70 traditions, present Jesus as presiding over a meal that includes ritually distributed wine and bread combined with an (innovative) interpretation of these elements provides further support to the idea that the Passover had symbolic, ritual, formative elements associated with the exodus in Jesus’s day.69 Moreover, Paul clearly associates the Passover with the Lord’s Supper, suggesting that he may well have understood the Lord’s Supper as being politically and morally formative in ways analogous to the Passover. There is therefore compelling evidence that both Greco-​Roman banquets in general and the Passover celebration specifically could operate as formative practices. These meals—​which certainly informed both Paul and the Corinthians’ perspective on the eucharistic meal—​involved the quite practical performance of actual meals in which actual people ate and drank together. At the same time, however, the telos of such meals included an embedded intention to form the politics of the community and the moral character of those who engaged in them.

Gathering for the Worse in Corinth We are now ready to consider Paul’s treatment of the Corinthians’ eucharistic practice. After praising the Corinthian congregation for following his instructions in 11:2–​16, Paul launches directly into an attack on the Corinthian church’s attempt to practice the Lord’s Supper (11:17–​22).

65 Josephus, J.W. 6.427. 66 Cf. Jub. 49:2; Philo, Spec. 2.145–​49; Josephus, Ant. 2:313; 3:248; 17:213. 67 Cf. Josephus, Ant. 2:313, 3:248, 17:213; Philo, Spec. 2:146; Jub. 49:6–​7. 68 Philo, QE 1.15; Marcus, “Passover,” 315. 69 Marcus, “Passover,” 311–​14, 317–​18.

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But in giving the following directives, I do not praise you, because you do not gather together for the better, but for the worse. For in the first place, I hear that when you come together in the church (ἐν ἐκκλησία) there are divisions among you—​and in part I believe it! For surely70 it is necessary for there to be divisions among you, so that those who are approved may be revealed among you! Therefore, when you come together in the same place, you are not able to eat the Lord’s Supper. For each goes ahead with his own supper while eating, and while one is hungry, another is drunk! Do you not have houses for eating and drinking? Or do you despise the church of God and shame the “have nots”? What shall I say to you? Shall I praise you? I will not praise you in this! (1 Cor 11:17–​22)71

Read in dialogue with formative practice theory and our exploration of first-​century banquets, several features become clear. First, Paul summarizes his complaint in v. 17 by stating that the Corinthians do not gather together for the better, but for the worse. Indeed, Paul declares that their behavior is so detrimental that the Corinthian church simply is unable to practice the Lord’s Supper at all.72 The rest of the passage will outline what this “worse” looks like, but an essential and often undeveloped point is that for Paul the gathering of the church ought to be for the betterment of the church.73 This suggests Paul understood the Lord’s Supper as a practice that would shape the character of the congregation “for the better.” Chrysostom is exceptional in drawing out this point. He argues that the Lord’s Supper, practiced aright, fostered virtue and solidarity within the community.74 When Chrysostom turns in his commentary to v. 17, he paraphrases Paul’s words about coming together for the worse: “because ye do not go forward unto virtue. 70 The gloss “for surely it is necessary” is an attempt to render the phrase ἵνα καὶ οἱ δόκιμοι ϕανεροὶ γένωνται ἐν ὑμῖν in a way that suggests the ironic tone with which Paul writes this phase (on which see below). 71 Author’s translation. 72 The syntax of 11:20b could be read in several ways. First, ϕαγεῖν could be translated as an infinitive of purpose. It seems unlikely, however, that the Corinthians did not genuinely intend to celebrate the Lord’s Supper, at least at some level. The second option is to render the phrase “it is not the Lord’s Supper that you eat” (cf. Fee, Corinthians, 593; ESV; NET; NIV). This interpretation has Paul simply declaring that their meal is not the Lord’s Supper. This is less likely grammatically, and while it is no doubt in some sense true, it does not seem to capture all that Paul is saying. The option accepted here translates ἔστιν as “it is possible,” so that the entire expression would indicate that their behavior makes it impossible for them to eat the Lord’s Supper (cf. BDAG, 285; Thiselton, Corinthians, 862–​63; Thomas Charles Edwards, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians [London: Hamilton, Adams & Co., 1885], 286). 73 Cf. also 3:8–​18; 8:1; 14:3–​26; note also the negative examples in 8:10, 10:23. 74 John Chrysostom, The Homilies of Saint John Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople, on the Epistles of Paul to the Corinthians, NPNF (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1956), 157.

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For it were meet that your liberality should increase and become manifold.”75 Chrysostom thus directly connects Paul’s condemnation with the Corinthians’ failure to embody the practice of the Lord’s Supper in such a way that it would shape the individual and corporate character of the community. This brings us to the second point: it is precisely because Paul understands the Supper as a formative practice that he argues the “moral defects” in their performance of the meal render it completely ineffective, and indeed no Lord’s Supper at all. Such a dynamic reflects MacIntyre’s contention that practices both form and require virtue,76 as well as with the first century understanding that the character-​forming dynamic of the meal required proper meal etiquette and virtuous dispositions.77 But what behavior was it that Paul found so reprehensible that he declared that what the Corinthians thought was the Lord’s Supper was no such thing? Paul clearly decries the existence of σχίσματα (“divisions”) in the church (v. 18). He associates those σχίσματα with two specific accusations. First, when they gather together each person “goes ahead with” or “takes” (προλαμβάνει) their own supper (τὸ ἴδιον δεῖπνον) during the meal. Second, the result is that some are hungry while others are drunk (v. 20). Paul describes such behavior as both “despising the church” and “shaming the ‘have nots’ (τοὺς μὴ ἔχοντας).” Despite broad agreement on these basic issues, enormous amounts of scholarly ink have been spilled arguing for a precise understanding as to what exactly such rhetoric points. The issue is complicated because scholars must reconstruct the most likely background to the text in at least three areas: the economic profile of the Corinthian community, the way the meal was provisioned, and precisely how the “haves” shamed the “have nots” at such a meal.

Economic Profiles for the Corinthian Community The question of the economic profile of the Corinthian congregation may be the easiest to answer because, after decades of (often vitriolic) debate, scholars appear to be reaching some consensus about socio-​economic stratification in the Roman empire in general and the Corinthian congregation in particular. Much of the scholarship of the last 30 years has engaged with Theissen’s now famous statement: “If Paul says that there were not many in the Corinthian congregation who were wise, powerful, and wellborn, then this much is certain: there 75 Ibid., 158. 76 MacIntyre, AV, 191. 77 On which, see above.

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were some.”78 Friesen’s provision of a “poverty scale” helpfully launched a series of attempts to provide more precise economic levels for both the Roman empire and early Pauline communities in particular.79 In a recent treatment, Brookins draws on Friesen’s original scale, as well as important counter proposals by Oakes80 and Longenecker,81 to suggest the following categories and percentages:82

• Elite (3%), • Moderate Surplus (15–​25%), • Near (at or above) Subsistence (60–​70%), and • Below Subsistence (10–​20%).

Such numbers make clear that the vast majority of the Greco-​Roman world lived near or below subsistence, with literal survival a major concern for huge swaths of the population. Even if Rome did offer some socio-​economic improvements over its predecessors for at least some citizens,83 for most individuals, life in this slave society and economy84 was dangerous, vulnerable, brutal, and short, with oppressive forces driving the increasing acquisition of power, wealth, and status into the hands of an elite few.85 At the same time, such numbers also clearly indicate that there was nevertheless something of a “middling” group with moderate 78 Theissen, Social Setting, 72. 79 Friesen, “Poverty in Pauline Studies,” 341. He saw this work as building on the “necessary polemical work” of Meggitt, whose “binary” approach had rightly identified that the vast majority of the Greco-​Roman population was economically poor, but failed to explain any of the important differentiation that occurred within this enormous “sub-​elite” group (Ibid., 339–​40; see Justin Meggitt, Paul, Poverty, and Survival [Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998]). It is important to note just how similar much of Friesen’s actual proposals are to those of the so-​called “new consensus,” despite Friesen’s strong polemic against such an alleged consensus (see John M. Barclay, “Poverty in Pauline Studies: A Response to Steven Friesen,” JSNT 26.3 [2004]: 363–​6). 80 Peter Oakes, Reading Romans in Pompeii: Paul’s Letter at Ground Level (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2009), 66. 81 Bruce W. Longenecker, Remember the Poor: Paul, Poverty, and the Greco-​Roman World (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 53. 82 This chart is slightly adapted from Timothy A. Brookins, “Economic Profiling of Early Christian Communities,” in Blanton and Pickett, Paul and Economics, 81. 83 Cf. David B. Hollander, “The Roman Economy in the Early Empire: An Overview,” in Blanton and Pickett, Paul and Economics, 19; Albino Barrera, Biblical Economic Ethics: Sacred Scripture’s Teachings on Economic Life (Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2013), 127–​40. 84 Cf. Walter Scheidel, “Slavery,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Economy, ed. Walter Scheidel (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 89. 85 On which see Liu, “Urban Poverty,” 23–​56; Horsley, “Paul’s Shift,” 89–​124; L.L. Wellborn, “Inequality in Roman Corinth: Evidence from Diverse Sources Evaluated by a Neo-​Ricardian Model,” in Harrison and Wellborn, Urban Churches, 52–​67.

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surplus on the one hand, and significant diversity within the lower classes on the other. Moreover, such diversity opened the door for the possibility of climbing the social ladder.86 In many of Paul’s churches, most congregants came from the 70 to 90% of the population who were near or below subsistence, with some congregations possibly having a small minority of members with a moderate surplus. Associational parallels and anthropological accounts of the generosity of even the very poor through “swapping” make it clear that many early Christ-​groups could and did survive despite being made up exclusively of individuals at or below subsistence.87 Indeed, this may have been the norm. Moreover, it is important to recognize that the swapping, contributions, and generosity of those living on the edge of subsistence could coexist alongside larger contributions from members with a moderate surplus in those congregations of which they were a part.88 This same data drives us towards the conclusion that the Corinthian assembly may have experienced more social stratification than other Pauline congregations, especially since a majority of those individuals named by Paul who may have been at the “moderate surplus” level were in Corinth.89 Of these, only Erastus may have been an actual member of the Corinthian elite.90 Indeed, even if we assume a larger “middling” group within the Corinthian congregation, the vast majority of the church almost certainly belonged to the lower levels (cf. 1 Cor 1:26–​30).

86 For evidence related specifically to Corinth, see Wellborn, “Inequality,” 47–​74; Horsley, “1 Corinthians,” 229. For the reminder that the more likely prospect was downward mobility, see Liu, “Urban Poverty,” 54. 87 Cf. Schellenberg, “Subsistence, Swapping,” 217–​27; Robert Jewett, “Tenement Churches and Communal Meals in the Early Church: The Implications of a Form-​Critical Analysis of 2 Thessalonians 3:10,” Biblical Research 38 (1993), 23–​40. 88 Thus Schellenberg is right to note the evidence for some levels of “social stratification in the early assemblies,” while still challenging us to “reflect on what Paul’s rhetoric of generosity would have meant not only for the relatively secure few but also for the precariously situated majority” (Schellenberg, “Subsistence Swapping,” 225). See also Crook, “Economic Location,” 197. 89 See Theissen, Social Setting, 70–​99; Friesen, “Paul and Economics,” 40; Longenecker, Remember the Poor, 235–​53; Crook, “Economic Location,” 183–​204; Brookins, “Economic Profiling,” 82–​4; Wellborn, “Inequality,” 67–​75. 90 In support, see Theissen, Social Setting, 75–​83; Wellborn, “Inequality,” 71–​3; Timothy A. Brookins, “The (In)frequency of the Name ‘Erastus’ in Antiquity: A Literary, Papyrological, and Epigraphical Catalog,” NTS 59 (2013), 507–​ 8. For arguments against, see especially Longenecker, Remember the Poor, 236–​9.

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How Did the Corinthians Provide for the Meal and Shame the “Have Nots?” The question of how exactly the higher status believers were shaming the “have nots” at the Lord’s Supper is harder to answer, not least because of the dizzying number of suggestions as to how the eucharistic meal would have been provisioned. Perhaps most commonly, scholars have argued that one or more of the wealthier members provided the meal, and then, because lower status individuals could not arrive till later, these same wealthier members consumed the food before they arrived.91 Others have argued, either as an alternative or as a supplement to this account, that higher status individuals ate in the triclinium, where they might also have received larger portions and higher quality fare.92 Yet another option is to see the meal as having been provisioned more like a potluck, a proposal that can be combined with the suggestion that those who arrived early consumed what they had before others arrived or that people treated what they brought as their own, leaving the lower status members hungry.93 Adding to these traditional options, Kloppenborg has recently argued that the Corinthian congregation likely provisioned their meals in one of two ways analogous to other association practices. First, they might have done so through “rotating liturgies,” in which leadership would revolve and whoever was in charge at the time would provide the meal.94 Second, they might have provisioned the meal through monthly membership dues.95 In either case, he believes that somehow members were greedily seizing the portions of others.96 Although he seems to dismiss the possibility, another option is that members voluntarily made payments to a common fund that was used to provision the meal, a possibility that leaves wide open the idea that those who felt they contributed more claimed a larger share of

91 For the specific sub-​options within this view, see Theissen, Social Setting, 152; O’Connor, Keys, 186; B. D. Smith, “The Problem with the Observance of the Lord’s Supper in the Corinthian Church,” Bulletin for Biblical Research 20.4 (2010), 521, 522, and 526. 92 Theissen, Social Setting, 148–​59; Thiselton, Corinthians, 850; O’Connor, Corinth, 153–​61; Fee, Corinthians, 599–​600; Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 55; Smith, Symposium to Eucharist, 175; Mark P. Surburg, “The Situation at the Corinthian Lord’s Supper in Light of 1 Corinthians 11:21: A Reconsideration,” Concordia Journal 32.1 (2006), 36–​37. 93 Peter Lampe, “The Eucharist: Identifying with Christ on the Cross,” Interpretation 48.1 (1994), 39; I. Howard Marshall, Last Supper & Lord’s Supper (Vancouver, BC: Regent College Publishing, 2006), 109; Sampley, Walking, 177. 94 Kloppenborg, “Precedence,” 186–​8. 95 Ibid., 188–​93. 96 Ibid., 203.

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the banquet, whether in literal quantity or through higher quality fare and preferred seating arrangements.97 There are strengths and weaknesses to all of these views, and precise determination may be impossible.98 Nevertheless, I suggest that reading 1 Cor 11:17–​22 in light of these various theories allows us to come to the following conclusions. First, the problems at the Lord’s Supper involved a performance of the meal that exalted those higher on the socio-​economic ladder over and against the “have nots.” This probably occurred in a variety of ways, including through hierarchical seating arrangements, differing qualities of food, different portion sizes, and some ordered preference in terms of being served. Given that the issue of seating arrangements was essentially unavoidable and that Paul clearly speaks to differentiated portions, I suggest that we can be essentially certain that social stratification occurred at the table through these mechanisms at least.99 Second, given the real economic poverty of a substantial portion of the congregation, we should understand this stratification to have led to real deprivation for at least some of the “have nots.” At the same time, the evidence that meals could be provided in part through the contributions of relatively poor members100 and that socio-​economic stratification led to intense competition even among such 97 Cf. Kloppenborg, “Precedence,” 192. 98 Views that focus on start time may assume an anachronistic view of the work day of lower status believers and cannot prove conclusively that προλαμβάνω should be understood temporally (Kloppenborg, “Precedence,” 193–​201). Although seating arrangements could reinforce social hierarchies in nearly any meal setting, reconstructions that emphasize a lavish triclinium and the majority of the guests in an atrium have been challenged (see David G. Horrell, “Domestic Space and Christian Meetings at Corinth: Imagining New Contexts and the Buildings East of the Theatre,” NTS 50.3 [2004], 351–​68). Kloppenborg confronts the consensus concerning the meals being provided by patronage with the evidence that no association meals depended on ongoing patronage for anywhere near the number of meals required by the Corinthian church (Kloppenborg, “Precedence,” 179). Potluck-​style meals, too, seem rare, at least among associations (Ibid., 180–​4). On the other hand, we have no evidence for churches with membership dues or rotating liturgies, a point Kloppenborg wrongly downplays (Ibid., 189). Moreover, his reconstruction renders nearly everything Paul says in 11:17–​22 as hyperbole (Ibid., 202–​3), a possibility I find unlikely based on the very real economic poverty of many in the congregation. None of this should be too alarming, since most scholars agree now that we should not see Pauline groups as households, associations, etc., but as simultaneously like each of these in some ways and different from them in others. But that does not make determining the precise background to Paul’s words easier. 99 Based on the economic profiles described above, it is extremely unlikely that the issue is not the real shaming and possible deprivation of individuals facing subsistence issues at a eucharist celebrated as a full meal (contra Meggitt, Paul, 189–​95). 100 Cf. Kloppenborg, “Precedence,” 186–​93; Crook, “Economic Location,” 192–​203.

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relatively poor members means that the bad behavior Paul criticizes may not have been limited to the three or four most well-​off individuals. Third, the language of each going ahead with τὸ ἴδιον δεῖπνον (“one’s own supper”) indicates that this performance of the Lord’s Supper is for the worse instead of the better in part because the more powerful seek their own good—​in terms of food, but also in terms of honor and socio-​economic standing—​rather than the good of the body of Christ. Moreover, the reference to τὸ ἴδιον δεῖπνον also suggests that such a meal performance is bound up in the fact that, however the meal was provisioned, some believed they could reasonably claim that they had provided more than others. In any case, Paul declares that when they feast on their own banquets they find themselves unable to feast at the Lord’s. It must be stated as clearly as possible that the socio-​economically more powerful members of the Corinthian church, and perhaps even some of the lower-​ status members, would have seen all of this as culturally appropriate business as usual. Since all banquets negotiated the tension between social solidarity and social stratification, higher status believers no doubt could have pointed to strong elements of solidarity in their performance of the meal. Because the embodiment of both solidarity and the competition for and distribution of honor could be understood in terms of the virtuous character appropriate to such groups, they may have seen their arrangement of the meal as simply the performance best suited to the “friendship-​making character of the table,” as Plutarch argued. Indeed, given that the Corinthian church met far more often for meals than the typical association and seems to have spanned an even larger socio-​economic range than most, the social stratification that did occur may have been seen as even more inevitable and appropriate, and what social solidarity the group embodied may have seemed particularly generous.101 Surely, the Corinthians may have thought, providing some sign of honor and status to those who have done so much to make the meal possible, and who have already journeyed further down the social ladder than they otherwise would have through joining the Corinthian church,102 cannot present a major problem. Paul strongly disagrees. Standing in a long tradition of prophets who condemned the worship of God’s people because of their oppression of the socio-​ economically poor,103 the apostle declares that their behavior makes it utterly impossible to call the meal they are eating a genuine Lord’s Supper. 101 In fact, the Corinthian congregation appears to have been more diverse both ethnically and socio-​economically than most contemporary Western churches! 102 See John M. G. Barclay, Pauline Churches and Diaspora Jews (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2016), 120. 103 cf. Isa 1:11–​17; Amos 5:17–​24.

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Paul draws on the rhetoric of benefaction and the recognition of honor to emphasize his prophetic point. Twice he uses the verb ἐπαινέω (“praise”) to declare that he has no praise for those who are behaving this way in church. But as Kloppenborg notes, ἐπαινέω is “probably the most common verb used in the construction of honorific decrees.”104 If those in Corinth who were shaming the have-​nots did so by claiming prerogatives they believed were due to them because of their contributions to the group, Paul’s refusal to give them praise is nothing less than an ironic slap in the face. Such irony is deepened by Paul’s provocative statement that “it is necessary for there to be divisions among you, so that those who are approved (οἱ δόκιμοι) may be revealed among you.”105 The language of οἱ δόκιμοι can refer to those “considered worthy of high regard, respect, or esteemed,”106 and, as we saw above,107 is often used, along with its verbal cognate (δοκιμάζω), to describe the testing and approval of new members in an association. “Consequently, the term genuine … derives its primary meaning from the politics of the table whereby rankings are to be assigned to those of higher status”108 and of demonstrated or approved character.109 But Paul deploys such language with deep irony. At the table, the Corinthians apparently competed for honors, superior seating, and better fare. Those who received such accolades certainly assumed that they were thereby revealed to be the δόκιμοι. Throughout the letter, however, Paul has sought to show the church that the “logic of the cross” entails a radical redefinition of value (cf. 1 Cor 1:18). Through the lens of the cross, the Corinthian performance of the meal has indeed revealed who the approved are, but it has not generated the result the Corinthians expected. Indeed, the very “behaviors they thought merely marked them as social elites in fact ironically marked them as standing under divine judgment.”110 Such 1 04 Kloppenborg, “Associations, Christ Groups,” 39. 105 Alternative interpretations include Last’s argument that Paul is calling for elections of group leaders in the Christ-​group (Richard Last, “The Election of Officers in the Corinthian Christ-​ Group,” NTS 59 [2013]: 365–​81). While ingenious, this solution creates more problems than it solves (cf. Timothy A. Brookins, “The Supposed Election of Officers in 1 Cor 11.19: A Response to Richard Last,” NTS 60 [2014], 424–​31). Another alternative is to view Paul’s words (whether citing a Corinthian slogan or not) as simply bitterly sarcastic (cf. Horsley, Corinthians, 159). 106 Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 544. 107 Kloppenborg, “Moralizing,” 218–​19. 108 Smith, Symposium to Eucharist, 197; cf. also McRae, “Eating,” 179; Sampley, Walking, 245. 109 In Wisdom and prophetic literature, the verbal form is often associated with the testing and refining of metals (Prov 8:10; 17:3; 27:21; Wis 3:6; Sir 2:5; Zech 13:9; Jer 9:6). Paul appears to use the word similarly when he speaks in 1 Cor 3:13 of a person’s work being tested or approved by fire. 110 Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 544.

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a conclusion is further underscored by the apocalyptic context of this particular passage111 and of the broader NT’s use of the δόκιμ-​word group (1 Cor 3:13, 4:5; James 1:12; 1 Pet 1:7). As in 1:18–​2:26, then, Paul is providing a “redefinition”112 of the Corinthian goal of being revealed as the δόκιμοι at table. It is important to note, however, that Paul does indeed approve of this goal.113 As we saw previously, Paul tells the Corinthians about his own efforts in striving to assure that he himself not be found unapproved (ἀδόκιμος; 9:24–​27).114 Furthermore, just a few verses later in 11:28, Paul will challenge each congregant to δοκιμαζέτω … ἑαυτὸν (“test themselves”). Yet the quest for approval and genuine standing looks completely different, indeed is transformed from the inside out, when that approval is revealed by the God embodied in the Crucified One and the path through such testing is that of cruciform love.115 The meal the Corinthians share together, then, is a gathering for the worse because, through the exaltation of the “haves” and the shaming of the “have nots” in an unequal performance of the meal, their banquet formed a community whose politics and moral character were more Corinthian than Christian. Just as baptismal catechisms and church seating arrangements in the slaveholding South were coopted by white supremacy, turning those churches into habitats of racial vice, the cooption of the Lord’s Supper by oppressive Corinthian political and moral norms transformed the eucharist into a de-​forming practiced that fostered serious sin. From Paul’s perspective, this is a disaster. Indeed, in addition to their Lord’s Supper embracing an apparently habitual shaming of the “have nots,” it constitutes a despising of the very ἐκκλησίας τοῦ θεοῦ (“church of God;” 11:22). As such, it is a gathering that makes the Corinthians worse.

1 11 On which, see below. 112 Brookins, “The Supposed Election,” 427. 113 Cf. also Horrell, Social Ethos, 151. 114 See also below on 11:28. 115 Brookins, “Supposed Election,” 427. Note that these conclusions are fully compatible with arguments that such divisions truly are necessary either (a) eschatologically (Ibid., 424–​6; Thiselton, Corinthians, 859) or, in a fallen world, as (b) the “presenting occasion that provokes the crucial exercise of discernment by which the body of Christ is built up” (Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 51).

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Gathering for the Better Understanding how the Corinthians were gathering for the worse raises the question of what it would look like for the church to gather for the better.116 Henderson argues that the majority of commentators drive a wedge between the sacramental and the social elements of the passage by emphasizing the way that the socio-​economic discrimination of the Corinthians invalidates the sacramental meal.117 This is fine as far as it goes. But Henderson rightly recognizes that this interpretation subtly neglects the question of how the sacramental meal ought to have solved the socio-​economic discrimination.118 In other words, scholars have demonstrated that Corinthian immoral behavior could ruin the Supper, but they have not explored adequately how the Supper could heal such immoral behavior. Because of this neglect, certain portions of the passage seem highly problematic, particularly Paul’s apparent “compromise,” in Theissen’s famous words,119 of allowing the wealthy simply to eat their overindulgent, hierarchically stratified meals in their own homes (v. 34).120 Against this interpretation, I will argue that reading 11:23–​34 in conversation with our theory of formative practices will make clear how Paul’s re-​formation of the Corinthian meal culminates in a banquet that is “for the better.” This interpretation will demonstrate precisely why Theissen’s argument that Paul compromises with the higher status Corinthians is so problematic and suggest an alternative reading of v. 34.

“Do This in Remembrance of Me:” Feasting with the Crucified Lord In his attempt to help the Corinthians reform their Lord’s Supper, Paul begins by reminding them of the story of Jesus’s Last Supper. For I received from the Lord what I passed on to you, that the Lord Jesus, on the night that he was handed over, he took bread, and after giving thanks, he broke it and said: “This is my body for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper, [he took] the cup, saying: “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in

1 16 Cf. Samra, Being Conformed, 147–​9. 117 Suzanne Watts Henderson, “ ‘If Anyone Hungers...’: An Integrated Reading of 1 Cor 11.17–​ 34,” NTS 48.2 (2002), 197. 118 Theissen, Social Setting, 164; Thiselton, Corinthians, 899. 119 Theissen, Social Setting, 164. 120 Rhodes, “Forward,” 132–​3.

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remembrance of me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes. (1 Cor 11:23–​26)121

This narration of the eucharistic meal includes several features important for understanding how Paul invites the Corinthians to feast “for the better.” “Jesus Took Bread … . .” Moral Formation and the Story of the Supper-​First, note that after rebuking “the community for a meal that is not Christ-​like,” Paul does not order them to stop feasting at all, but instead “offers an authoritative paradigm from the Jesus tradition to reshape their sacred meal into a gathering ‘for the better.’ ”122 Given the importance of stories in the process of moral formation, it is no surprise that the paradigm Paul offers includes the story of Jesus’s self-​sacrificial death on behalf of his followers. The emphasis on Jesus’s death is explicit in 11:26b, but the nature of his death on the cross is indicated throughout. Paul recounts the words Jesus spoke “on the night he was handed over,” a probable allusion to Judas’s betrayal of Jesus into the hands of the authorities.123 The covenant that Jesus is making is in his own blood, a likely reference to Jesus as a sacrificial victim,124 and the association of the bread with Jesus’s body may work similarly.125 Calvin therefore is right to declare that the Lord’s Supper “sends us to the cross of Christ.”126 Indeed, Jesus’s offer of his body and blood for his people, performed ritually through his distribution of the bread and wine at the Last Supper, stands as one of the central moral images of the entire letter.127 At the same time, Jesus’s description of the cup as the “new covenant in my blood” provides further depth to the narrative that Paul is telling. Through the clear allusion to the promised new covenant spoken of in Jer 31:31, Jesus places his own death in the context of God’s eschatological, saving activity on behalf 1 21 Author’s translation. 122 Henderson, “If Anyone Hungers,” 203. 123 Cf. Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 549; Fee, Corinthians, 608; Streett, Subversive Meals, 206. However, there is no need to choose between this option and the alternative view that the language points to the Father’s handing over of Jesus for the sake of his people (cf. Hays, Corinthians, 198; Thiselton, Corinthians, 870; Henderson, “If Anyone Hungers,” 201). 124 This is in line with Paul’s identification of Jesus as the Passover lamb who has been sacrificed in 1 Cor 5:7. Cf. Patterson, Feast, 156–​7; Taussig, In the Beginning, 131; Christina Risch, “Wine-​ Symbolism in the Old Testament and Jewish Tradition and its Relevance for the Interpretation of the Lord’s Supper,” in Feasts and Festivals, ed. Christopher Tuckett (Walpole, MA: Peeters, 2009), 90–​5. 125 Taussig, In the Beginning, 137; Fee, Corinthians, 610; Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 550. 126 Calvin, Institutes, 103. 127 Patterson, Feast, 153.

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of his morally recalcitrant people. One key aspect of the “new covenant” was the promise that God would morally transform his people by writing the law on their hearts ( Jer 31:33), a concept that resonates with our discussion of Deuteronomy’s prophecy that God would circumcise the hearts of his people (Deut 30:6). Wells argues that Paul understood the new covenant to include “an act on the heart [that] rectifies the moral competence of the human agent;” Paul believed God had performed this new covenant act through the Christ-​event and consequent sending of the Spirit.128 The story Paul is telling, in other words, bears witness to the community’s dependence on God’s intervening action if they are to acquire the character God demands. Moreover, by reminding the Corinthians that their new covenant life in Jesus depended on his willing death on the cross, Paul reminded them that membership in this new covenant community requires and makes possible a life of cruciform love.129 Furthermore, we should note the political overtones in this passage. Meals always played an important political function in the empire, and indeed, according to Streett, served as an “integral part of the Emperor Cult.”130 But the politics of the Jesus meal are nothing short of bizarre from a Roman perspective. Crucifixion was most commonly an “imperial punishment for insurrection.”131 Celebrating the story of a king who willingly underwent crucifixion for the sake of his people would be countercultural at the very least, and possibly downright subversive. Moreover, because Paul clearly connects the Lord’s Supper to the Passover, the eucharistic story always has the politically liberative Passover narrative operating in the background.132 Early in the letter, Paul declares that the logic of the cross is abolishing the ἀρχόντων τοῦ αἰῶνος τούτου (“rulers of this age;” 2:6), in part by assembling a cruciform community made up primarily of those despised by the rulers and their systems of hierarchy and evaluation.133 From this perspective, the Corinthians’ performance of the Lord’s Supper has failed to reflect the cruciform logic of Jesus, is therefore no Lord’s Supper at all, and is mis-​shaping the congregation into the values and virtues of the oppressive 1 28 Wells, Grace and Agency, 293. 129 See Hays, “Ecclesiology and Ethics,” 33. It is interesting for the purposes of this project that this aspect of the new covenant is anticipated, as we have seen, in Deut 30:1–​10. 130 Streett, Subversive Meals, 204. 131 Taussig, In the Beginning, 130. 132 Note that Josephus “mentions ten disruptions that took place during Passover week from 4 BCE-​70 CE” (Streett, Subversive Meals, 78). 133 Horsley, “1 Corinthians,” 230.

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Corinthian world around them. To correct this abysmal failure, Paul reminds them of the politically potent story of their Crucified King, who gave his body and blood in order to establish a “new covenant” community of character. It is no surprise that the powerful in the Corinthian congregation marginalize the weaker members of the community. After all, we are “talking about a body that is to a large extent composed of what Greco-​Roman society considered to be broken, or at the very least, damaged limbs.”134 But Christ’s purposes demand precisely such a body, and only by joining in love with those at the bottom of the socio-​economic pyramid can those further up truly be a part of it.135 The meal, for Paul, is a political practice shaped by the story of Jesus that forms just such a counter-​cultural community, provided it does not get coopted by Corinthian cultural norms. Moreover, this new covenant community will, if faithful to this story, “proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (11:26b). Such language deepens the politically subversive nature of the text by declaring that the Crucified One will return. But even more importantly, such language situates the story Jesus is telling within an apocalyptic frame; the Corinthians’ lives are to be re-​shaped around Jesus, who has given himself in death and will come again in victory. Such language locates the Corinthian church within the apocalyptic space held open between the Christ-​ event and Christ’s return.136 “Do This in Remembrance of Me:” Moral Formation and the Practice of the Supper-​ Paul’s very quoting of such words “inevitably draws those who quote them inside the plot that those words narrate.”137 Yet Paul does not simply tell the Jesus story. He quotes Jesus’s command to perform the story. He thus presents the eucharistic practice as a performance of the “compressed narrative”138 that shapes both the individual and the corporate character of the community. Jesus’s stated aim is that his followers practice this cruciform story “in remembrance” of him. “Remembering” in this context, as in Deuteronomy, does not refer to mere cognitive recollection. Instead, remembering includes the eucharistic practice itself, which forms participants’ identities through their embodied participation in the “story-​shaped” Supper and through the power of the redemptive event

134 Brian K. Blount, Then the Whisper Put on Flesh: New Testament Ethics in an African American Context (Nashville, TN: Abingdon, 2001), 142. 135 Cf. Martin, Corinthian Body, 67–​76. 136 Cf. Patterson, Feast, 146; Sampley, Walking, 190. 137 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 59. 138 Smith, ItK, 20.

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the Supper narrates. The Passover meal “made contemporary” the redemption of the exodus for later generations of Israelites,139 forming their identity and sense of telos in line with God’s redemption. Similarly, the Supper shapes participants’ identity around the narrative of Christ’s sacrificial death on the cross,140 making real to them that God’s act of salvation in the past is nevertheless “for you” in the present. The Lord’s Supper, then, is a practice designed to shape the moral character of God’s people, not least through the formation of a certain kind of embodied memory. As Calvin suggests, “the purpose of the Sacrament … is to exercise us in the remembrance of Christ’s death.”141 Such a remembering not only includes a re-​telling of the story, but also the “exercise” that transforms attitudes and actions through habitual practice of that story. This is why Paul has such “strong expectations that the Corinthians’ participation in the … Lord’s Supper should have been doing them good by facilitating the development of Christlikeness.”142 Paul’s presentation suggests several other elements of the meal that strengthen the power of the banquet to shape the community’s political and moral character. The first we have already alluded to, namely that this ritual is also narrated. Barton thus speaks of the explicit “mental re-​ordering” that occurs because the participants’ minds are addressed in the words of institution.143 Because aspects of the Lord’s Supper may have seemed similar to other culturally available meal practices, Paul’s narration of the founding of this particular banquet in such stark, counter-​cultural terms seeks to wake the Corinthians up to the “embedded intention” of this practice. Second, Paul clearly believes that the church feasts in the presence of Jesus himself by the power of the Spirit. Paul is explicit about this throughout Corinthians. In 3:16 he describes the congregation as God’s temple in which his Spirit dwells. In 5:4, Paul speaks of the “power of our Lord Jesus” as present among the congregation when they are to excommunicate the immoral brother. In 10:16–​17, Paul describes the Lord’s Supper as a κοινωνία in Christ’s body and blood. The morally transformative aspects of such participation have already been alluded to in 1 Cor 1:8–​9, where Paul tells believers they can be confident that God will present them blameless on the day of the Lord because God is faithful and has called them into κοινωνία with his Son. Moreover, as we will see below, the Lord is present at the 1 39 Thiselton, Corinthians, 879. 140 So also Ciampa and Rosner, 1 Corinthians, 551. This section is derived from Rhodes, “Forward,” 134. 141 Calvin, Institutes, 109. 142 Samra, Being Conformed, 149. 143 Stephen C. Barton, “Paul’s Sense of Place: An Anthropological Approach to Community Formation in Corinth,” NTS 32. 2 (1986), 243.

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eucharistic table in disciplining the congregation precisely for their failure to celebrate the Lord’s Supper appropriately.144 Finally, one key aspect of the “new covenant” is the presence of God among his people, a presence that we have already suggested Paul interpreted as fulfilled in the giving of the Spirit.145 Ultimately, then, Paul’s hope for a transformative, “for the better” meal is grounded in the presence of Jesus at the eucharistic table.146 To practice receiving the body and blood of Jesus by sharing the bread and the wine is, for Paul, to enter into an “eschatological setting”147 in which Jesus himself is present, even given and received. As Ziegler declares, “what proves singularly decisive here is the real dynamic presence and activity of the living Lord Jesus Christ himself.”148 To celebrate the Lord’s Supper is to participate in a practice whereby Christ “becomes one’s very context.”149 Or, as Calvin puts it, the church receives the eucharistic elements “just as if Christ himself were set before our gaze and touched our hands.”150 The Lord’s Supper, then, is one of the primary second-​personal practices whereby God’s people develop a virtuous, “shared stance” with Christ. Third, there are some indications that Paul sees the eucharistic practice as taking place in sacred space. This is particularly true if Paul’s rhetorical question “do you not have houses for eating and drinking?” (11:22a) addresses home owners who are located towards the upper end of the Corinthian church’s hierarchy.151 Since some of these individuals probably hosted the congregation in their home, they might reasonably have responded: “that’s exactly what we are doing!” Such a response, though, misses that Paul seems implicitly to suggest that the Corinthians must “reconceptualize” their homes as “sacred space” when the church gathers as church.152 If those who hosted the church in Corinth felt free to arrange the social space in line with status hierarchies,153 Paul instead implies that their homes are no longer their own, but sacred spaces dedicated to the church of God. Indeed, the enacting of the eucharist itself served as a sort of “boundary-​making” 1 44 Cf. Samra, Being Conformed, 161. 145 Wells, Grace and Agency, 221. 146 On God’s presence as morally transformative, see Samra, Being Conformed, 119–​21. 147 Cf. Ziegler, Militant Grace, 74. 148 Ibid., 192. 149 Ibid., 199. 150 Calvin, Institutes, 103. 151 Fee, Corinthians, 602; Theissen, Social Setting, 96; Thiselton, Corinthians, 864; Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 546. But see below for Henderson’s alternative reading. 152 Note that in 1 Cor 14:35, Paul clearly distinguishes between the οἶκος and the ἐκκλησία, even though it is most likely that the ἐκκλησία gathered in the homes of believers. See Thiselton, Corinthians, 865; Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 546. 153 Marshall, Last Supper, 110; Theissen, Social Setting, 161.

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in which house space was transformed into sacred space.154 In this sacred space and sacred time, different rules are absolutely required. In embracing such a rearrangement of sacred space in service to a ritual celebration of the crucified Messiah, the congregation entered the sort of sacred and social space in which they could learn to live in a world remade by Jesus.155 “ You Proclaim the Lord’s Death:” Practicing Proclamation-​ Finally, when Paul quotes Jesus as declaring that the eucharistic practice “proclaims the Lord’s death,” we ought to understand this as an embodied proclamation occurring through the Lord’s Supper itself, at least when celebrated “with unity and equality.”156 The Lord’s Supper, then, is constitutive of the community’s public political character. Gathering together for the Lord’s Supper is a public performance of the political life of a community made up primarily of the foolish, weak, and lowly of the world precisely to shame and bring to nothing the wise, strong, and powerful (1 Cor 1:27). Such a feast makes king Jesus’s rule habitable. Moreover, the fact that the church gathers around a “meal which honors a criminal of the state speaks loudly in its own right.”157 The proclamation of the community’s politics would necessarily speak a subversive word to the Roman imperial politics of the day. Part of Paul’s overall argument, then, is to show the Corinthians that their “for the worse” performance of the Supper renders their practice invalid because it fails to proclaim to the world that Jesus is gathering and uniting Jews and Greeks, slaves and free, into the one people of God (1 Cor 12:13).158 Furthermore, Paul’s declaration that the church proclaims the Lord’s death makes clear that while the Lord’s Supper is indeed a communal practice, this 1 54 Barton, “Paul’s Sense of Place,” 226. 155 Cf. Ibid., 233; Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 66–​ 70; Neil Elliott, “Socioeconomic Stratification and the Lord’s Supper (1 Cor 11:17–​34),” in Blanton and Pickett, Paul and Economics, 269–​70. This background is important for recognizing that the heightened experience of the sacred space created through the practice of the eucharist requires behavior appropriate to such space, but that such behavior is a foretaste of Christ’s design for all of creation. Thus, while it is appropriate to speak of a special experience of sacred space during the eucharist, such that Paul can put “house” and “church” in contrast even when they apparently refer to identical physical structures, this broader context makes clear that the church’s lived experience in such sacred space ought to have led to an increased experience of the home itself as sacred long after the eucharist was over. This strengthens my argument below that Paul intends for the Lord’s Supper practice to dramatically reshape the moral and political lives of the church beyond the sacred meal. 156 Smith, Symposium to Eucharist, 199. See also Streett, Subversive Meals, 207–​9. 157 Streett, Subversive Meals, 208. 158 So similarly Fee, Corinthians, 587, 624; Thiselton, Corinthians, 851, 890.

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communal practice is actually a missional invitation to those outside. The proclamation that is the Lord’s Supper is always in part an invitation to the watching world to join this community. So whereas community rituals nearly always create some sense of an “us” and “them,” the sacrificial death of Christ for sinners reminds us that the church must always invite “them” to become part of “us.” In Paul’s mind, the Lord’s Supper is a practice of community formation, but the community that the Supper forms is on mission. Indeed, the Supper itself becomes part of the missional proclamation to the world outside of the church.159

Reforming the Meal Having reminded them of the paradigmatic practice given by Jesus himself against which their own banquet is found wanting, Paul turns to his direct recommendations for reforming the Supper in 11:27–​34. For this reason, whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in a way that is unfitting will be guilty of the body and the blood of the Lord. But let a person examine themselves and in this way eat from the bread and drink from the cup. For the one who eats and drinks judgment on themselves eats and drinks without recognizing the body. Because of this many among you are weak and feeble and many have died. But if we recognized ourselves, we would not be judged. But when we are judged, we are trained by the Lord, so we might not be judged condemned160 along with the world. Therefore, my brothers and sisters, when you gather together to eat, welcome one another. If anyone is hungry, they must eat in the house, so that you do not gather for judgment. And when I come I will give further instructions. (1 Cor 11:27–​34)161

In this section, Paul guides the Corinthians towards a performance of the meal that will shape their communal and individual character “for the better,” but only after first warning them of the dangers they face if they do not heed his instructions.

Eating and Drinking Judgment Paul’s prescription in 11:27–​ 34 includes several related warnings. These warnings begin in v. 27, where Paul declares that anybody who eats and drinks

159 My thanks to Dr. Rollin Grams for drawing this aspect of the text to my attention (personal correspondence). 160 I have translated κατακρίνω as “judged condemned” so as to maintain the wordplay Paul creates through his use of variations of the κρίνω word group throughout the section. 161 Author’s translation.

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ἀναξίως (“in a way that is unfitting”) will be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord. Such ἀναξίως eating and drinking is unpacked in v. 29 as partaking without “recognizing the body.” This kind of eating transforms the meal, intended to serve as medicine given “for the better,” into a poison that is decidedly “for the worse.”162 The one who eats and drinks this way eats and drinks judgment on themselves (v. 29a), while simultaneously causing the group as a whole to gather unto judgment (v. 34a). Indeed, Paul is clear that their gathering for the worse has already unleashed at least some aspects of this judgment: many in the community are sick, weak, or even have died (v. 30). If such a summary of Paul’s warning makes the seriousness of his instructions clear, scholars nevertheless debate nearly every line of this passage, with major implications for our interpretation. Many interpreters understand the reference to partaking ἀναξίως as eating and drinking “without a due sense of reverence”163 and thus connect “recognizing the body” with the recognition of the sacred character of the meal.164 Such an interpretation, however, seriously misses the point.165 There is no indication in 11:17–​26 that the Corinthians fail to embody worshipful reverence in their partaking of the elements. Feasting, social stratification, and religious devotion coexisted in associations across the Roman empire, and we have no reason to believe the Corinthians were not genuinely attempting to celebrate the Lord’s Supper. Instead, the text makes clear that the Corinthians’ failures were due to their socially-​stratifying practices, not their lack of reverence. The language of ἀναξίως, then, speaks to a Corinthian performance of the meal that does not fit with the logic and story of the cross that the Lord’s Supper is meant to perform, particularly in the cross’s overturning of socio-​economic hierarchies.166 In 1 Cor 6:2, Paul used the adjectival ἀνάξιος in his rhetorical jab that, despite their future vocation to judge the world, none in the community could be found competent or equipped with the wisdom required to judge between Christian brothers and sisters in the present. Here, Paul makes a similar claim: their meals

1 62 See Martin, Corinthian Body, 191. 163 Marshall, Last Supper, 114; BDAG, 58. 164 Weiss refers both to recognizing a distinction between this and ordinary bread and to finding the Lord in the bread (cf. Johannes Weiss, Der erste Korintherbrief [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910], 291). Thiselton notes that this general line of interpretation represents a “strong tradition” that runs “from Justin and Augustine through Thomas Aquinas” and into the modern era (Thiselton, Corinthians, 892). 165 Cf. Fee, Corinthians, 623. This line of interpretation is one primary way that interpreters fail to account for how the meal ought to solve the social distinctions. 166 So also Martin, Corinthian Body, 194.

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are unfitting and unworthy to be called the Lord’s because they fail to embody the character of the Lord’s own status-​destroying, other-​loving Supper.167 Paul’s next statement, that such unworthy banqueting renders the Corinthians guilty of the death of the Lord, draws the tightest possible connection between the sociological and the theological.168 The re-​description of socio-​economic marginalization as a crime against Jesus adds weight to the accusation, but Thiselton’s suggestion that the “focus remains on Christ, and Christ crucified” risks failing to hold together the sociological and the theological with the balance that Paul himself maintains throughout.169 As in 8:10–​12, Paul declares that eating and drinking in a way that harms one’s brother or sister is to sin against Jesus himself.170 This is the Pauline equivalent of Jesus’s claim that whatever one does to the “least of these” one does to him (Matt 25:40). This interpretation of unworthy eating and drinking, which places the sociological sin front and center, prepares us to understand the reference to eating without “recognizing the body” as primarily a reference to failing to discern the Corinthian community as the body of Christ.171 Their eating and drinking in ways that reinforce socio-​economic competitive hierarchies represents a failure to recognize the church as that community in which God offers those the world considers “have nots” an equal seat at the table. Thiselton and others argue instead that the issue is the church’s failure to discern what is different about Christ.172 For Thiselton, the decisive argument is 167 Thiselton, Corinthians, 889. Brock and Wannenwetsch draw too sharp a distinction between what they see here as the idea of discerning “the suitability of any church practice to the very being of the church” and a more immediately “moral category,” which they find unwarranted (Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 62). I find no evidence that we ought to distinguish between the task of discerning appropriate church practice and morality, not least because Paul emphasizes the active exercise of love as the key to building up the church. 168 Such language creates echoes with Paul’s reminder of Judas’s betrayal of Jesus at this very same table in 11:23. 169 Thiselton, Corinthians, 890. 170 Ibid.; Hays, Corinthians, 201; Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 555. 171 That this is the best view can be argued from the fact that it best fits the context of Paul’s attack on the higher status Corinthians’ abuse of those of lower status; it explains the lack of parallelism between the expression in this verse and the preceding one (“body and blood of the lord” versus simply “the body);” and it fits perfectly with Paul’s words in 10:17, in which Fee argues Paul intentionally anticipates his argument in 11:17–​34 (Fee, Corinthians, 623; cf. also Horrell, Social Ethos, 153; Hays, Corinthians, 200). The view that the issue is discerning the sacramental distinction in the elements from regular meals cannot make sense of the context of Paul’s argument, which focuses on issues of social discrimination, and does not make good sense contextually in light of our exploration of meal practices above. 172 So also Marshall, Last Supper, 114.

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that “the social is founded on the salvific.”173 Yet in speaking of the God whose gospel includes choosing the “have nots” precisely to bring to naught worldly social hierarchies (1:26–​29) and the powers of this age that embrace them (2:6), we would be closer to the mark to declare that the social is one constitutive aspect of the salvific. Indeed, following the explicitly social line of Paul’s argument reveals the depth of his theology. Nevertheless, the interpretation presented here need not exclude Thiselton and Marshall’s argument that the language of “recognizing the body” refers to the literal body of Christ as well. Drawing on Thiselton’s own discussion of Paul’s “split-​reference” metaphors,174 it would seem that Paul shifts the primary lens of the metaphor from the elements of the eucharist in v. 27a to the literal body of Christ in v. 27b to the corporate body of Christ in v. 29. Recognizing such lens-​shifting underscores the theological point Paul has already made in v. 27, namely that to sin against one’s brother or sister is to sin against Christ.175 The clear result of shaming the have-​nots, despising the church, and becoming guilty of the Lord’s own life at the table is judgment. Indeed, 11:27–​34 is “filled with judicial imagery,”176 making judgment one of the central themes of this section. The judgment motif fits well with the apocalyptic context discussed above, with important implications for understanding Paul’s positive recommendations in these same verses. We can see this connection in at least three ways. First, Paul’s language may suggest he sees the Corinthians’ performance of the Lord’s Supper as an actual ingestion of judgment. Calvin writes that “this food, otherwise health-​giving, will turn out to their destruction, and will be converted into poison to those that eat unworthily.”177 Martin argues this view in great depth, suggesting that Paul draws here on an analogy with a Greco-​Roman understanding of a drug or ϕάρμακον that “may function as either a curative or a poison.”178 Paul shockingly claims that their unworthy eating leads to the Corinthians being “poisoned by what should heal them.”179 Indeed, both Martin and, more recently, Brock and Wannenwetsch, suggest that something “real” happens to the Corinthians in their eating and drinking, for good or ill, because the eucharistic elements have a

1 73 Thiselton, Corinthians, 893. 174 Ibid., 769. 175 Martin, Corinthian Body, 194–​6. 176 Lewis, Looking, 104. 177 John Calvin, Commentary on Corinthians, vol. I Christian Classics Ethereal Library (available at http://​www.ccel.org/​ccel/​cal​vin/​calco​m39), 323. 178 Martin, Corinthian Body, 190. 179 Ibid., 91. See the critical evaluation in Thiselton, Corinthians, 895–​7.

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sort of “solidity.”180 Such solidity includes the idea that the elements have a certain “teleology” towards their proper, medicinal end—​including the building up of the community across lines of division (cf. 10:17)—​that cannot be coopted for diametrically opposed goals, such as the acquisition of personal status and promotion.181 When the Corinthians seek to use the elements for their own purposes, they find themselves eating their own judgment. But second, this solidity of the elements depends ultimately on the fact that they are given by Christ himself,182 who is presently at work in judging the church (11:32a). Once again, we see that the Lord’s Supper is a virtue-​forming practice because through the practice we engage in a second-​person relationship with Jesus himself. This reality must prevent the previous point from sliding into a view of the elements as “magical” or powerful in and of themselves; instead, Paul understands the meal as given by Jesus, bound up in his presence, and therefore, when celebrated with such corruption, as bringing Jesus’s present judgment into church. Such judgment is one aspect of “the Lord’s active reign in the present time.”183 Indeed, Paul identifies the present suffering in the congregation as evidence that Jesus is already present and actively judging his church. This can be seen in Paul’s reference to those in the community who are sick, weak, and who have even died. This judgment may include self-​imposed judgment if the socio-​economic discrimination was so severe that the hungry truly go unfed.184 Regardless, it certainly includes Jesus’s active presence as the judge in their midst, as in 5:4–​5. Third, though, Jesus’s active presence among the Corinthians as judge is itself an act of grace aimed at preventing the congregation from being “judged condemned” along with the world. Paired with v. 26’s summons to embrace a true Lord’s Supper that ritually proclaims Jesus’s death “until he comes,” v. 32’s allusion to the day of the Lord on which the world will be judged situates the entirety of the Corinthians’ present performance of the banquet within the eschatological overlap of the ages. As such, even the painful judgment they are currently experiencing and the resultant σχίσματα that divide the congregation are framed within the larger reality of God’s pedagogical “discipline” or “training” (παιδεύω). Thus even the way the Lord’s Supper has exposed the Corinthians to judgment is an example of how, as Cavanaugh argues, the church’s formative failures are caught up in the broader 1 80 Martin, Corinthian Body, 190; Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 50–​2. 181 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 50–​2. 182 Ibid., 52. 183 Lewis, Looking, 106. 184 Cf. Henderson, “If Anyone Hungers,” 206, fn. 42; Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 63. However, I see no grounds exegetically for the strong division they make between this kind of judgment and the active judgment of the Lord.

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narrative of God’s gracious love for his church.185 Paul opened his letter with the promise that God would be faithful to present his people blameless on the day of the Lord; here, we find that such faithfulness includes the painful discipline required to rehabilitate their deeply deformed banqueting practices.186 One aspect of the final condemnation that Jesus’s judgment will allow the Corinthians to avoid is God’s eschatological judgment on the Greco-​Roman socio-​economic hierarchy that is part and parcel of the “world.” This can be seen clearly in Paul’s description of those who have social standing (1:28) and the “rulers of this age” (2:6) as being “nullified” or “brought to nothing” (καταργέω); as Ciampa and Rosner note, such language clearly refers to eschatological judgment.187 Here again we see the intimate connection between Paul’s theology and sociology. God has created a community that, by its very life, embodies a reign which turns Greco-​ Roman norms upside down. For the Corinthians to persist in organizing their gathered life in ways more Corinthian than Christian is to court condemnation along with the world. Instead, they must respond to the gracious judgment of Jesus, who seeks to re-​order their banquet in line with his status-​overturning reign. Such a re-​ordering will make their banquet “for the better.”

Examine, Recognize, Welcome: Reclaiming the Lord’s Supper as a Formative Practice All of this prepares us to hear Paul’s positive instructions to the Corinthians. These instructions will guide the congregation into a “for the better” Lord’s Supper practice. They include several related steps. First, Paul calls each individual Corinthian to a practice of self-​examination (δοκιμαζέτω δὲ ἄνθρωπος ἑαυτὸν) in their eucharistic celebration.188 This self-​examination will ensure that they “recognize” the body in their Lord’s Supper practice. Given our interpretation above, it is clear that Paul’s call to self-​scrutiny (v. 28) must [be] understood not as an invitation for the Corinthians to probe the inner recesses of their consciences but as a straightforward

1 85 Cavanaugh, Migrations, 162. 186 Cf. Lewis, Looking, 137. Note, however, the appropriate warning about misinterpretations of this idea in Fee, Corinthians, 625–​6. 187 Ciampa and Rosner, Corinthians, 107. 188 Duff emphasizes the role of individual behavior in relation to the “divisions” or “factions” referred to by Paul in 11:18. See Paul Duff, “Alone Together: Celebrating the Lord’s Supper in Corinth (1 Cor 11:17–​34)” in The Eucharist—​Its Origins and Contexts, vol. I, ed. David Hellholm and Dieter Sanger (Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 564–​5.

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call to consider how their actions at the supper are affecting brothers and sisters in the church.189

Thus, the verb δοκιμάζω points back to Paul’s declaration that their divisions do (ironically) demonstrate those who are δόκιμος (“proved worthy”). Paul calls them to test their own character, and to conform that character to that of Christ’s by seeking to recognize (διακρίνω) the body of Christ through concrete practices of cruciform love that eschew competitive socio-​economic practices.190 None of this downplays the eucharist as a site of worshipful encounter with the crucified and risen Lord. Instead, self-​examination and character-​conforming practice are part and parcel of what it means to share the Lord’s Supper, receiving Jesus’s life given on one’s behalf alongside all of those God has called to that same table. Jesus’s offer of his life in the eucharistic elements is good news for sinners, and the exhortation to self-​examination and participation in the Supper in a “worthy” manner should not suggest that Paul is calling the Corinthians to achieve some sort of moral purity that will make them somehow deserving of Christ’s lavish gift.191 But Paul is equally clear that the meal will not function as medicine when received by a body organized around socio-​economic discrimination. What is required to receive this medicine “for the better” does include a spiritual and moral disposition towards Jesus and his body, a disposition that includes moral agency but depends on the presence and work of Jesus for its efficacy. All of this fits well with our discussion of virtues as habituated dispositions, as well as our argument that such habituation happens through second-​personal practices that culminate in a “shared stance” with God. As the congregation collectively embodies just such a disposition towards Jesus and his body, then, they receive Jesus himself in a celebration of the Lord’s Supper shaped by Christ’s cruciform love for all.192 Thus Paul calls them to recognize rightly both their fellow congregants (11:29) and themselves (11:31).

1 89 Hays, Corinthians, 200. 190 Smith, “Meals and Morality,” 329; Thiselton, Corinthians, 891. 191 See the warning sounded in Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 61. 192 Brock and Wannenwetsch’s attempt to “directly refute” any sort of moral self-​examination, even reading Paul here as calling for a giving up of human judgment, simply fails to make sense of Paul’s argument (Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 60–​5). Of course, Paul wants the congregation to remain open to the “ongoing judgment of the Lord,” but this in no way invalidates his command that congregants examine and test their behavior against the standard of Christ’s own cruciform love. See Lewis, Looking, 76; Sampley, Walking, 190–​206.

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Second, though, those who come to receive Jesus at the Lord’s Supper by examining their own behavior through the lens of Jesus’s cruciform love and discerning in their fellow banqueters one “for whom Christ died” (8:11), will ἀλλήλους ἐκδέχεσθε. Despite the fact that all major English translations render this phrase “wait for one another,” it is probably better to translate “receive” or even “welcome one another.”193 Moulton and Milligan argue that “receive” is the primary meaning,194 and while BDAG and other NT usage reflects the temporal translation,195 “receive” is amply attested in the LXX and Second Temple Jewish literature.196 Moreover, whereas “wait for” only deals with the Corinthian situation if the start time is the sole problem, “receive one another” makes sense across a variety of plausible reconstructions.197 It seems most likely, then, that Paul exhorts the church to truly “welcome one another” by way of sharing in a full meal together, a meal at which status competition has no place and in which the “have nots” can receive physical as well as spiritual nourishment. Another advantage of such an interpretation is that it does not neglect the agency of congregants further down the socio-​economic pyramid. As we have seen, competition for advancement was by no means restricted to the upper echelons of Greco-​Roman society, and even slaves in associations contributed to the group’s maintenance through various contributions, financial and otherwise. Paul’s call for the congregation to reject competition for honor at one another’s expense, then, may well have addressed not only the higher-​status believers in Corinth, but also those further down the ladder. Translating “welcome one another” captures the reality that every member of the congregation must look to love, receive, and welcome Christ in and through practical acts of love and mutual-​welcome towards their brothers and sisters at the eucharistic table. Of course, such cruciform, status-​ eroding hospitality would be a harder pill to swallow for the higher ups, for whom such practices would require an attendant “self-​lowering … status reversal.”198 Finally, then, the fact that Paul explicitly names the recipients of this command “my brothers and sisters” is by no means accidental. The Lord’s Supper participates in the formation of “fictive kinship” ties in ways analogous to those we explored in our discussion of the Deuteronomic tithe meal. Indeed, we might 1 93 194 195 196

Cf. Winter, “Lord’s Supper,” 74–​80; Surburg, “Situation,” 36–​7. VGNT, 192. BDAG, 300; cf. Acts 17:16; 1 Cor 16:11; Heb 10:13; Heb 11:10; Jas 5:7. Psalm 118:122; 3 Macc 5:26; Sir 6:23, 33; 18:14; 32:14. Although it is true that no other NT text has this sense of “receive,” no other NT text has the word placed in a similar context (Winter, “Lord’s Supper,” 74–​80). 197 Surburg, “Situation,” 36–​7. 198 Martin, Corinthian Body, 68.

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describe “becoming kin” as a constitutive aspect of the telos of both feasts. Such kinship connections, however, come with serious moral obligations.199 In conclusion, mutual welcome patterned after the cruciform self-​giving of Jesus is Paul’s solution to the problems at the Corinthians’ meals, a solution that he believes will allow the Corinthians to experience the “for the better” banquet of the Lord, a virtue-​forming feast in his presence and alongside the full community.

Mutual Welcome and the Arrangement of the Body: Insights from 1 Corinthians 12 A brief detour into 1 Corinthians 12 sheds light on the shape of this mutual welcome.200 In 12:12–​13, Paul describes the community as one body with many members drawn from diverse social and ethnic backgrounds. Commentators recognize that here Paul draws on a “long rhetorical tradition that portrayed the polis as a body.”201 It is essential for our purposes to recognize that this Greco-​Roman tradition served to reinforce status hierarchies within the body politic and to avoid “social disruption” through “class conflict.”202 Such rhetoric served the powerful by suggesting that the “physical givenness of the human body mandates the hierarchy of the social body.”203 Paul’s initial argument that, analogous to a physical body, the congregation depends on the very diversity of its members (12:14–​21), appears to fit nicely with this Greco-​Roman rhetorical technique. Appearances can be deceiving, however, and it seems that Paul has intentionally laid a trap for those in his audience who would quickly assent to just such an understanding. Thus in 12:22–​24, Paul takes the metaphor in a radically different direction, arguing that God himself has established the one body so as to give greater honor and dignity to those members who appear to be weaker or lacking in honor and dignity. This rhetoric is doubly subversive. On the one hand, the three adjectives Paul uses to describe the weaker parties point to the “conventional nature of [the] hierarchical assessments”204 involved; Paul is speaking of those who only appear to lack strength and honor.205 The body language, which refers euphemistically to the 1 99 Horrell, Solidarity and Difference, 123–​4; McRae, “Eating with Honor,” 180. 200 Portions of this section are derived from Rhodes, “Arranging the Chairs,” 510–​28. 201 Martin, Corinthian Body, 30. 202 Ibid., 40. Martin gives evidence from dream handbooks for understanding the various body parts to represent different levels of social stratification (Ibid., 31). See also Thiselton, Corinthians, 993. 203 Martin, Corinthian Body, 93. 204 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 110–​1. 205 This is sometimes obscured by translations of ἀσχήμων as “unpresentable” (ESV, NET, NIV) or “less respectable” (NRSV), which appear to put an “ontological slant on Paul’s expression” (Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 111).

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genitals,206 suggests that such parts not only play a vital, essential role within the body, but also that their “unpresentableness” is socially constructed.207 The genitals, [Paul] says, may seem to be the most shameful part of the body; but our very attention to them—​our constant care to cover them and shield them from trivializing and vulgarizing public exposure—​demonstrates that they are actually the most necessary of the body’s members, those with the highest status.208

Indeed, as Martin goes on to argue, while in v. 23a Paul seems to ground this higher honor in “our” (socially-​constructed) treatment of these body parts, in v.23b he describes such body parts simply as “having” a greater “seemliness” than that possessed by those body parts which are on public display (v. 24a). Paul depicts God, then, as actively choosing to organize his church so as to give “greater honor” to those parts of the body that have been socially conceived of as inferior (v. 24).209 In other words, God acknowledges social standing within the church, but only in order to privilege those at the bottom of the pyramid. Crucially, Paul speaks of God’s “intervention into the twisted dynamics of fallen human history,” not to reaffirm cultural hierarchies, but to demolish those hierarchies from the inside out. This “application of the critique of Christ and the cross to the church”210 reinforces and applies what Paul had argued as early as 1:27–​28, namely that God has chosen the foolish and weak in the world’s eyes to destroy the world’s very notion of strength, wisdom, and status. Assuming that the context for the exercise of spiritual gifts in such counter-​cultural fashion remains the eucharistic meal,211 Streett is right that here we see the “banquet, the very social institution that the state used to mold people into compliance with its will, now being used by God to promote an alternative reality.”212 The purpose of God’s counter-​cultural privileging of the socially-​marginalized within this new reality is, paradoxically, the unity of a church in which there “are no schisms in the body,” but rather a mutual concern among members described in v. 26 as each sharing in the sufferings and glory of all the rest.213 The “ ‘redistribution of honor,’ ” then, is aimed at a “form of equality.”214 2 06 Martin, Corinthian Body, 95. 207 Horrell, Social Ethos, 180–​1. 208 Martin, Corinthian Body, 95. 209 See also Fee, Corinthians, 678–​9. 210 Thiselton, Corinthians, 1007. 211 Streett, Subversive Meals, 268–​9. 212 Ibid., 252. 213 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 118. 214 Horrell, Social Ethos, 182.

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Despite the fact that Paul here describes Jesus’s ordering of the body as the solution to those “schisms” in the community which plague the Corinthian Lord’s Supper, interpretations of 11:17–​34 rarely draw on 12:22–​27 in any robust way. Doing so reveals several crucial points. First, 12:22–​27 further clarifies precisely what made the Corinthians’ meals so deforming, both morally and politically. When the Corinthians competed for status in the way they feasted together they explicitly re-​created their political body in the image of Greco-​Roman hierarchies. Such hierarchies claimed, by virtue of the body politic rhetoric, to be written into the grain of the universe.215 Yet according to Paul, God has arranged his body politic in the exact reverse way, choosing to award honor and status precisely to those least likely to receive it outside of the church in the Corinthian “public.” It is this reversal that must be embodied at any feast claiming to be the Lord’s Supper. Second, then, Paul’s solution that the Corinthians welcome one another does not merely require refraining from privileging the socially powerful; it requires actively according special honor and worth to the socially disenfranchised. Paul’s “rhetoric pushes for an actual reversal of the normal, ‘this-​worldly’ attribution of honor and status. The lower is made higher, and the higher lower.”216 We might well speak of this as a Pauline “preferential option” for the socio-​economically poor.217 The honor the more upwardly mobile Corinthian Christians currently compete over ought to be lavished on the “least of these” instead. Such a “preferential option,” however, nevertheless serves the end of a mutuality in which each learns to rejoice in the honoring and mourn in the suffering of all the others. Third, and finally, we should note that this treatment of social hierarchies turned upside down is presented in the context of Paul’s discussion of spiritual gifts. Each member is given unique gifts by the one Spirit for the “common good” (συμϕέρω) of the entire body (12:7). Many of these gifts appear to be exercised through positions of authority. Paul clearly teaches that every member, regardless of class, ethnicity, or gender, receives such gifts and is called to use them for the building up of others in love (cf. 13:1–​14:1). The primary context for using many of

215 The parallel between the Corinthians’ failures and the white American church failures identified by Jennings and Grimes (summarized in Chapter Three), are clear. For my own detailed exploration of this parallel, see Rhodes, “Arranging the Chairs,” in its entirety. 216 Martin, Corinthian Body, 96. 217 Cf. Elliott, “Socioeconomic Stratification,” 271.

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these gifts is the Corinthian church’s worship, which most likely took place around the same table as the eucharistic meal.218 The cumulative effect is this: every member, including the most powerful within the church, depends for their wellbeing on the gifts that the Spirit gives through every other member of the church, including the poorest and least powerful congregant.219 Indeed, the Lord seems to have a “preference for revealing himself more luminously through the weaker members.”220 If Paul’s primary socio-​ economic concern in 11:17–​34 is that a full, hospitable welcome be offered to the “have nots,” ch. 12 makes clear that such welcoming is required for the spiritual well-​being of all, including the powerful.221 The most powerful patron in the church depends on the lowliest member for their own spiritual well-​being because each individual’s spiritual well-​being depends on the Spirit giving gifts to the community through each and every member of the community. Moreover, as with our observation that even relatively poor members could contribute to the economic maintenance of the group, and thus participate in the “welcoming” that must characterize their eucharistic feast, ch. 12 recognizes the moral and spiritual agency of every congregant without exception. Such agency represents both an incredible gift and a serious obligation laid on every member, regardless of socio-​economic status, to seek the common good of all. We can now draw all of this into our argument that Paul calls the Corinthians to “welcome one another” when they celebrate the Lord’s Supper. Paul believes the Supper is to be for the better. But he recognizes that this will only happen when their meal embodies an apocalyptic, transformative encounter with the one whose cruciform love shatters the Corinthian socio-​economic competitive hierarchies they currently accept at the eucharistic table. When the congregation recognizes themselves and their fellow congregants through the lens of Christ’s self-​sacrifice on the cross, they can then practice mutual welcome and love by feasting “with unity and equality” and exercising diverse spiritual gifts for the good of all. Such a 218 Moreover, one wonders if the reference to various διακονία (“ministries” or “service”) in 12:5 and ἀντίλημψις (“helpful deeds”) in 12:28 would not include the very practical aspects of arranging and overseeing group meals and economic support for the poor. 219 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 72. Notice that here again we glimpse the interplay of divine and human agency. The gifts of individual believers, which are “activated” or even “energized” by the Spirit (the verb is ἐνεργέω), are the source of believers’ own legitimate actions which, in turn, are themselves the Spirit-​empowered means of giving yet further gifts to the body through their exercise. 220 Brock and Wannenwetsch, Therapy, 117. 221 Brock and Wannenwetsch brilliantly connect this text to the inclusion of people with disabilities in the contemporary church (Ibid., 113–​20).

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practice makes each member a conduit of God’s blessing to the others. In this way, the meal participates in the transformation of the community, both individually and corporately, both politically and morally.

“Forward Unto Virtue:” Moving beyond Theissen’s Compromise222 Returning to 11:17–​34, then, what are we to make of Paul’s suggestion that the powerful apparently do as they wish outside of the church (v. 33b)? Having condemned the “haves” for their treatment of the “have nots” in such strong language, does he not now simply seek the purity of the church without regard ultimately for the plight of those of lower status? Is Paul concerned with actually caring for the marginalized? Or does he just want to make sure the community’s hands are not dirty in church? Responding to such a view, Elliott argues that it seems “not simply to be a prudent ‘compromise’ but … an extraordinary capitulation for Paul to declare at last, in v. 34, that the very purpose of assembling the Lord’s Supper should be abandoned.”223 Indeed, part of the burden of the exegesis provided thus far is to highlight just how problematic this quite common reading of the text is in light of Paul’s broader argument. In addition to this “compromise” solution,224 then, there are at least three alternatives. First, with Henderson, we could see the reference to those who are hungry in v. 34 as referring to the “have nots.” Read this way, Paul says “let anybody who is hungry eat there in the house church.”225 The strengths of this intriguing interpretation include: (a) it allows us to read the hungry in v. 21 as referring to the same members of the community as the reference to the hungry in v. 34; (b) it keeps front and center the sociological problem that Paul is addressing, as well as the way Paul presents the Lord’s Supper meal as “for the better” in relation to that problem; and (c) it fits the evidence that we should understand Paul’s command in v. 33b as “welcome one another.” There are weaknesses, however. Such a view depends in part on rejecting 1 Cor 14:35 as authentic, because in 14:35 Paul clearly makes a distinction between

2 22 This section derived from Rhodes, “Forward,” 135–​6. 223 Elliott, “Social Stratification,” 268. 224 Theissen, Social Setting, 164; Thiselton, Corinthians, 899. 225 Henderson, “If Anyone Hungers,” 205–​6.

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the home qua home and the home-​turned-​sacred-​space-​in-​the-​church.226 Furthermore, and more substantially, her view faces the difficulty that apparently no commentators ancient or modern understood Paul in this way. Second, as early as Chrysostom at least,227 some have suggested that Paul’s words are to be taken ironically, suggesting a course of action that Paul has already made clear is both wicked and foolish. The shift in referent for “the hungry” over the course of the passage might simply underscore this irony; if the higher status Christians are so absurd as to identify themselves with the truly needy, then they might as well go home and do as they please.228 A third option, which is fully compatible with either of the previous ones, remains undeveloped in the literature. Speaking of Paul’s concluding directives in v. 33–​34, Fee writes: As with the issue of slavery in Philemon, Paul attacks the system indirectly to be sure, but at its very core. Be a true Christian at the table, and the care for the needy, a matter that is always close to Paul’s heart … . … will likewise become part and parcel of one’s life.229

It may be, then, that Paul emphasizes getting the Lord’s Supper right because he believes the formative impact of that practice would ripple out into every aspect of the Corinthians’ lives.230 Formative practices do not just require character, a particular politics, a shared story, and a communal telos. They cultivate virtues, embed participants into a narrative, shape a community’s politics, and orient the community towards that shared telos. According to this reading, Paul promotes a renewed Lord’s Supper practice that would, by God’s grace, form believers into people who would live lives of solidarity with the marginalized, love for their neighbors, and generosity towards the “have nots.” Embodying such virtues would stand their culture’s socio-​economic competitive hierarchy on its head. Read this way, Paul’s command to welcome one another at the eucharist invites the Corinthians to habitually orient themselves to the cruciform love Paul presents throughout the letter. At the Lord’s Supper, they would receive the gracious gift of Jesus while simultaneously practicing a virtuous disposition of cruciform, mutual 226 Henderson notes this in a footnote, but suggests it may be inauthentic and brushes it aside without significant interaction (Ibid). 227 Chrysostom, Homilies, 165. Note Chrysostom’s use of the language of virtues and vices to describe Paul’s critique of the Corinthians. 228 Cf. Elliott, “Social Stratification,” 267–​73. 229 Fee, Corinthians, 603 (italics added). 230 Such a conclusion is even more plausible given that at least some of Paul’s exhortations in chs. 8–​10 call congregants to practice cruciform love in their public meal practices.

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hospitality that is a constituent part231 of that gift. If the Corinthians embrace such a practice, we may ask: how long would hierarchical distinctions be able to last among believers in general once they were erased around the Lord’s Supper meal? For how long could those of high status continue to serve their slaves or freedmen and freedwomen meager meatless portions and watered-​down wine in a different room of their homes when, the evening before, they had both shared in the one meal, the one bread, the one cup given to them equally by the Lord himself? How long could any individual home embody a social world dominated by the “haves” against the “have nots” when both parties participated in the Lord Supper’s “hidden transcript” of the upside-​down kingdom, in which greater honor is given to the dishonorable parts and the foolishness of God overturns the wisdom of the world?232 Against Theissen’s argument that Paul here presents a “compromise” with socio-​economic marginalization, I suggest instead that Paul invested in a Lord’s Supper practice that he believed had the power to reshape the Corinthians’ world around the logic of the cross, both at the table, and beyond it.

231 The Lord’s Supper is thus an instance of the way that social practice is understood by Paul as a constituent part of God’s gracious gift (see Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 439). 232 Ascough, “Social and Political Characteristics,” 61. Some scholars answer this question by suggesting that the relativizing of status around the table in biblical meals and contemporary parallels (such as the Saturnalia) was simply limited to the liminal space of the banquet, had little or no effect on social relationships away from the banquet, and may even have reinforced the hierarchies temporarily transgressed (cf. Jennifer A. Glancey, “Slaves at Greco-​Roman Banquets: A Response,” in Smith and Taussig, Meals in the Early Christian World, 208; Klinghardt, “Typology,” 17–​22; Angela Standhartinger, “The Saturnalia in Greco-​Roman Culture,” in Smith and Taussig, Meals in the Early Christian World, 185). Nevertheless, Glancey rightly recognizes differences between Christian meals and contemporary parallels, differences that include the fact that Christians celebrated their meals far more frequently (Glancey, “Slaves,” 209–​10). Moreover, if Corinthian meals occurred in the domestic living spaces of members, they may have more naturally overlapped with more “quotidian” meals. In other words, the realities experienced in the house-​turned-​sacred-​space may have exerted more pressure on the household outside of times of Christian gathering than an annual public festival might have. Moreover, as we have seen, there is ample evidence that associations of all kinds could really be threats to imperial order. Finally, none of these arguments take into account the power of Paul’s rhetoric in describing and prescribing these meal practices. As far as I know, there are no Greco-​Roman parallels to a celebration of a crucified king who claims to have chosen his followers in order to turn the entire system of honor and patronage upside down (on which, see Andrew B. McGowan, Ancient Christian Worship: Early Church Practices in Social, Historical, and Theological Perspective [Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2016], 22; Streett, Subversive Meals, 1, 202–​11).

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Conclusion In summary, meals in Paul’s day, including associational banquets, the Passover meal, and the early Christian eucharist, operated as formative practices. Reading Paul’s words in 1 Cor 11:17–​34 through the lens of formative practices reveals key aspects of his theological, socio-​economic, and missional program. Paul wrote to a church whose congregants included some middling folks alongside a majority of individuals existing at or around subsistence levels. Against this socio-​economic background, he believed that the Lord’s Supper practice ought to have been “for the better.” This eucharistic practice, which served as a compressed narrative of Christ’s self-​sacrificial death on behalf of his church, should orient the community toward a common telos and foster virtues of hospitality, care for others, and solidarity with the “have nots.” It should also shape the community’s public character, or politics, to “fit” the apocalyptic inbreaking of God’s mysterious plan to bring to naught existing social hierarchies by calling to himself a people primarily comprised of the “have nots.” But the Corinthians’ performance of the practice rendered it “for the worse,” instead. What made their performance for the worse was that at their meals they shamed those further down the socio-​economic ladder, probably by following typical Greco-​Roman meal manners in discriminating between the “haves” and “have nots” in some combination of start time, portion size, quality of fare, and seating arrangements at the meal. Paul’s solution is not to get away from the meal, but rather to reform the meal practice in line with the narrative of Jesus. To accomplish this, he reminds them of the story of Jesus’s death on the cross and his command to practice the Lord’s Supper in response. Such a practice carries an embedded intention to form the memory of Christ’s death among the Corinthian believers and to shape the politics and character of the community so that their gatherings might become a public proclamation of the Lord’s death. In order for the Corinthians to practice that meal, however, they must learn to examine themselves, test their behavior towards their fellow congregants against that of Christ’s cruciform self-​giving, and “welcome one another” fully and equitably at their eucharistic banquet. Then, and only then, would the Lord’s Supper be “for the better,” rather than for the worse. But the effects of a “for the better” performance would not simply remain in the sacred space of the ecclesia. Participants shaped by a Lord’s Supper in which all were welcomed equally across lines of social hierarchy would be radically changed, and Paul expected that change to ripple out into every area of believers’

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lives. The result would be nothing short of a new people, a new humanity even, founded on Christ, formed by his eucharistic table, united across lines of status, class, gender, and ethnicity, faithfully engaged in sharing the gifts of the Spirit with one another, and participating in the mission of the crucified Christ until his return.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Conclusion

This book began with the question: do biblical meals serve as formative practices that shape the character of God’s people, and if so, what difference does this make for theological ethics today? I then suggested that answering this question would require addressing three further sub-​questions:



(1) Do human practices shape human character, and if so, how should we describe this theologically? (2) If Scripture portrays certain biblical meals as practices that shape human character, how should we describe both the way these meals do this formative work and the shape of the individual and corporate character at which such meals aim? (3) How does such an interpretation of biblical meals help the contemporary church hear these texts as God’s address today?

Methodologically, I have sought to answer these questions by bringing theological ethics and theological interpretation into a rich, mutually-​informative dialogue. I first drew on virtue ethics, ritual studies, and liturgical ethics to construct a working theory of formative practices within a broader account of Holistic Ecclesial Formation. I then tested this ethical theory, first through an exegesis of

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the tithe meal within Deuteronomy’s broader program of moral formation, and second through an exegesis of the Lord’s Supper in 1 Corinthians in light of the program of moral formation within that epistle as a whole. This testing sought to discover whether formative practice theory illuminated these texts, and, if so, what light this shed on our understanding of these biblical meals. In this conclusion, I want to summarize the results and possible implications of this investigation in terms of exegesis, ethics, and hermeneutics.

Formative Feasting and Exegesis Exegetically, this study has demonstrated that the Deuteronomic tithe-​meal and the Corinthian Lord’s Supper served as formative practices that intended to shape the moral and political character of God’s people. One of the primary formative goals of the text of Deuteronomy is to shape a people who fear YHWH always, especially in light of the temptations to idolatry, self-​aggrandizement, and socio-​ economic oppression posed by the very abundance of the promised land. As we saw, this temptation represented a serious threat to the Israelite community, and Deuteronomy describes the tithe-​meal explicitly as a morally formative practice intended to resist such satiated faithlessness. If Israel is not to get fat and forget their God, both through socio-​economic oppression and outright idolatry, they must feast for the fear of YHWH. Similarly, Paul writes to a Corinthian congregation that is rife with moral failure and socio-​economic division and simultaneously made up of those who are called saints and made holy in Christ (1 Cor 1:2). One of his primary purposes is to remind them that through the Christ-​event God is dismantling the socio-​hierarchical systems of valuation and replacing them with a counter-​cultural community committed to holiness and loving service to God and neighbor. This counter-​cultural community is to embody the “logic of the cross,” the cruciform wisdom that is folly to the world, but that calls forth lives of sacrificial love, service, and worship among those who believe. While God is the one who both transforms his people and calls into existence this counter-​cultural community, a major part of Paul’s purpose is to summon the Corinthians to seek the cruciform wisdom, maturity, and loving service that characterize this apocalyptic community gathered by the crucified and risen lord. Within this larger program, the eucharist, like the Deuteronomic tithe feast, plays an essential formative role. Paul calls the Corinthians to feast “for the better.” When they do so, they will both live into their identity as the body of Christ and proclaim with their lives the lord’s death until he returns. The socially observable eucharistic feast

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serves as an irreplaceable apocalyptic site of transformation, a sacred space within which the church must “become what it is given them to become.”1 Because of this, Paul insists that the Corinthians reform their eucharistic celebration around an encounter with the crucified and risen Christ, welcoming his transforming presence, his world-​ altering agenda, and his gracious judgment in their life together. For Deuteronomy and 1 Corinthians, then, moral formation is a major goal in the life of faith, and feasting with God provides an essential formative practice for pursuing that goal.

The Mechanics of Formative Feasts … . … and Their Failures Second, our exploration shows how both meals work the way they do, or fail to work the way they ought, in part because they interact with their broader cultural context. Thus both the tithe meal and the eucharist are, in at least some senses, ritualizations of culturally available meal practices that subvert these culturally available meals for radically different ends. For Deuteronomy, this is more implicit; the cultural background we explored makes clear that the tithe often served as a tool for the extraction of surpluses by the royal or priestly classes, who used these surpluses to fund lavish feasts designed to display and increase their socio-​economic standing and power. To adopt such a practice, our exegesis suggests, would prove de-​forming for the people of God, not least because it would fail to foster the virtuous fear of YHWH and virtuous disposition towards others on which both the triennial tithe and debt forgiveness legislation depend. Instead of such de-​forming feasting, Deuteronomy offers a meal at which the divine king generously gives back his rightful dues to his people in order to fund a feast of epic proportions celebrated in his presence and with an inclusive guest list. For Paul, this dynamic is explicit. He condemns the Corinthians for becoming worse through their eucharistic feast because, by embracing Corinthian norms in their meal practice, they treat portions as their own, shame the “have nots,” and despise God’s church. Thus his reformation of their eucharist in line with the logic of the cross is part of his larger critique of the Corinthians’ failure to embody God’s cruciform wisdom. God is the one who has chosen those foolish, weak, and despised in the world’s eyes in order to shame those the Corinthians saw as wise, strong, and important (1:26–​29). God is the one who has specifically arranged his church so as to give greater honor to those members thought of as lacking honor and status outside the community (12:22–​25). In light of this, Paul calls

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Brock and Wannenwetsch, Malady, 12.

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the Corinthians to a formative feast that orients the congregation towards the kind of individual and corporate character that matches that divine purpose. To accomplish this, they must orient their feast toward a worshipful encounter with the crucified king and full welcome of all those who belong to the body of Christ.

Feasting for What? Third, our formative practice theory clarifies the shape of the character of the practitioner, the politics of the community, and the world out there at which both feasts aim. Character-​In terms of character, in Chapter Four, I argued that the fear of YHWH is best understood within Deuteronomy as a virtuous, second-​personal disposition. Our exegesis of the tithe meal as a formative practice that aims at inculcating such a disposition suggested that whatever else the fear of YHWH means, it includes virtuous dispositions of gratitude for God’s blessings, joyful delight in his gifts, a sense of the holiness of all God’s people and the entirety of the promised land, and of solidarity or hospitality embodied in the welcome of the vulnerable to the table as kin. Similarly, I argued that Paul sees the eucharist as intended to gather the Corinthians “for the better,” not least in terms of the congregation growing in the virtuous wisdom and maturity that Paul describes primarily in terms of cruciform love and humble service. The eucharist ought to teach them to “discern the body,” not least in terms of recognizing every member as fully included in this peculiar family, and providing the context for them to exercise themselves in the memory of Christ’s self-​sacrificial love on their behalf. Politics-​ Both feasts also intend to shape the politics of their respective communities. The Deuteronomic tithe fosters a sense of national identity; strengthens every Israelite household within a relatively egalitarian politics that does not depend on either king or priestly class; and provides the context within which the vulnerable can “become kin” by being attached to Israelite households at the feast. The eucharist is also oriented in part towards the creation of such kinship bonds, and simultaneously strengthens the congregation as an outpost of the kingdom of the Crucified One. As such, the eucharist shores up the congregations’ identity as founded on the loving sacrifice of Christ rather than the power and wisdom of imperial norms; proclaims the lord’s death through the community’s celebration of the banquet; and forms a community in which the socially marginalized are accorded special honor for the mutual benefit of all. The World “Out There”—​These feasts also intend to shape the “world out there,” and that in two ways. On the one hand, both formative practices only work because

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they actually engage participants in accomplishing something beyond the formation of their own character, namely a community-​wide feast and the corporate worship of the living God who is present among them at that feast. Indeed, it is as we consider the very practical processes involved in such celebrations that the “mechanics” of meal formation come into view. In Deuteronomy, it is because God invites Israel to a pilgrimage festival that requires a long process of turning the “raw goods” of one’s agricultural work into the lavish food and drink shared together in the community that Israel finds itself exercising the virtues of hospitality and solidarity, shaping their desires towards love of God as the divine king, and organizing their meal in ways that reflects God’s political desires for the community at large. In Corinth, it is because the feast requires them to gather and share food, navigate seating arrangements, negotiate table politics involving social hierarchies and cultural norms, contribute through their spiritual gifts to the worship, and more that they find the feast requiring them to practice cruciform love, counter-​cultural other regard, and contemplation of the lord Jesus. Moreover, in both cases, we glimpse the power of the seemingly mundane sharing of food and drink to transform individuals and communities alike. Second, these feasts aim at shaping the world out there by virtue of the fact that the moral and political character formed at the table does not remain there. The tithe-​feast fosters the virtuous disposition of the fear of YHWH and a relatively-​ egalitarian political structure comprised of inclusive Israelite households. But such character and political formation fostered at the festival flows out into the establishment of a system of provision for vulnerable community members who may fall outside the household system in the triennial tithe and for vulnerable householders in the legislation around debt forgiveness in 15:1–​18. In both cases, these larger systemic or structural attempts at justice depend for their success not simply on good laws but on the transformation of the character and politics of God’s people that is, in part, effected by the feast. The same is true of the eucharist. On the one hand, I have argued that Paul envisions the eucharistic festival as ultimately transforming the Corinthian congregations’ engagement with unjust social arrangements beyond the festival. From this perspective, 11:34 does not present us with a Pauline compromise with the socio-​economic elite, but rather demonstrates his belief that the transformation that occurs at the eucharistic table will flow out in transforming ways in the rest of the Corinthians’ lives. Moreover, Paul is clear that God’s kingdom presents an unsettling challenge to the world that is passing away. Paul preaches Christ precisely as a crucified criminal of the state in the presence of those powers and rulers who did not understand true wisdom. Indeed, Paul presents the church as a

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community who challenges the wisdom of the world by its very life (1 Cor 1:27–​ 29). Yet the Corinthian church’s full participation in this divine work is, in part, dependent on their receiving and celebrating a true Lord’s Supper that becomes a proclamation of the lord’s death until he returns.

Divine and Human Agency in Formative Feasts Finally, though, our exegesis of these meals as morally formative practices has relentlessly required us to face the claims of the texts themselves that such feasts ultimately derive their power from God’s own action. This can be seen most clearly in the way that both meal practices are, at heart, feasts in the presence of the divine king who has committed to doing what it takes to establish for himself a people called for his purposes, and indeed has given his people such feasts as one instantiation of that commitment. These feasts are, in other words, second-​person practices, exercised in relationship with God and empowered by his presence. Moreover, what is feasted on is, in both cases, directly associated with God’s lavish gifts to his people. Deuteronomy emphasizes this both by having the feast funded through tithes the people owed YHWH and through the constant reminder that the land that provides the food for the feast is given by God and maintained by his generous care. 1 Corinthians emphasizes this by identifying the wine and bread of the eucharistic feast with the very body and blood of Jesus himself, given at the table for his people. Furthermore, in the case of the eucharist, the cup that Jesus offers is the cup of the new covenant, which itself is bound up in God’s promise to write his law on the hearts of his people. These texts, in other words, never allow us to separate the formative agenda of the feast from the transforming power and presence of the Triune God. Indeed, the texts we have explored see these festivals as first and foremost God’s own work, and only secondarily as human acts of participation with that divine work. By searching out how these formative feasts work in both sociologically observable ways and as sacred spaces within which God does his work, we have seen how the socially describable feasts of God’s people are simultaneously the sites of “apocalyptic” transformation. Such rich exegetical conclusions demonstrate the interpretive power of our formative practice hermeneutic. Indeed, against the caricature that the NT moves beyond the OT’s earthy, political concerns, our study highlights the way meals in both the OT and NT embody a comprehensive interest in moral and political formation that occurs through the embodied practice of lavish feasting.

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These conclusions also raise questions for further research. Do other biblical texts that describe meals similarly understand them as formative practices? If so, how might they contribute to our understanding of a broader biblical account of moral formation through meals? Furthermore, what other practices besides meals serve similar formative functions, and how do those other practices relate to feasts?

Formative Feasting and Theological Ethics If, however, our formative practice hermeneutic has served the task of theological interpretation, it is just as important to ask how the interpretation offered here serves the ongoing work of theological ethics. We can consider this both in terms of our ethical model and our study’s implications for contemporary ethics.

Affirming and Expanding a Theological Ethics of Moral Formation In terms of the model, in my view, our interpretation demonstrates that the so-​ called “ecclesial turn” and the renewed interest on character formation through practice in theological ethics provide important avenues for understanding the nature of moral discipleship in the Christian life. Moreover, the specific account I offer of formative practices within a model of Holistic Ecclesial Formation helpfully highlights several core aspects of a theological account of formation. First and foremost, our interpretation confirms the importance of practices within the process of moral formation. Our account of practices as telos-​shaped, embodied social actions that carry an embedded intention to shape the character of the practitioner, the politics of the community, and the world “out there” allowed us to identify key aspects of how moral formation is understood in certain biblical texts, and therefore ought to be applied as a potential model for considering moral formation in contemporary ethics as well. Furthermore, just as I have argued that the biblical texts explored assume that moral formation depends in part on formative practices, contemporary ethics must assume that practices play a major role in our own day as well. Second, our model highlights the mutually influential feedback loop that occurs between a community’s stories, accounts of character, politics, and practices. It also forces us to explore the formation that occurs in particular ecclesial communities in conversation with the formation that occurs in the overlapping cultural spaces of which particular ecclesial communities are a part. Indeed, our model emphasizes the porousness of the boundaries between particular ecclesial communities and the surrounding culture.

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As such, our model affirms the attempts by Hauerwas and others to attend to ecclesial formation, but situates such formation within a more nuanced account of the relationship between the formative elements within and outside of particular ecclesial spaces. Indeed, such nuance requires us to speak of particular ecclesial practices in concrete terms, rejecting a “sacramental optimism” that treats all instantiations of ecclesial practices equally, in favor of a “sacramental realism” that asks questions about how specific practices are performed.2 Moreover, our focus on the interplay between the politics of the ecclesial community and the politics of various communities outside of it draws our attention to what Bourdieu calls the “objective structures” of particular communities and their role in moral formation.3 Perhaps what surprised me the most in the course of this project, however, was the increasing need, pressed both by the theological tradition and my exegesis of the biblical texts, to consider the role of divine agency in a model of moral formation. Indeed, adequately describing the role of divine agency in formation through practice is absolutely essential if such a model is to avoid a neo-​Aristotelian Pelagianism on the one hand, and to speak truthfully of Christian formation as Spirit-​empowered life coram Deo on the other. This emphasis on divine agency suggests that we who want to speak Christianly about human agency in moral formation must learn to speak a theological idiom that emphasizes divine agency as the essential frame and ground of human transformation. The model presented here, and the virtue tradition that it draws on, includes a variety of tools for learning to speak and think such an idiom. These tools include Aquinas’s emphasis on the infused virtues, Pinsent’s second-​personal interpretation of virtue as the acquisition of a “shared stance” with God, Reformed virtue ethicists’ focus on relational categories such as covenant and union with Christ, and an “apocalyptic” account of human agents as enslaved to Sin apart from Christ, but radically reconstituted in the renewed creation and with Christ as their very context in redemption. In light of all this, it is not accidental, it seems, that the powerful transformation described in Deut 14:22–​29 and 1 Cor 11:17–​34 occurs through a communal, worshipful encounter with the God who transforms his people.

2 Grimes, Christ Divided, 221. See the similar concern expressed by Herdt in her final chapter in the Blackwell Companion to Christian Ethics (Herdt, “Virtue of the Liturgy,” 543–​6). 3 We have thus attempted a Hauerwas-​informed exploration of ecclesial formation capable of responding to Jennings’ criticism that Hauerwas has too often failed to attend to the “decisive racial, class, and gender formations and [given] little help in seeing their interplay” in ecclesial formation (see Jennings’ contribution in Wilson-​Hartgrove et. al, “State of the Colony,” 23–​4).

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At the same time, against all accusations to the contrary, my argument demonstrates that the tradition of the virtues proves “usable;”4 indeed, when the traditional language of the virtues is “adapted and bent”5 to the purpose of bearing witness to the rhetoric of Scripture, such language proves extremely useful in explicating the nature of moral agents and the moral life lived under the reign of Christ. While the problems with the classical tradition of the virtues must be dealt with by exposure to Scripture’s own interrogation, this is true of any constructive attempt at theological ethics. The virtue tradition, then, represents neither a departure from Scripture’s testimony, nor should it be cast aside, but rather continually reinvigorated through engagement with that testimony.

Practicing Feast-​Inspired Formation Today Moving beyond questions of a theological ethical framework or methodology, our project also raises major ethical issues facing the contemporary church. First and foremost, our exploration of the tithe feast and the Lord’s Supper as formative practices demands that Christian ethics address the ongoing class divisions that far too often leave congregations separated along economic lines, or distinguish members within particular congregations based on socio-​economic status. The worshipful transformation that occurs at the feasts we have explored occurs in part as the feasts draw the people of God into a community that privileges the marginalized and subverts oppressive socio-​economic hierarchies. If our feasts fail to do this, then theological ethics must follow in Paul’s footsteps, learning to name the ways our gatherings make us worse, rather than better. Moreover, we must recognize that, just as the worshipful tithe meal created people capable of following the law’s demand for debt forgiveness, our own community’s ability to contribute to the major socio-​economic issues of our day will depend in part on our willingness to become a community that “gives greater honor to the parts of the body that lack it” (1 Cor 12:24b). Justice depends, in part, on the formation of just individuals and just ecclesial communities. Contemporary Christians have little to contribute to the common good if we are not becoming an uncommonly good community, in Jesus and by the power of his Spirit. Theological ethics must, therefore, devote considerable time to understanding how Christians with Scripture-​shaped imaginations might approach the work of moral formation in contemporary congregations and beyond. My hope is that the theological interpretation offered here can offer substantial resources for this ethical work, and conclude this section with four examples of 4 5

Hauerwas and Pinches, “Virtue Christianly Considered,” 303. Webster, “Immanuel,” unpublished lecture.

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how this might work. First, driven by Grimes’ demand for a “sacramental realism” and inspired by the earthy, lavish feasts of Deuteronomy and 1 Corinthians, theological ethics might ask questions about the way contemporary churches perform meals in our own day, and not least the eucharistic feast. Comparing the typical contemporary eucharist, celebrated in ethnically and economically homogenous churches through the individual distribution of miniscule, representative portions of bread and wine, to the full-​blown feast across socio-​economic lines encountered in Deut 14:22–​27 or Paul’s eucharistic celebration, the differences are stark. And yet, as we have seen, it is in part through the politics of the guest list, the lavishness of the meal, and the interaction around the banquet table that the biblical meals do their formative work. But if the rich feasts explored in this book critique our current liturgical and festal practices, they may also offer avenues for re-​imagining a way of ecclesial life that is genuinely transformative. Such re-​imagined sacramental life might include eucharistic celebrations that include an actual feast of Deuteronomic proportions,6 and gatherings that, in line with Paul’s vision, include concrete structures of celebration that accord greater honor in the church to those members of the community that lack honor outside of it. Second, far too often the task of socio-​economic justice and mercy is envisioned as a “job” that the church executes “out there” on behalf of a demographic identified as marginalized within the broader community. But the economic justice of the tithe meal and the Lord’s Supper begins at a table where those marginalized outside the community of faith are fully-​invested members inside the community of faith. Economic justice begins, in other words, with the fact that the church is a community of and among the marginalized that organizes its life and pursues a type of moral character that is often utterly counter-​cultural. A theological ethics that neglects this important theme will treat the church as a social service agency made up of the powerful who distribute charity to needy recipients elsewhere, rather than as a community whose life together is an outpost of the just and righteous kingdom of God. Third, becoming an outpost of the just and righteous kingdom of God requires us to ask how our in-​depth exploration of formative meal practices challenges us to reimagine the space of our lives together more generally. Our study challenges us to ask: how do the “objective structures” of our ecclesial communities, workplaces, neighborhoods, and families “shame the poor,” prevent us from discerning the body, and fall short of the inclusive joy envisioned in the meals we have studied? Because while the meals we have studied can shed light on the way our own meal 6

For a similar suggestion, see Altmann, “Making the Meal,” 123–​35.

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practices are forming or deforming us, they can also help us identify other important sites of moral formation within our own cultural context that may or may not be habituating us into the character of the kingdom of God. Indeed, these feasts can serve as paradigms to help us identify how, as Jennings puts it the mapping of space and the constructing of living places through city planning, land development, real estate operations, architectural reflection, zoning, and policy formation determine our communities and, to a large measure, dictate the vision of what life together might mean for us.7

Moreover, our interpretation of biblical feasts as politically and morally formative practices in constructive engagement with the socio-​political realities of the world around them can serve as a paradigm for imagining how God’s people might embrace practices of counter-​formation in a variety of ecclesial and socio-​ cultural contexts. Without this imaginative work, we can expect our formative practices to fail; indeed, we may find that our ecclesial gatherings continue to become habitats of vice. Finally, as we seek to become faithful individuals and communities inspired by the texts we have here explored, we must relentlessly remind ourselves that such becoming is utterly dependent on the Triune God’s transforming action. This truth must be given more than lip service, but must flow out in lives in which worship and the love of justice, prayer and the politics of the community, come together in one organic whole. This means both an understanding of our own efforts as radically contingent and secondary, and an understanding that the glory of grace includes the renewal of our desires and abilities to engage in such contingent and secondary human acts of formation.

Formative Feasting and Hermeneutics Finally, if theological interpretation is an attempt to “hear the word of God in Scripture and hence to be transformed,”8 then I suggest that one way to approach this task is to self-​consciously bring theological ethics into direct engagement with biblical interpretation. Indeed, the substance of our argument suggests that an interpreter’s failure to engage in the ethical formation presented by Scripture will hinder the attempt to understand Scripture on its own terms. 7 Jennings, Acts, 250. 8 Kevin J. Vanhoozer, “Introduction” in Dictionary for Theological Interpretation of the Bible, Kevin J. Vanhoozer et. al, ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2005), 22.

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To bring theological ethics directly to the task of interpretation, as I have sought to do in this book, is neither to impose a theological grid onto Scripture nor to conflate “biblical ethics” with Christian ethics. Instead, it is to bring the task of theological ethics and the task of theological interpretation together, seeking to hear Scripture as God’s address calling us to follow him further up and further in to his kingdom. Indeed, it seems to me that such a process invites us to simultaneously test the adequacy of our ethical theologizing and plumb the depths of Scripture’s moral claims on the life of God’s people. Moreover, it provides one important avenue for resolving the oft-​lamented divide between biblical studies and Christian ethics. Of course, I am not suggesting that this is the only model for interpretation, nor that the particular theological ethics I have brought to the interpretive task here is the last or only word on the sorts of ethical interpretations that are appropriate. Instead, I have attempted to model one sort of theological and ethical interpretation that assists interpreters of Scripture in hearing and responding to God’s word as an invitation to transformation.

Take and Eat Deuteronomy 14:22–​29 and 1 Corinthians 11:17–​34 make clear that God is utterly committed to the moral, spiritual, and political transformation of his people, and that he has given his people formative practices, including the tithe feast and the eucharist, that allow his people to participate in his transforming work. The joyous solidarity, radical hospitality, subversive politics, and embodied worship of God we see in these texts gives us a glimpse of the generous kingdom offered to us by the divine king. Moreover, these texts simultaneously invite us to see our own transformation through the Spirit-​empowered experience of Christ and his kingdom as both lavish gift and glorious task. For the Israelites in Deuteronomy, the Christians in Corinth, and God’s people today, formative feasts provide us with a tangible human practice of receiving that gift and pursuing that task in relationship with Jesus, by the power of the Spirit, for the glory of the Father, and the good of our neighbors.

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Index

A Abraham  39, 108, 254, 260 agency  8, 16, 20, 27–​30, 32–​33, 35, 57, 61, 69–​71, 73, 78, 125–​126, 133, 149–​151, 155, 161–​166, 170, 185, 209, 212, 220–​ 221, 225, 236, 238, 240, 245, 254, 259–​ 260, 267 divine agency  27, 29, 33, 35, 69, 163–​ 164, 238 human agency  8, 16, 20, 28–​30, 32, 57, 70–​71, 73, 133, 150–​151, 155, 161–​166, 185, 225, 236, 238, 245, 254, 259–​260 alcohol, alcoholic beverages  12, 97–​99, 105 Altmann, Peter  88, 90, 95–​104, 107, 111–​ 112, 117, 126, 129–​131, 134, 136, 240 Anderson, Gary A.  108, 115 Angier, Tom P.S.  8, 11–​12 Annas, Julia  11 Anscombe, G.E. M.  55 apocalyptic  45, 160–​164, 166–​170, 172–​174, 176–​179, 182, 184, 186–​187, 206, 210,

217, 225, 229, 232–​233, 236, 238, 247, 249–​250, 257–​258, 269 Aquinas, Thomas  7, 11, 13–​22, 25–​28, 30, 33–​35, 45, 52, 58, 71, 73, 92, 166, 175, 215, 238, 244, 249–​250, 255–​257, 259–​ 260, 262, 265 Aristotle  7–​17, 21–​22, 25–​26, 35, 40, 45–​ 46, 49, 52, 54–​55, 59, 61, 93, 169, 191, 194, 244, 249–​252, 254–​255, 257, 260, 262, 266 Arnold, Bill T.  91, 134 Ascough, Richard  183, 188–​191, 193–​ 194, 228 association  16, 63, 91, 111, 115, 175, 180, 183, 188–​196, 202–​205, 208, 215, 221, 228, 244, 246, 250–​252, 256, 259, 261

B Baker, David L.  29, 47, 60, 64–​65, 73, 90, 109, 112, 123, 160, 228, 241 Balentine, Samuel E.  92

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Bamberger, Bernard Jacob  92 Banner, Michael  25 Banquets  100, 183, 188–​193, 195, 197–​198, 204, 228–​229, 251 Baptism  43, 73, 75–​77, 160, 163, 166, 264 Barclay, John M. G.  41, 160–​166, 171, 173, 180, 186, 200, 204, 228 Barker, Paul A.  138, 141, 147, 149–​150 Barrera, Albino  200 Barth, Karl  27–​28, 30, 32, 34, 71, 163, 245, 261, 267 Bartholomew, Craig  69, 116, 149 Barton, Stephen C.  211, 213 Batten, Alicia  192, 194 Bell, Catherine  38, 40, 53, 55, 127 Berlin, Isaiah  58, 89–​90, 170 Berman, Joshua  129 Blessing  88, 106, 112–​113, 117, 121, 139, 141, 144–​145, 149, 183, 226, 234, 259 Blount, Brian  210 body  8, 13, 38, 41–​44, 47, 53, 59–​60, 64, 66–​67, 71, 74, 76–​78, 82, 88, 94, 127, 135, 142, 171–​173, 177–​178, 183–​184, 186, 204, 206–​208, 210–​212, 214–​225, 232, 234, 236, 239, 241, 246–​248, 251, 256, 260, 268 Boer, Roland  98–​99, 103, 105, 119, 121, 131, 161 Bonhoeffer, Dietrich  27, 29, 31–​34, 64, 66, 72, 80, 161, 175, 246, 254, 260, 269 Bosman, Hendrik  91 Boulton, Matthew Myer  27, 29–​34 Bourdieu, Pierre  8, 39–​41, 45, 53, 56, 65, 76, 110, 165–​166, 238, 246, 249, 257, 260 Braulik, Georg  90, 104–​105, 107–​108, 111, 113, 115, 118, 124, 128, 145 Brawley, Robert L.  2 Brock, Brian  18, 64, 171, 174, 177–​182, 184–​186, 202, 206, 210, 213, 216–​218, 220, 222–​223, 225, 233 Brookins, Timothy  200–​201, 205–​206 Brown, Alexandra  162, 172–​176, 178–​179 Brown, William P.  2, 93, 115

Brueggemann, Walter  93, 124, 126, 131, 135, 138–​143, 148, 150–​151, 154 Buckland, Stephen  41

C Calvin, John  27–​34, 208, 211–​212, 217, 246–​247 Carroll R., M. Daniel  2–​3, 122 Cartwright, Michael G.  44–​45, 57 Cavanaugh, William  66–​67, 77, 80, 218–​219 character  1–​4, 7–​10, 15–​18, 20, 22, 24–​25, 30, 33–​35, 42, 44–​47, 50, 52, 54, 58–​60, 62–​65, 68, 71–​72, 74, 77, 79, 81–​82, 87, 93–​95, 108, 114, 118, 122, 124–​126, 132–​135, 137–​138, 140–​142, 144–​145, 148, 152, 154–​155, 159–​160, 162, 168, 170, 172, 174, 176–​179, 182, 185–​187, 191–​192, 194–​195, 197–​199, 204–​206, 209–​211, 213–​216, 220, 227, 229, 231–​ 232, 234–​235, 237, 240–​241, 246–​249, 252, 254, 257, 265 Chauvet, Louis-​Marie  41, 53 Chester, Stephen  28–​31, 34 Chow, John K.  190, 193 Christensen, Duane L.  107 Chrysostom, John  198–​199, 227, 248 church  1–​2, 32–​33, 37, 42, 44–​50, 60–​61, 63–​72, 74–​78, 80–​82, 165, 169, 173, 177–​181, 183–​184, 187, 189, 193, 197–​207, 210–​214, 216–​221, 223–​226, 228–​229, 231, 233–​234, 236, 239–​240, 245–​246, 248, 252–​255, 259, 262–​264, 267, 269 Ciampa, Roy E.  170–​171, 205, 208, 211–​ 212, 216, 219 Clark, Timothy  9, 25, 27, 58, 69–​72, 90, 96–​98, 104, 107, 111, 120, 122–​123, 160–​ 161, 166, 169, 173, 200 Cleveland, Christopher  27–​28, 30, 33 Clines, David J.A.  90–​91 colonialism  25, 75, 78

i n d e x  | 273

Cook, Stephen L.  60, 91–​92, 121–​122, 124, 138, 140–​141, 144 creation  2, 34, 61, 66–​67, 69–​72, 75, 82, 94, 100, 103, 105, 116, 128, 143–​144, 161, 167–​168, 181, 193–​194, 213, 234, 238, 245, 247, 249, 251, 265 Crook, Zeba  188, 192, 201, 203 cross  29, 172–​176, 202, 205, 208–​209, 211, 215, 223, 225, 228–​229, 232–​233, 247, 249, 256 Crossley, Nick  40–​41 Cullyer, Hellen  8 culp, A.J.  94, 104, 112–​113, 135 curse  141, 144–​146, 149, 259

D Davies, J.P.  160, 162–​164, 166–​168, 177 Davis, Ellen F.  93, 138, 143, 166 desire  3, 9–​11, 14, 18–​19, 23–​26, 47, 59, 88, 91, 93–​94, 99, 112–​113, 115–​116, 118, 125, 140, 147, 151–​152, 155, 235, 241, 258, 261 Dietler, Michael  97, 100–​101 Discernment  38, 44, 164, 175, 180–​ 181, 206 dispositions  8, 10–​11, 13–​15, 18–​20, 39, 41, 47, 52, 58, 114–​116, 118, 125–​127, 139–​ 140, 147–​148, 150, 165–​166, 176, 180, 186, 191–​193, 195, 199, 220, 234 double grace  33–​34 Draper, Andrew T.  76, 78 Duff, Paul  219

E Eastman, Susan  19, 162, 176–​180, 182 ecclesia  8, 11, 32–​33, 37, 43, 45–​51, 53–​55, 57, 59, 61–​69, 71, 73–​83, 85, 128, 133, 145, 154–​155, 157, 159, 168, 229, 231, 237–​241, 246, 252, 257 Edwards, Thomas Charles  198

Egypt  65, 94, 108, 112–​113, 116–​117, 136, 138, 142–​143, 196–​197 Eichrodt, Walter  90 Elijah  144, 247 Elliott, John Hall  125 Elliott, Neil  213, 224, 226–​227 emotion  16, 59, 89–​93, 112, 115–​116, 250, 256, 260–​261, 268 Eucharist/​Lord's Supper  2–​4, 31, 43–​44, 48–​49, 51, 53, 61, 65, 73, 77, 82, 157, 159, 180, 183–​184, 187–​189, 191, 193, 195, 197–​199, 201–​209, 211–​215, 217–​221, 223–​229, 232–​236, 239–​240, 242, 246, 250, 256, 258–​259, 261, 263–​265, 268 Eudaimonia  11, 26, 29, 262 Evans Sr., James H.  74

F fasting  109–​110, 140 fear of the LORD/​YHWH  3, 72, 87–​95, 97, 99, 101–​103, 105, 107, 109, 111, 113–​115, 117, 119, 121, 123, 125, 127, 129, 131–​136, 140, 144, 146–​148, 152, 232–​235, 248 feasts  3, 65, 97–​101, 103–​107, 109, 112, 114, 118, 145, 190, 208, 211, 222, 233–​ 237, 239–​242, 249–​250, 253–​254, 262–​ 263, 265 Fee, Gordon  171, 175–​176, 178–​180, 198, 202, 208, 212–​213, 215–​216, 219, 223, 227 Ferry, Leonard  16–​17 Fikkert, Brian  61, 68, 73, 126 Finkelstein, J.J.  123, 129, 131 firstlings  90–​91, 96–​98, 107, 117, 124, 143, 269 food  3, 12, 90, 97–​99, 101, 104, 109–​110, 112–​113, 115–​117, 127, 134, 136, 144–​ 145, 153–​154, 176, 191, 193, 202–​204, 217, 235–​236, 246, 249–​250, 253, 257, 259, 263 forgetting, forgetfulness  94, 135–​139, 232

274 

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formation  2–​4, 7–​10, 12–​13, 15–​17, 20, 22–​ 27, 29, 31–​35, 37, 42, 45, 47–​51, 53, 55–​ 83, 85, 95, 107, 114, 120, 123–​124, 126, 132–​135, 137–​145, 147, 149–​155, 157, 159–​162, 164–​166, 168–​172, 174–​175, 177–​180, 182–​185, 187, 191, 194, 196, 207–​208, 210–​211, 214, 221, 231–​233, 235, 237–​242, 244–​247, 249, 251, 254, 256, 262, 264–​266 formative practices  1–​3, 5, 7–​9, 21, 24, 26–​27, 30, 33–​35, 37–​38, 41–​42, 45–​62, 73–​74, 76–​79, 82, 85, 95, 114, 122–​123, 132–​133, 135, 137, 139, 155, 157, 159–​ 160, 169–​170, 174–​175, 178, 181, 186, 188, 195, 197, 207, 227, 229, 231–​232, 235–​237, 239, 241–​242, 262 Fossheim, Hallvard J.  11 Frede, Dorothea  10 Fretheim, Terence E.  103, 123, 126, 136, 143 Friesen, Steven J.  189, 200–​201 Furnish, Victor Paul  160–​161, 163–​164

G Gaventa, Beverly  161–​162 Glancey, Jennifer A.  228 Glanville, Mark R.  88, 96, 101, 103–​105, 107, 109, 113, 117, 120, 128, 131, 140 Glass, Zipporah G.  129 Goosen, Rachel Waltner  45 Gorman, Michael  81, 169–​170 Gottlieb, Paula  9 Gottwald, Norman K.  119 grace  14–​16, 20–​22, 27–​28, 30, 33–​35, 45, 47–​48, 71–​73, 81, 91, 138, 141, 150–​151, 159–​165, 167–​169, 171–​174, 176, 184–​ 186, 209, 212, 218, 227, 241, 245, 256–​ 257, 267, 269 Grams, Rollin  2, 160, 214 Greer, Jonathan S.  99–​100 Grimes, Katie Walker  49, 64, 76–​78, 224, 238, 240 Grisanti, Michael A.  147–​148

H habits  8, 13–​16, 18, 27–​28, 30–​31, 45–​47, 49, 57, 78, 196 habituation  8–​15, 20, 22, 35, 38–​39, 41, 47, 54, 58–​59, 64, 73, 77–​78, 92–​93, 103, 107, 115, 132, 163, 166, 168, 178–​179, 182–​183, 220, 251, 257 habitus  14, 39–​41, 53–​54, 63, 65, 76, 110, 135, 165–​166, 249, 260 Hamalis, Perry T.  169 Harland, Philip A.  189, 193 Harrison, James R.  182, 189, 200 Hauerwas, Stanley  2, 7–​8, 13, 16, 26, 42, 44–​46, 54, 58–​60, 62–​63, 71, 74, 76–​77, 81, 238–​239 Hayden, Brian  97, 100–​101, 106 Hays, Richard B.  169–​172, 175–​176, 178–​ 179, 182, 184, 208–​209, 216, 220 Heidebrecht, Paul C.  42, 44 Henderson, Suzanne Watts  207–​208, 212, 218, 226–​227 Herdt, Jennifer A.  9–​11, 13, 16, 20, 47, 49, 78, 166, 238 Heschel, Abraham Joshua  108, 164 Holistic Ecclesial Formation  45, 51, 61, 67–​68, 74, 81–​82, 85, 133, 145, 154–​155, 157, 159, 231, 237 Hollander, David B.  200 honor  91, 93–​94, 128, 164, 179, 183, 188–​190, 192–​194, 204–​205, 213, 221–​224, 228, 234–​235, 239–​240, 245, 247, 249–​251, 256–​257, 259–​261, 265, 268 Horrell, David G.  169, 173, 177–​178, 181–​ 183, 193, 203, 206, 216, 222–​223 Horsley, Richard A.  173, 183, 189, 200–​201, 205, 209 Horton, Michael  23, 29, 70–​71 household  88, 97–​99, 103–​106, 108, 113, 115, 119–​122, 124, 128–​131, 188, 203, 228, 234–​235, 264 Houston, Walter J.  104–​105, 114, 117–​121, 126–​131, 142, 145

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Huber, Ryan Michael  27, 31–​33, 80 Hunsicker, David B.  27–​28, 30

I idolatry  118, 135–​137, 140, 144, 154–​155, 162, 232 imitation  31–​32, 108, 142, 178–​179, 182 intention  40, 49, 52, 54–​58, 60, 76, 78, 82, 103, 106, 114, 117–​118, 132, 135, 159, 178, 187, 197, 211, 229, 237, 244 Israel  39, 64–​65, 79, 88–​91, 94, 96, 98, 101–​102, 104–​106, 108–​109, 112–​119, 122–​123, 125–​126, 128, 132, 134–​155, 172, 195–​197, 232, 235, 243, 245–​247, 251–​253, 255, 260, 262–​264, 266–​268

J Jennings, Willie James  25, 75–​79, 81, 224, 238, 241 Jewett, Robert  201 Jipp, Joshua W.  179 Johnson, Dru  38–​39, 54–​55, 64–​65, 74, 93, 96, 109, 188 joint attention  18–​20, 73 Josephus  197, 209, 255 joy  81–​82, 103, 108, 111–​112, 114–​115, 118, 145–​146, 152, 241, 243, 261 judgment  91, 94, 129, 142, 145, 152, 175, 180–​181, 205, 214–​215, 217–​220, 233 justice, xxiii  2–​3, 8, 11, 18, 31, 53, 64, 77–​78, 81–​82, 88, 104–​105, 112, 118–​121, 126, 129–​132, 235, 239–​241, 252, 254, 258, 263, 266–​268 justification  27–​28, 30, 33–​34, 45, 68, 72, 160, 167, 169, 179, 252, 268

K Kallenberg, Brad J.  69, 193 Kamtekar, Rachana  8, 10

Kapic, Kelly  70 Kaufman, Stephen A.  107 Kautzer, Benjamin  42, 46, 48 Kin  103–​104, 115, 222, 234 king  64, 69, 73, 89, 92–​94, 98, 100–​104, 106, 116–​119, 144, 152, 178–​179, 209–​210, 213, 228, 233–​236, 242, 255, 262–​265 King, Philip J.  64, 69, 73, 89, 92, 94, 98, 100–​104, 106, 116–​119, 144, 152, 178–​ 179, 209–​210, 213, 228, 233–​236, 242 Kingdom of God  46, 64, 67, 175, 240–​241 Kirk, Alan  27 Klima, Gerald A.  13 Klinghardt, Matthias  188–​189, 191–​193, 195, 228 Kloppenborg, John S.  188–​190, 192–​194, 202–​203, 205 Knight, Douglas A.  129, 131 Knobel, Angela McKay  16–​17 Kooy, Vernon H.  91, 134 Kulp, Joshua  196

L Lampe, Peter  202 Lapsley, Jacqueline E.  2–​3 Lasater, Phillip  92, 115 Last, Richard  14, 49, 99, 112, 196, 199, 202, 205, 207–​208, 212, 215–​216, 226, 228, 242 law  23, 28, 30, 33, 55, 60, 72, 89, 91, 94, 105, 107–​109, 111, 117–​118, 123–​131, 134–​137, 139–​140, 142, 144, 146, 148, 150–​155, 165, 179, 196, 209, 235–​236, 239, 244, 246, 251, 255–​257, 266–​267 Lemke, Werner E.  141, 148 Lewis, John G.  31, 166, 171–​172, 176, 178, 181, 217–​220 liturgical ethics  37, 42, 46–​51, 56, 61, 231 Litwa, M. David  169, 174, 178–​179 Liu, Jinyu  189, 200–​201 Lockwood, Thornton  8–​9, 59 Lohfink, Norbert  91, 105, 113, 124, 127, 129–​130

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Long, D. Stephen  11, 32, 45–​46, 66, 71, 77, 81, 167–​168 Long, Steve A.  22 Longenecker, Bruce  200–​201 love  2, 11, 14, 20, 29, 31–​32, 48, 51, 60–​61, 69, 73–​74, 79–​80, 91–​92, 116, 118, 127, 130, 134, 136–​137, 141–​142, 146–​147, 149, 153, 155, 164, 169, 176–​178, 181–​ 186, 194, 206, 209–​210, 216, 219–​221, 224–​225, 227, 232, 234–​235, 241, 244, 250, 256, 260, 262–​263, 267 Lovin, Robin W.  66 Luther  34, 160–​161 Lutz, Christopher S.  25

M Macaskill, Grant  162–​163, 167, 169 MacDonald, Nathan  112–​113, 120, 134 MacIntyre, Alasdair C.  7–​10, 12–​13, 15, 22–​26, 35, 42, 46, 52–​55, 57–​59, 62, 75–​ 76, 79, 199 Magness, Jodi  98 Marcus, Joel  196–​197 marginalized  103–​104, 109, 118, 122, 142, 223, 226–​227, 235, 239–​240 Marshall, I. Howard  202, 212, 215–​217 martial  41, 193 Martyn, J. Louis  160–​164, 166 Mattison, III, William C.  16–​17, 21 Mayes, A.D.H.  89, 152 McBride, S. Dean  94, 117, 119 McClendon, James William  55–​56 McConville, Gordon  89, 102, 106, 111–​112, 124, 126, 128–​129, 134–​135, 138–​139, 141, 143, 147, 149, 151–​154 McGovern, Patrick E.  99 McGowan, Andrew  228 McInerny, Ralph  21–​22 McRae, Rachel M.  183, 188, 190, 193, 205, 222 Meade, John D.  141, 151 meals  1, 3, 43, 49, 65, 78, 90, 95–​97, 100, 102–​104, 106–​107, 117, 133, 135,

137, 139, 141, 143, 145, 147, 149, 151, 153–​155, 180–​181, 183–​184, 188–​197, 201–​204, 207–​209, 213, 215–​216, 220, 222–​225, 228–​229, 231–​233, 236–​237, 240–​241, 243–​244, 251, 255–​256, 258–​ 259, 261, 264–​265 meat  98, 111, 145, 181, 257–​258 Meeks, Wayne A.  169 Meggitt, Justin  200, 203 Meilaender, Gilbert  11, 17, 22 memory  41, 94, 112, 134–​136, 196–​197, 211, 229, 234, 244, 247, 249, 255, 264–​265 Meyers, Carol  96, 98, 102, 105–​106, 116, 119 Millar, J.G.  111, 137, 148, 150 Miller, Colin D.  8, 11, 26, 59, 70, 91, 124–​ 125, 131, 135, 147–​148, 190 Miner, Robert  14, 58 Misarum edicts  129–​131 Moberly, Jennifer Lynne  134, 137–​138, 140 Moberly, Walter  134, 137–​138, 140 mortification and vivification  27, 29–​33, 267 Moses  91, 94, 123, 134, 147–​149, 154, 249, 261 Murphy, Nancy  69, 193

N narrative  2, 23, 47, 52–​53, 59, 62, 71, 91, 96, 102, 112–​113, 123, 126, 137, 140, 145, 152, 154, 169, 196, 208–​211, 219, 227, 229, 248, 252, 255, 257–​258 Nelson, Richard D.  7, 92, 117, 124, 126–​ 131, 137, 139, 143–​144, 146, 150, 153 new covenant  72, 207–​210, 212, 236 Newsom, Carol  116 Nolan, Kirk J.  27–​28, 30, 32–​34

O Oakes, Peter  200 O'Donovan, Oliver  71–​72 O'Dowd, Ryan  149–​150

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Olson, Dennis T.  134, 138, 146, 148–​ 149, 151 oppressed  2, 45 Otto, Rudolf  90

P Pace, Leann  97–​98, 227 Papanikolau, Aristotle  169 Parry, Robin  62, 149 passover  180, 188, 195–​197, 208–​209, 211, 229, 244, 258 Patron, Patronage  99, 102, 114, 119–​121, 128–​131, 189–​190, 193, 203, 225, 228, 248, 251 Patterson, Jane Lancaster  172, 180–​181, 195, 208, 210 Paul  3, 19, 28, 30–​31, 34, 41–​43, 48, 65, 80–​81, 129, 138, 159–​190, 193, 195, 197–​201, 203–​229, 232–​236, 239–​240, 245–​261, 263–​268 Pelagianism  17, 22, 26, 33, 35, 238 Pennington, Jonathan T.  29, 168 Pfeiffer, Robert Henry  91–​92 Philo  163, 182, 197, 245, 262–​263 pilgrimage  106–​108, 110–​114, 121, 235 Pinches, Charles  7, 13, 16, 26, 52, 57, 239 Pinsent, Andrew  11, 14, 16–​20, 73, 102, 162, 180, 238 Pitre, Brant  196 Pliny  193, 195, 262 Plutarch  191, 195, 204, 262 polis  10, 42, 44, 46, 189–​190, 222, 256 politics  10, 12, 42–​44, 50, 52, 54, 57, 59–​60, 62–​67, 71, 74–​75, 79, 81–​82, 87, 95, 97, 99, 101, 106, 111, 114, 118–​122, 124, 127, 129–​133, 143, 155, 187, 189, 191, 195, 197, 205–​206, 209, 213, 227, 229, 234–​235, 237–​238, 240–​242, 248–​250, 253, 256, 258, 262–​263, 268 Pollock, Susan  99–​101, 106 poor  2–​3, 44, 48, 57–​58, 64, 78, 103, 105, 119, 125, 128–​131, 188–​189, 192, 200–​ 201, 203–​204, 224–​225, 241, 257

Porter, Jean  10, 12, 14–​15, 182 priest  89, 102, 106, 117

R race, racism  75–​76, 78, 250, 255 Rahner, Karl  48 Ramos, Melissa D.  123, 144–​145 reformed  26–​35, 66, 70, 72, 81, 107, 139, 164, 238, 254, 261, 266, 268 remember  49, 94, 123, 137, 154, 200–​ 201, 257 Renette, Steve  99–​100 Rhodes, Michael J.  32, 52, 61, 68–​69, 73–​75, 80, 109, 126, 187, 195, 207, 211, 222, 224, 226 Richter, Sandra L.  101–​103, 119 Risch, Christina  208 ritual  37–​39, 41–​43, 45–​47, 49–​51, 53–​55, 57, 64–​66, 74, 90, 96–​97, 101–​102, 107–​110, 112–​114, 116, 123–​124, 127, 144–​145, 152, 180, 190, 195–​197, 211, 213–​214, 231, 246–​247, 249, 251–​252, 255, 259, 262 ritualization  38–​39, 41, 53, 65, 96, 102 Rome  190, 194, 200 Rosner, Brian  170–​171, 205, 208, 211–​212, 216, 219

S saints  170–​172, 174, 176–​177, 184, 232 Saliers, Don E.  46–​47, 49, 56 Sampley, J. Paul  169, 175–​176, 182, 202, 205, 210, 220 Samra, James G.  169–​171, 173–​178, 180, 207, 211–​212 Samuel, Michael Leo  42, 44, 92, 96 sanctification  27–​28, 30–​31, 33–​35, 39, 70, 72–​73, 170–​173, 176, 254–​255, 267 Sasson, Jack  98, 101 Scheidel, Walter  200 Schellenberg, Ryan S.  188–​189, 192, 201

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Schmandt-​Besserat, Denise  101 second-​person, second-​personal  18–​21, 33, 35, 49, 72–​73, 93, 95, 102, 108, 114, 132, 178, 180, 212, 218, 220, 234, 236, 238 Seitz, Christopher R.  148–​149 Seneca  182 Seow, Choon-​Leon  115 shame  173, 188, 192, 198, 202, 213, 233, 241, 249 Siikavirta, Samuli  160 sin  16, 21–​22, 27, 32, 61, 72, 77, 80–​81, 91, 137, 154, 161–​165, 173, 180–​181, 184, 186, 206, 216–​217, 238, 247, 268 Smith, B.D.  202 Smith, Dennis E.  183, 188, 190–​195, 202, 205, 213 Smith, James K.A.  2, 29, 31, 35, 40–​41, 46–​ 49, 53, 57–​59, 64, 66, 73, 75, 78, 210 Smith, Julien  179, 182 Smith, Monica  98, 106, 109 social stratification  191–​195, 201, 203–​204, 215, 222, 226–​227 Sonderegger, Katherine  73, 151 Stager, Lawrence E.  64, 69, 73, 89, 92, 94, 98, 100–​104, 106, 116–​119, 144, 152, 178–​179, 209–​210, 213, 228, 233–​ 236, 242 Standhartinger, Angela  228 story  28, 47–​49, 53, 59, 62–​65, 67, 71, 74–​75, 79–​82, 112–​113, 116–​117, 120, 133–​137, 141–​142, 144–​145, 147, 155, 161, 186, 196–​197, 207–​211, 215, 227, 229, 237, 247, 261 Strawn, Brent A.  90–​93, 103, 123, 141, 146, 148 Streett, Alan R.  190–​191, 196, 208–​209, 213, 223, 228 Surburg, Mark P.  202, 221

T Taussig, Hal  188, 190, 208–​209 Thatcher, Tom  27

Theissen, Gerd  193, 199–​202, 207, 212, 226, 228 theological ethics  1–​4, 10, 25, 69, 151, 178, 186, 231, 237, 239–​240, 242, 245, 249, 258 theological interpretation  2–​4, 32, 51–​52, 149, 170, 231, 237, 240–​242, 252, 257, 262, 264, 266 Thiessen, Mark  69, 193 third use of the law  30, 33, 139 Thiselton, Anthony C.  164, 170–​171, 175–​178, 180–​182, 184–​185, 198, 202, 206–​208, 211–​213, 215–​217, 220, 222–​ 223, 226 Thompson, James W.  65, 171 Tigay, Jeffrey H.  89–​90, 92, 97, 107, 109, 117, 134–​135, 138, 141, 143–​144, 148–​ 150, 153–​154 Tithe  2–​4, 49, 51, 61, 65, 82, 85, 87–​91, 93, 95–​99, 101–​129, 131–​135, 137, 140, 143, 145, 147–​148, 152, 154–​155, 159, 184, 221, 232–​236, 239–​240, 242, 248, 259, 268–​269 Torrance, Alan J.  25, 71 transformation  3, 12–​17, 20, 22, 25, 27–​30, 35, 42, 44, 49, 66, 72–​73, 79–​81, 103, 107, 126, 141, 148, 151, 162, 164, 166–​ 167, 169, 172–​174, 177–​179, 184, 186, 226, 233, 235–​236, 238–​239, 242, 245, 247, 267 Tsai, Daisy Yulin  126 Turner, Victor  107, 110

U Unterman, Jeremiah  130

V van der Watt, Jan G.  169 Vanhoozer, Kevin J.  241 Varma, Ashish  27–​28, 30–​31

i n d e x  | 279

Vasiliou, Iakovos  11 vice  8–​9, 49, 58, 62, 65, 76–​77, 136–​137, 140, 154, 161, 163, 179–​180, 194, 206, 227, 241, 252, 254 Vining, Peggy A.  171–​172, 182 virtue, virtue ethics  2–​3, 7–​35, 37, 40, 42, 45–​47, 49–​52, 54–​55, 57–​60, 62, 65, 70, 72–​73, 75–​76, 78–​81, 87, 93, 107, 114–​115, 118, 122, 126, 139, 150, 152, 159, 161, 164, 166, 168–​170, 174–​179, 181–​182, 184–​187, 191–​196, 198–​199, 209, 218, 220, 222, 224, 226–​227, 229, 231, 235, 238–​239, 248–​254, 256–​262, 264, 266–​268 acquired virtues  13, 15–​17, 22, 26, 35, 58, 78, 253, 256 coexistence theory  16, 20–​21 habituation gap  11–​12 infused virtues  10, 15–​17, 20–​22, 25–​26, 28–​30, 33, 35, 58, 72, 166, 175, 238, 262 von Rad, Gerhard  101 Vos, Pieter  27–​31, 33 vulnerable  3, 88, 104–​106, 108–​110, 112, 115, 118–​120, 124, 128, 130, 132, 140, 142, 144, 155, 200, 234–​235

W Walton, John H.  107 Wannenwetsch, Bernd  171, 174, 177–​182, 184–​186, 202, 206, 210, 213, 216–​218, 220, 222–​223, 225, 233 Webster, John B.  7, 13, 27–​32, 34, 58, 67, 69–​71, 163, 178, 239 Weinfeld, Moshe  92, 94, 96, 102–​103, 118, 126, 130–​131, 136 Weiss, Johannes  215 Wellborn, L.L.  189, 199–​201 Wells, Kyle B.  162–​163, 185, 209, 212 Wells, Samuel  42, 44, 46, 60, 76, 81

Werpehowski, William  32 Westbrook, Raymond  123, 130 White, Nicholas  1, 77–​79, 81, 206, 224 Whiteness  75 Widder, Wendy L.  89 Wilderness  94, 113, 115, 136–​138, 140, 142, 147 Wilson, Ian  76, 89, 152, 238 Winter, Bruce W.  221 wisdom  2, 23, 30, 45, 48–​49, 67, 72, 91, 93, 149–​150, 166–​168, 172–​175, 177–​178, 182, 184–​185, 205, 215, 223, 228, 232–​ 234, 236, 245, 247–​248, 261, 265–​266 Wolterstorff, Nicholas  11, 18, 20, 29 worship  29, 31, 46–​49, 51, 60–​61, 78, 88, 92–​93, 101–​103, 108–​111, 117–​118, 120, 122, 132, 136–​137, 140, 144, 204, 225, 228, 232, 235, 241–​242, 247, 259–​ 260, 264 Wright, Christopher J.H.  97, 103, 119, 123, 137, 139–​140, 143–​144, 146, 148, 150–​152 Wright, N.T.  162, 167–​170, 178–​179, 184–​186

Y YHWH  3, 39, 65, 72, 87–​99, 101–​105, 107–​127, 129, 131–​155, 184, 196, 232–​ 236, 254 Yoder, Christine Roy  93 Yoder, John Howard  42–​47, 54, 59–​ 60, 67, 74 Yu, Suee Yan  90–​91, 96–​97, 107, 117

Z Ziegler, Philip  69, 72, 160–​161, 163–​165, 167–​168, 175, 184, 212

Select Scripture Index

Genesis  15  39 15:13  138 Exodus  12:47  196 12:48  195, 197 13:8-​9  196 21:1-​6  127 24:11  102 32:4  65 34:24  113 Numbers  9:13-​14  195, 197 11:4-​6  116 18:26  96 Deuteronomy  2:6-​7  113 2:22  148 3:14  148 4:9  118 4:1  89 5:1  89

5:13-​15  108 5:21  116 5:24-​33  91, 113 6:1-​25  134–​137, 153 6:1-​3  102 6:2  92 6:10-​13  94 6:13  116 6:24  92 7:25  116 8:1-​20  94, 102, 137–​140, 142, 146, 153 8:6  92 10:8  148 10:12-​11:20  141–​144, 153 10:1-​13  94 10:16  149 10:20  92 11:4  148 12  112 12:7  114, 145 12:12  114, 145 12:18  114, 145

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formative feasting

13:4  92 13:11  91 14  112 14:22-​16:17  108 14:22-​29  2–​3, 78, 87–​132, 134–​137, 140, 144, 152, 155, 159, 238, 242 14:22-​27  82, 89–​95, 152, 240 14:26  145 14:28-​29  3 15:1-​11  108 15:12-​18  108 15:1-​18  124–​132 16:1-​17  108, 112 16:11  114, 145 16:14-​15  114, 145 16:16  106 17:13  91 17:14-​20  102 17:19  89, 92 17:20  94 19:20  91 21:21  91 24:5  145 26:1-​11  94, 102, 113, 117, 141 26:1-​16  140 26:6  138 26:11  114 26:12  155 26:19  153 27  144–​145 27:7  114, 145 28:1-​68  144–​6, 147 28:58  91, 92 29-​32  146 29:1-​7  147–​152 29:29  151 30:1-​14  147–​152 30:1-​10  209 30:6  209 31:10  152–​153 31:12-​13  89, 91 31:16-​32:18  153–​154 31:21  148

33:18  145 34:6  148 1 Samuel  8:15  96 1 Chronicles  31:4  96 2 Chronicles  30:1-​9  196 30:9  196 31:4  95 Ezra  6:19-​22  196 Nehemiah  8:12  169 13:12  96 Psalms  118:122  221 Proverbs  8:10  205 9:10  72 17:3  205 21:10  116 27:21  205 Ecclesiastes  2:1-​11  139 Isaiah  1:11-​17  204 61:1  2 64:6  12 Jeremiah  9:6  205 29:7  65 31:27-​34  72 31:31  208 31:33  209 38:7-​9  196 Ezekiel  36:23-​29  72 36:26  13 Amos  5:17-​24  204 Micah  6:8  2

s e le c t s c r i pt u r e i n d e x  | 283

Zechariah  13:9  205 Malachi  3:10  96 Matthew  5:14  46, 67 7:3-​5  81 25:40  216 John  3:3  80 Luke  3:8  81 7:9  64 12:13-​21  139 Acts 79  17:16  221 Romans  2:12-​15  165 2:29  165 3:9  161 3:10  12 5:8  81 5:12-​21  161 6:13  164 8:5  164 7:5-​6  165 8:11  81 12:2  164 I Corinthians  1:1-​9  183 1:1-​19  170–​172 1:2  232 1:8-​9  211 1:17-​31  172 1:18  205 1:18-​2:26  206 1:26-​30  201, 217, 233 1:27-​29  177, 236 1:27  213 2:11-​16  175–​176 2:6  174, 185, 209, 217, 219 3:1-​14  177 3:1-​3  175–​176

3:7-​10  176 3:13  205, 206 3:16  67, 211 4  178–​179 4:5  206 4:16  178 5:4  211 5:4-​5  218 5:1-​8  180–​181 5:7  208 6:1-​5  177–​178 6:2  215 6:11  173 8-​11:1  181–​184 8:1  176 8:10-​12  216 9:24-​27  206 10:15  182 10:16-​17  183, 211 10:17  218 11:17-​34  2, 78, 82, 159, 186, 187–​230, 238, 242 12  222–​226 12:13  213, 237 12:22-​25  234, 239 13:1-​14:1  248 13:1-​13  184–​185 14:1  176 14:20  185 14:35  212, 226 15:10  176 15:9-​10  185 15:22  173 15:54  162, 173 15:58  174 16:11  221 2 Cor  4:7  81 Galatians  5:25  81 5:26-​6:10  165 Ephesians  2:10  81

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formative feasting

4:15  17 3:10  67 Philippians  3:12  80 Colossians  1:15-​29  69 1:20  64 1:22  171 1:24  67 1 Thessalonians  2:9  185 1 Timothy  3:10  171 Titus  1:6-​7  171

Hebrews  10:13  221 11:10  221 1 Peter  1:7  206 2 Peter  1:4  15 James  1:12  206 5:7  221 1 John  3:1-​3  69, 80 3:1-​2  80 3:2  74

Studies in Biblical Literature

This series invites manuscripts from scholars in any area of biblical literature. Both established and innovative methodologies, covering general and particular areas in biblical study, are welcome. The series seeks to make available studies that will make a significant contribution to the ongoing biblical discourse. Scholars who have interests in gender and sociocultural hermeneutics are particularly encouraged to consider this series. For further information about the series and for the submission of manuscripts, contact: Peter Lang Publishing Acquisitions Department 80 Broad Street, 5th floor New York, NY 10004 To order other books in this series, please contact our Customer Service Department: [email protected] (within the U.S.) [email protected] (outside the U.S.) or browse online by series at: WWW.PETERLANG.COM