Advent Lecture #2

Most of the people I know personally attempt to speak and think in what I would call a linear fashion. If they tell a story, the story moves from beginning to end. If they're trying to make a point, they offer their proofs and then conclude, or they make the point first and back it up afterward. However, some other people don't speak—or probably don't think—so linearly. Instead, they speak in a circular fashion, moving around and around, possibly making their point somewhere along the way, but without the kind of anchoring cues I typically rely on to recognize when a point is being made.

Some people, meanwhile, speak in a manner that feels akin to chaos theory or a Mandelbrot set. They make one point over here, another over there, and yet another somewhere seemingly random. But as their points accumulate, a larger picture begins to emerge. 

Interestingly, many theologians, such as Catherine Keller, have pointed out that the Bible—and therefore Christianity—are assumed to be organized in a hyper-linear fashion. The assumption goes, there's a beginning, literally Genesis, and an end, literally the Apocalypse. In between, there is a historical progression, moving from the earliest moments of God's relationship with creation and humanity to an envisioned culmination of that relationship.

Most individual books in the Bible also follow this narrative pattern. For example, Matthew begins with a genealogy leading up to Jesus' birth and ends with his death and resurrection, with his childhood and earthly life in between. There are notable exceptions, depending on how communities organized and ordered the texts, as well as the nature of the content. Some books, like Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Song of Songs, are collections rather than narratives. Still, the overarching structure of Scripture and Christian tradition in this interpretation reflects and reinforces a linear way of thinking.

Because of this, a significant driving force in theology—some would argue *the* driving force—is eschatology: the study of the end. When I served as a missionary in Slovakia, one of my major responsibilities was grading papers. My students, mostly fifth-year gymnasium students, had already mastered English to the point that we could read novels together, and they wrote papers in English based on those readings. While most students had a solid grasp of English grammar—often better than mine—they struggled with constructing organized arguments. Writing clear thesis statements and strong topic sentences was especially challenging.

I'll admit that I don’t always follow the structural rules I taught when blogging or writing, but I do think this method of organizing thought represents the clarity that much of Christian theology seeks. This raises a question: is the linear narrative structure—beginning, middle, and end—actually descriptive of the Christian message, or is it a framework we impose on Scripture and then extract from it? In other words, do we read Scripture to support this linear model, or does Scripture inherently teach it?

Consider two examples: one from the beginning of the Bible and one from the end. At the beginning, because linear thinking demands a starting point, readers of Scripture often emphasize the concept of *ex nihilo*—creation out of nothing. According to this view, God spoke into a void, and something came into existence. However, Genesis also describes God's Spirit hovering over "the deeps," suggesting that something—chaos, a primordial soup, or a formless void—already existed. God's creative act, then, is not the creation of something out of nothing but the ordering or shaping of what was already there. These are two radically different ways of conceptualizing a beginning, with significant implications for Christian practice. 

If the Word of God speaks into nothing, mission work might disregard the culture and context of the people to whom the message is brought, as though the message creates ex nihilo. On the other hand, if the Word works through the Spirit with what is already present, mission becomes a collaborative act that respects and incorporates existing contexts.

At the end of the Bible, in the book of Revelation, John’s vision on Patmos is often interpreted as depicting the end of the world, with the righteous departing to a better place. However, Revelation describes a "new Jerusalem" descending to earth. The future comes to us rather than us escaping to it. This imagery has profound implications for Christian practice. If people believe Christianity promises escape to a better place, they read Revelation as confirming this hope. But if God's future comes to renew creation, then Revelation offers a vision of transformation rather than escape. 

Moreover, Revelation, written as a set of letters to communities under oppressive empire, provided comfort not by promising escape but by assuring them of God's coming to them. This reconfiguration of "the end" is a pivotal moment for Christian theology. Ernst Käsemann, a New Testament theologian, famously said, "Eschatology is the mother of all theology." As we approach Christmas, we might playfully say that the mother we celebrate in this season, Mary, embodies this eschatological hope. The birth of Jesus is God coming to be with us—Emmanuel. Connecting eschatology to the mothering of such a child means eschatology “lands differently.

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I'm not entirely sure I can assert with confidence that the linearity of time I learned is culturally constrained or possibly an aspect of the gender into which I was born and informed. However, I can say that certain insights in theology helped me see—or to stay with the apocalyptic theme, revealed to me—the ways in which my linear assumptions may be gendered or bound to a specific culture.

It wasn't until I was some time into my pastoral ministry that I was exposed to theologies that reshaped my assumptions about the story of Jesus being linear. I think the Protestant approach to Jesus's birth, life, and death is inherently linear. Christmas and the birth of Jesus are treated as the starting point for the gospel of salvation in Christ.

However, if I apply the question I raised last week—and continue exploring it this week—about whether theology is "any good," I notice something significant. Some theologies help us see the stories we've been telling ourselves within our tradition in new ways. It is theology in particular that has the capacity to reframe our narratives.

For example, Catherine Keller’s Apocalypse Now and Then offered a feminist perspective on apocalypse that revealed to me the extent to which Christianity has conditioned us to think of salvation as a departure from this world. This salvation often resembles an escape in a linear fashion rather than a homing in, a landing, or a welcome to this world. Keller’s feminist approach has also helped many theologians develop ecological sensibilities they might not have cultivated otherwise.

Her book has the broad general effect of bringing to awareness the gendered understanding of time that some forms of apocalyptic assume, and she reveals another way of coming at time and text. For example, she writes: “I understand my present project to nest in a complex, twisted history of biblical narrative effect… I consider that story to be intertwined with endless other ones, and therefore intertextually absorbing but also absorbed and absorbable in them…” (27) “Eschatology in general is distinguished by its indignation in the face of injustice, that is, its prophetic critique of the status quo” (20)

Another theologian who shaped my thinking early in my pastoral career is Elizabeth Johnson. Her work helped me reflect more specifically on Mary’s relationship to the birth of Jesus and her place within Christian traditions. Mary is highly revered in many traditions: the Orthodox call her Theotokos, the Mother of God, and Roman Catholic devotion to Mary is profound, evident in artworks like those featured on Christmas stamps and in shrines such as Our Lady of Guadalupe.

During my first call, I had the opportunity to interview Elizabeth Johnson for a review of her book on Mary. One of the most striking points she made—"The implications of the Magnificat for women in the church are many. Fundamentally, these words signal that the lowly will be lifted up. Insofar as women have not functioned or been treated equally in the churches, either in theory or practice, they count among the lowly (though thankfully that is beginning to change). The Magnificat urges even greater efforts in this regard, in light of God’s design revealed in this song (Elizabeth Johnson)—inspired me to examine how Mary is emphasized (or not) within the Christian tradition in which I was raised. A notable omission I observed was any emphasis on Mary’s Magnificat as a social justice creed. Over the years, I’ve grown fond of saying that everything Jesus learned about caring for the poor and marginalized, he learned from his mom. Mary sang these songs to him from the womb and throughout his childhood. Returning to Catherine Keller, we see that she also notes: ““Eschatology in general is distinguished by its indignation in the face of injustice, that is, its prophetic critique of the status quo” (20)

If we move beyond the linear assumptions about Jesus' birth as simply the beginning of a story, we can start to see it differently. Returning to the image I described earlier—a sort of chaos theory or Mandelbrot set, where points appear here and there and eventually form a cohesive picture—we can begin to understand Jesus' birth in a broader historical and theological context.

This perspective suggests that God works in a non-linear way, where the overall picture emerges even as the points unfold unpredictably. From this vantage, Jesus appearing in the "middle" of the story is no surprise at all. The birth of Jesus, his time in Mary’s womb, and his being born of Mary, Theotokos, take on entirely new and profound aspects when viewed in this way.

Hope, wrote Lux Xun, a Chinese dissident philosopher of the early twentieth century, ‘can be neither affirmed nor denied. Hope is like a path in the countryside: originally there was no path–yet, as people walking all the time in the same spot, a way appears.” Lu Xun’s metaphor of hope as a path that emerges through collective and persistent action beautifully captures the essence of emergent possibilities in communal endeavors. It illustrates the idea that what may seem impossible or invisible in the present can become tangible and transformative when a group of people steadfastly commit to moving forward, even without immediate signs of progress.

Lu Xun’s metaphor of hope as a path that emerges through collective and persistent action beautifully captures the essence of emergent possibilities in communal endeavors. It illustrates the idea that what may seem impossible or invisible in the present can become tangible and transformative when a group of people steadfastly commit to moving forward, even without immediate signs of progress.

In this metaphor, hope is not a predetermined or guaranteed outcome—it is not a road already laid out, waiting for us to follow. Instead, it is the result of sustained and collective effort, a product of our shared will and action. As individuals repeatedly tread the same ground, they leave behind traces of their persistence, which eventually coalesce into something visible and navigable for others.

This resonates deeply with the dynamics of social and cultural change, where progress often feels elusive or slow, especially in the face of systemic challenges or entrenched resistance. Civil rights movements, environmental advocacy, or even the building of a more inclusive and compassionate church community exemplify this process. Each step—whether a march, a conversation, or an act of service—may seem small or inconsequential on its own. Yet, over time, these acts weave together to create a path that others can recognize and follow.

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Good theology accompanies us on this path, even if we remain uncertain whether the path has been made visible. Feminist theology offers several perspectives that challenge the linear view of history, emphasizing instead cyclical, relational, or birth-centered understandings of time and existence.

1. Catherine Keller's Work: Keller critiques the linear, end-focused eschatology of traditional Christian theology in her book Apocalypse Now and Then. She explores how apocalyptic imagery can be reinterpreted to embrace a more cyclical, interconnected, and regenerative view of history and the cosmos. This approach moves away from apocalyptic "departure" to a theology that roots salvation and renewal within this world.

2. Marcella Althaus-Reid: In her feminist critiques, queer theology pioneer Althaus-Reid examines how embodiment and relationality challenge rigid, linear narratives. She particularly addresses how gendered and queer experiences introduce non-linear interpretations of history and theology, highlighting how cycles of birth, death, and renewal shape human and divine realities​.

3. Mary Grey's Work: Grey integrates eco-feminist insights, critiquing linear notions of progress and instead presenting a theology of creative fidelity. This view emphasizes interconnectedness, renewal, and cycles of life that reflect ecological rhythms rather than a unidirectional historical timeline​.

4. Elizabeth Johnson: Johnson, in her work on Mary and the Magnificat, emphasizes the cyclical nature of creation and redemption. She frames Mary’s role as central to the continuity of life and tradition, resisting patriarchal and linear depictions of salvation as strictly future-oriented or disconnected from ongoing earthly realities​.

These examples demonstrate how feminist theologians disrupt traditional, linear narratives, proposing instead theological frameworks that reflect cyclical, relational, and embodied experiences. These approaches offer rich resources for reimagining theological history and praxis.