Category Archives: teaching

Imaging Theology (part 2)

When I began teaching full-time I put together powerpoint presentations on various topics, so the imaging of theology and church history became a regular task. For the last class of my undergraduate theology gen ed class I wanted to pull all the themes of the Apostle’s Creed and theological method together.

For some reason, a particular image came to mind that I then spent quite a while trying to find in my archives.  I spent so long trying to find it because it so perfectly captured my sense of what we were about.  When I thought about the theological task for the sake of my students and myself, this is the image that came to mind:

 

I took this picture about ten years ago or so while camping on Santa Rosa Island. Santa Rosa is part of the Channel Islands National Park, five islands off the coast of Southern California. I first visited during my first quarter of seminary, and they remain one of my treasured places of discovery and renewal.

This picture evokes the theological task with its narrow winding path and brown grass, which becomes a lush green with rain. The trail seems in the middle of an endless field but I know that eventually one meets up with the ocean.  It also seems lonely, but I was with two friends at the time, walking nearby, just past the airfield on the island that drops off supplies for the national park service and occasional day-hikers.

With all that in mind, the task takes shape. A winding journey with memories and community yet still calling for a lonely kind of participation, a journey that may involve beauty and accomplishment or thirsty trudging through barren landscapes. Keep walking. It is mystical and it is wonderful. But I can’t prove it unless you go there yourself.

So, this image  has been with me for the last four years or so.  It is my longest stretch without visiting the Channel Islands and a very long stretch that has pulled me out of contemplation and into a frenzied busyness of teaching, where constant new courses have left me little time of focus or reflection.

It is a slog, but not without its own worth. And that worth pulls me back into a re-evaluation, a recovery in the midst of the busyness. A remembering. I’ve been trying to remember my own calling in theology.  I’ve gotten caught up in the images of others, the way they suggest things have to be in order to make it in this competitive world.

Today is the first day of Winter Quarter. I’m teaching another new-to-me class, my eighth since starting full time at Fuller in Fall 2015.  I’ve taught my other class a couple times before, so only have the regular tweaking and responding.  I got back from a trip to Oregon this past Friday, bringing with me a bad cold. Getting back into the swing of things hasn’t been easy. But rather than being a distraction, it’s part of the equation.

Theology isn’t separate from life, it’s how we engage in life, how we see the world and how we invest back into it at moments of success or defeat, focus or frustration.  It’s a Way and this way involves a cast of characters and experiences that might seem to pull us away from the rarefied world of theological reflection if we’re not intentional about keeping on task.

Only, what I’m learning, is that the task of theology is this cast of characters and struggles and investing the rarefied reflections into the mundane everyday.

Which isn’t an easy realization for me.  Because I’m a very strong introvert, struggling to establish a lasting place in my vocation, pulled this way and that by all sorts of forces that keep me from writing, reading, indwelling the theological depths.  I’m spread thin and while performing well in my teaching, keeping up with it all–and family, and all the demands of lived life–deflates the thrill of the quest, the renewal of the contemplation, the discovery of new vistas.

I want to seclude, to hide, to take up the pattern I’ve seen so many others in history adopt, the isolated control of time and space that allows for sustained research and complex integration of ideas. I want to drink deeply of the beauty and riches of God’s being and goodness and complexity.  I thrill in this, become alive in the exploration.

Just let me be and my mind comes alive, my hopes renewed.  But my very engagement with theology, the work of God in my life and in those around me, leads me outwards not inwards, involved not isolated.  My batteries are nearly always on the edge of empty.  But rather than run away from this, I’m learning to run with it.  Somehow.

I can’t escape the earthiness of a Christian theology that not only calls for community but highlights participation with others as a central theme.  It leads me away from what I want towards what I know I need, even as I struggle with how this might work out in that nagging interest in a permanent position.

I hate that nagging.  The future should be one of hope not frustration, of earnest expectation, not nervous agitation about what might go wrong or not work out. If my vision is of the Living God, then I should be living in freedom in the midst of this present opportunity.  I’ve misplaced that joy, that waking up with excitement about the tasks at hand. I’ve forgotten the love of theology that animated all my best steps over the years.

Which isn’t exactly the truth either. I’ve poured myself out in my teaching and in my family, trying to be faithful to these callings in ways that I’ve not always seen in theological/ministry, where teaching is deprecated and families are ignored.

It hasn’t resulted in substantive writing and publishing over the last couple years, however.  So, in my low moments, I’ve pondered needing to isolate, to put up walls, to invest in more obviously professional tasks, the kind that also animate my love of writing and sense of self in accomplishment.

I ended the year with this tension. And begin this new one with it unresolved. That’s probably why I was excited to bring back from Oregon a new image of theology, one that brings together my developing sense of my own calling and goals in this new year.  I saw this picture and it helped me recover a sense of both my calling and my love, renewing a sense of the theological task in my personal and professional life.

I stand before an endless ocean, full of bounty and danger.  It extends beyond the horizon, yet meets up with me in varying depth.  I can stand or walk forward or along the beach, expanding what I experience at every step.

But I’m not alone. It’s not just me and the ocean.  I stand with my little girl, Vianne, whose love for life explodes onto the scene every morning and extends through her day.  She is brave, willing to stand with me, yet scared when the waves crash and overpower. I’m responsible for her in this place. Yet, she’s responsible for me too, calling me out of my selfish isolation. We stand together, learning with each other, each in our own way.

The image speaks more deeply than what I can write, a new image that has only begun to work in my sense of calling and efforts as this new year, and new quarter, begin.  I can likely reflect more on it but I’ll end with Vianne’s refrain that calls out to life and reminds me of what I’ve been missing about theology for a while.

“Bring on the fun!”

Today is also my eight year wedding anniversary. God could have worked in a lot of ways, keeping me focused in isolation, in solitude, in asocial discovery.  Only that’s not the work God did in my life. He opened the door to life with Amy, whose love for God led her likewise down winding paths and challenging seasons.  Our trails joined up and in this we find a daily discovery of God’s inviting promise, doing more and more in our midst than we can imagine, even as we struggle with holding onto that sense of focus that we assume we need in order to pursue our calling.

This is our calling, together, now with Vianne and Oliver. And that’s part of the fun. I’m thankful for it. Bring it on.

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Right Passions

I begin each week of my online courses with a reflection on the theme of the week. It is a devotional beginning, a way of getting the students to think about the topic in light of Scripture, often more pastoral and personal than specifically theological. Of course, the theological is part and parcel with those elements, even as the conventional approaches to theology these days are more academic in tone.

In my class on the Holy Spirit this week, we’re looking more closely at the topic of orthopathy, which means “right passions” in theological parlance.  Along with orthodoxy (right beliefs) and orthopraxy (right actions), it is one of the ways the Spirit works to orient our self, in our community, with God.

In case you’re interested in what I’m up to in my teaching, here’s my reflection that begins this week’s discussion:

Consideration of Week 4

Read: 1 Kings 19:1-18; Jeremiah 20:7-18; Acts 16:11-34; Ephesians 5:15-20

When I was in college, I experienced a roller coaster in my relationship with God.  I went to a Christian school in the Chicago area because I felt God leading me there. And God had plans for me while there but they didn’t seem to fit into the expected college experience. It was a place of training and training often involves breaking.  Which came. Harshly. Before that there was an awakening.  Moments and days in which I felt my heart and mind and whole being opening up in a new vision of God’s work, a deep awareness of God’s presence, an assurance of God’s being.

There were moments of theophany, of discovering a deep truth behind the apparent truths, a perception of complete coherence. I didn’t have words for these experiences even as I knew they were real. I felt my very being stretch and expand, feeling at times both loosely connected to this world and utterly embedded, a part of God’s creation.  Then a turn.

Everything crumbled, the light went from on to off, the presence of God departed.  At least that’s how it felt. A turn to loneliness deepened by even the absence of God’s encouragement and hope. I felt destitute. Empty.  Prayers extending into shadows and emptiness.  Feeling lost in my faith, my being, my hope.

Carried on by that earlier divine presence. There’s something there. I knew it. But could not see it or feel it.  All was dark.

I refused to let go, even in the pain and frustration.  I read more, sought answers, asked for counsel.  Reading helped but only to show that my experience was not unique. It was a common experience through Scripture, throughout the stories of women and men in history. They were close to God and then they encountered a wide ditch of God’s absence. No way forward. No way back.

I knew the facts about God, the story about God’s work in Scripture and history, the doctrines of faith.  But where was the life?  I missed it but knew there was something there.  I pressed on, not giving up, not running away.

A path was there but it was surrounded by dangers and thorns and troubles.  Encouragement came in fleeting glimpses, the fifth door on the left slightly ajar. Just enough sense of joy to become bread crumbs of discovery, a persistent discouragement at every other turn to prevent me from walking down distracting roads.

God kept me on the path, but did so by a dynamic interaction that led me through ups and downs, through college, into seminary, at churches, in the mountains, back for more study and then teaching.  The ups and downs were not required by God, but were my experiences of being buffeted in too many directions, competing narratives and goals pulling me left and right, out and in, up and down, rather than steady in my faith and patient in the journey.

My heart variously strangely warm and strangely cold, a roller coaster turning into a refined palate, increasingly able to attune myself in God’s grace, centering in Christ, navigating in the whispers and moves of the Spirit.

Such dynamic experiences tend to resist intellectual analysis, resulting in those groans and utterances of tongues or music, trying to express that which is indeterminate at first, then indescribable.  Trying to find the words leads deeper down the path. I discovered and was given words not so that I can manage God but so that I can come alongside, able to be a voice of comfort, hope, counsel, a heart transformed by the Spirit better able to participate with the Spirit in my context.

The presence of God is indeed more than a validation for us. The Spirit calls us and is shaping the whole of our being to be renewed in light of God’s life and mission.  Becoming attuned to this mission reaches into the deepest parts of ourselves, places we are most vulnerable and broken, places we may also be the most strong and full of meaning. Our spirit in the presence of God’s Spirit.

What are your desires on this day? What is your mood? What are your passions and hopes and fears?  Lay these out, call them by name, seek wisdom about what is oriented in God and what needs redirection towards God. Let the Spirit comfort, let the Spirit transform.  It is not easy, ohttp://dualravens.com/ravens/wp-admin/post-new.phpften difficult, though sometimes it is wonderful.

The promise of this journey is peace and stillness, even in troubles, hope in times of mystery, rest in times of comfort.  When our desires and emotions match the mission of God in the moment we begin to dance, no longer tossed and torn by the storms. We become effective in the moment, in the place, in the purpose.  At the end of all things, still standing (Eph. 6:13).

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The making of pastors in seminary

The making of pastors in seminary: Pastors aren’t born into the role. Sure, of course, there’s often a family business of sorts, where son follows father, who followed his father, with assorted uncles and cousins added to the mix. Increasingly we find sisters and mothers and aunts in the lists too.

Even still, it’s not hereditary. It’s not like the priests of Israel who were priests because they were born into a tribe of priests, each one having a turn of service.

Pastors are trained. Where does this happen?

Seminary.

That’s what a seminary is at its core: a place to train pastors for ministry. There’s more that happens, of course, all sorts of accompanying projects and activities.

But if a seminary isn’t training pastors, it’s not really a seminary.

Not every education about theology has the same goal. Which is likewise where the various models run into problems. The Berlin model may be entirely appropriate for one goal where the Athens model another, etc. and so on. If the goal is to train pastors but all that is happening is training people to fit into the academy, that’s a problem.

If the goal is to train pastors, but you’re only training people to discover and use their own gifts, then that’s a problem. If the goal is to train pastors, but you’re only training people to be good citizens, then that’s a problem. I could go on, but you get the point.

If the goal is clear and singular, then an institution can easily focus its time and energy in that direction.

With its primary goal of training pastors, however, a seminary has a much more complex mission. Especially in contemporary understanding of a pastor. There’s a lot to being a pastor.

Let’s take, for instance, the role of a vocational minister, the pastor of a church. They are to teach and preach, so need to understand the content of Christianity. They are to offer counseling and support. They are to help encourage, shepherd, train those within their church in their faith and expression of this faith. They are to help people understand how to best translate their faith within the context of their culture and society. They are to keep up with their own life of prayer and personal study and expressions of holy living.

This is why seminary education is a subset of ecclesiology, the doctrine of the church. Training ministers is a function of the church. It flows out of catechesis, raising up those in the faith to become among those who train and shepherd others. We train pastors so as to help edify those who edify others within every church communities.

The very name of pastor (shepherd) suggests a leadership role for a community of Christians, a role that requires a fair mix of different responsibilities. Indeed, all the various separate emphases have their place in a well-rounded seminary education. A pastor has to live in Berlin, Athens, Azusa, generally Geneva, hopefully Jerusalem, and ideally Skete. Each city grabs for attention–for tourist dollars–and so we see pastors becoming unbalanced, overwhelmed, under-trained if they are pulled one direction too far away from others.

In older models, as a citadel designed for a single purpose, theological education could deposit the requisite information and then send students out to do something with it.

In continuing service for the church, however, a seminary is doing more than sending out graduates to sink or swim. The church invests in these men and women in order to be contributing participants in the health and growth of the church. The seminary is given this charge and asked to take care that those who are called are able to carry on in this calling. It creates a deepening depth of wisdom that provides balance in light of competing demands.

If seminaries are not adapting to changing realities then they are not living up to their role and indeed their mission.

One of those changing realities is the fact that an increasing number, maybe even a majority, of seminary graduates will not be vocational ministers. This doesn’t mean they won’t be pastors, it just means they will be pastors and _______, with the blank filled with all manner of different jobs, callings, roles.

Gone are the days where we expect pastors to go into a parish ministry. Fuller, for instance, already broadened this early in its lifetime when it opened the School of Psychology. Graduates finish with a degree in psychology but take quite a number of Bible, theology, ministry classes, generally enough for even an additional masters degree.

Even in the School of Theology, a great many of my students are not interested in full time vocationally ministry, but are active in other vocations, in nonprofits, in missional communities, or in building their own understanding of their faith as a way of contributing to the lives of those around them. Fuller along with many other seminaries have long recognized this reality, even if the general structure of seminary education has stayed much the same.

I like the statement it posts at the bottom of its online course pages:

“With deep roots in orthodoxy and branches in innovation, we are committed to forming Christian women and men to be faithful, courageous, innovative, collaborative, and fruitful leaders who will make an exponential impact for Jesus in any context.”

That’s a big task. Which theological education “city” does all this fit into? We want a city in the mountains, by the coast, with good skiing and mild winters and nice restaurants and low prices, with ancient history and modern sensibilities.

We want it all, which sounds impossible.

And maybe in most places it its. But this is California. In California you can ski and surf on the same day. There’s a possibility of the impossible in California.

Which is why Fuller came into being to begin with and continued to innovate over the decades.

In his book on Fuller Seminary and the (then) New Evangelicalism, George Marsden has this to say on David Allan Hubbard, president of Fuller from 1963-1993:

“Probably also relevant to Hubbard’s broader view was that, unlike every other major figure in the seminary’s history excepting the Fullers, he was a native Californian. California seemed on the edge of Western civilization in that its institutional traditions were not firmly fixed. Hubbard clearly reflected this trait of the region. Like Charles Fuller before him, he saw that with the proper resources institutions could become almost anything one wanted. Unlike the easterners (and vastly more than the Britishers), both Fuller and Hubbard tended not to see traditional structures as inevitable.”

While times and settings have changed–Pasadena is a very different place than it was in the 20th century–so have opportunities. We are not stuck with the innovations of the past, locked in place as if that is our settled identity.

Traditional structures, conventional frameworks, are not the way things have to be, as if we have to fight over increasingly small amounts of the parish pastors pie. Both the context and innovation invites seminary education to broaden its perception of its ecclesial role in training ministers within a broad range of callings and vocations. Seminaries don’t have to keep the same model and then just add on elements of technology to stay alive, staying relevant as they try to keep being what they have always been.

Technology opens up opportunities to become something new, and break free of the boundaries and assumptions which create possibilities from formerly absolute limits. Such possibilities don’t detract from the overall mission, they can help us fulfill it even more thoroughly than ever before. Seminaries can engage the church with transformative networks of learning, training, and support.

As I continue with discussing the network model in my next post I’ll talk about how seminary education can better integrate both faith and context as it emphasizes orthopraxy and orthopathy alongside orthodoxy. Maybe it’s finally time to leave the city walls behind. We don’t need them anymore and they’ve never been quite as helpful as we assumed.

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Beyond the Citadel of Theological Education

Using cities as analogies for theological education is very evocative.  They speak of a place, a way, an era, a narrative all at once.

The sights and smells and food and language of one city is different than other cities.  Pasadena is not Paris and Paris is not London, London is not Los Angeles, Los Angeles is not Tokyo, which is not Mexico City, which is not Shanghai, which is not Mumbai, which is not like Chicago, which is different than Athens, Berlin, and Rio.  Istanbul (not Constantinople) is different than Rome which isn’t like Madrid or Havana or Topeka.

Very different in different ways but very still having a core reality in common. They are cities. If you want to experience them, you have to travel to see them.

Cities became cities by being places of gathering and often places of protection. Early on they were walled fortresses, able to gather in those who were near so as to keep them safe–at least for a time–from marauders or armies.Me at Carcassonne

These cities were only rarely fully surrounded by walls. They had citadels, little cities, within their limits.

Learning was also seen as vulnerable to assault and so colleges became little cities of their own. Colleges were quite literally citadels.

Be it castle or college, there was a place within a place where the body or the mind was protected and nourished.

The analogy of a city for different theological education models isn’t just an analogy. They also represent real places. Places where people left their homes and traveled to in order to study the ways of God with the gathered experts alongside fellow students. Athens, Berlin, Geneva, Jerusalem, Azusa St, and Skete drew people, pulled them from their homes, shaped them into a new kind of person for a new kind of world, formed a barrier from the outside.

Theological institutions likewise formed as citadels within their context. They are a place to educate the chosen and elites (because who else can afford the cost or time). They  gathered in, marked with a degree of learnedness, inaugurated each student into the narrative of what was deemed most important in a particular Christianity.

0421bb10A person learned the content of theology and also the culture of theological education. They then went outward back to home or other settings, sharing the content with others.  We teach as we have been taught. We share that which we have been shown important. We prioritize that which we know best.

Some were trained as pastors, to manage the parish they were assigned. Others became missionaries, sent out to begin new churches. Should any of these be successful enough to raise up new leaders within their context, they sent such promising students there to the citadel and back again.

Citadels of theological learning express the theological priorities of different traditions. Yes, we can categorize citadels in terms of specific models. But they remain the same basic method.  Go there. Learn. Finish. Then go elsewhere. Manage on your own.

This was the way it had to be. How else could someone learn from experts? How else to become a master of a long-established tradition? One must go to where the teachers are and learn however the teachers taught.

So, the different models became patterns throughout history, where people learned in different cities than where they were from or where they were going to minister.  It was demanding, and often limiting. Who is able to pack up and leave their homes? Who is able to devote themselves to a full load of study while in a new location?

To alleviate some of the pressure on this demand, some of the citadels set up outposts which provided access to at least some of the material and experts. They offered classes in a micro-model of the citadel.  They weren’t ideal but often made the difference for students.wheaton_628239983

This isn’t unique to theological education, of course. For most of history, education was based on a citadel model, little cities that used distinct language and emphases, inviting men and later women to come stay within their zone of training and protection.

Citadels were the only substantive model out there, some small and some large, but the same basic approach. The little cities boasting big city terminology like university. The big cities claiming small city values like authenticity and community.  Move to our city, the literature invited.

Then something changed. Everything changed. Just like heavy artillery and then airpower ended the use of walled cities, the information age has radically changed the need to physically go somewhere and live there in order to learn. Over the last ten years, this has caught up to higher education with online learning becoming a major force.  Almost everyone prefers a live classroom experience, but with so many other factors involved, taking a class online increasingly becomes the chosen option.

The foundations of the citadels have crumbled, replaced by a web that reaches around the world.

But we still tend to think of theological education in terms of cities, expressed as citadels, projecting force from a headquarters outward and onward. The reach is global though the  students get the fullest experience within the old, beaten but not yet broken citadel walls.  The great bulk of resources are spent to maintain the walls, bolster the citadel approach.

And this is what so many of the current representatives of the theological cities have in common. They are citadels in an information age, finding it increasingly difficult to sustain the established models but not yet able to determine how else to express their chosen “city” but as a city within a city.  Yes, we may have different modalities, but we are the city we were founded in.

But rather than thinking of theological education as a city, a city that expresses a particular element within the framework, maybe a way has opened up to hold onto that which made the cities great while going beyond their many limitations. Such an approach can integrate technology and other possibilities in ways that citadels never could, and marshal resources that blend together the various “city” emphases in a holistic, transformative way.Hubbard Library

Rather than thinking of theological education as a citadel, maybe we should think of theological education as a network, small hubs that bring together the depth and bounty of an established institution while allowing a local context to stay integrated.

Those who learn, serve; those who graduate, teach; those who minister, are ministered to; honoring the sanctity of a community by letting those called to the community find their calling within the community.

By participating in a network based at a hub, someone can pursue theological education alongside others who they may very well stay alongside for the rest of their lives. This can be a growing, deepening community of learners who facilitate a lifelong connection to the depth and breadth of the Christian faith.

I think seeing theological education in terms of such a network brings the discussion back within ecclesiology, the doctrine of the church.  Those who are called to go elsewhere certainly can, but we shouldn’t insist that those who are called to a place must leave that place and break their ties for an extended time just to go to a place where they have no roots and little connection. Before, there wasn’t a choice. Now there is. And it is indeed an opportunity.

Theological education is traditionally set up as a citadel.  Maybe it is time to break the city model entirely and think in terms of a network.  A difficult transition, but I think there are places that can pursue this well, having many elements already in place. It’s a radical idea, but I’m a Californian theologian, so I don’t see why that is a problem.

Long posts are indeed a problem, so I’ll sketch some more thoughts about the network concept in another post.

Posted in academia, education, seminary, spirituality, teaching, theology | 8 Comments

Theological Education in Skete (part 2)

“A theologian is one who prays truly, one who prays truly is a theologian,” Evagrius wrote.

I was very good at theological education in the Berlin model. I finished seminary with 144 quarter units, a 3.9 GPA, and a Masters of Divinity.  But, I wanted theology to do something, to make something, to be put in service of a task, a means to an end.  Theological education, in all its various topics, spurred me to insight and accomplishment, creative exploration and incisive critique. My ambition, my sense of self, intermingling in my continued delight in studying the ways of God that could, that should, make the world, or at the very least the church, run more smoothly.  I yearned.  It was a yearning of frenzy not of peace, of chaos not stillness, of fruitfulness not acceptance.  God said stop. And I finally listened.

Then God began to remake me.  I left behind the rational life and entered into a mountain life. I lived higher and dug deeper. Writing helped.  I read along the trails of theology and monastic life. I was single. I was, mostly, focused. I wasn’t content, but that wasn’t the issue anymore. I was called. Called to be where I was even if where I was didn’t make sense to anyone else, even me.  I was full of chaos and I was broken.

Where was I in the midst of this rebuilding of my theological self? I was in a new mode of substantive, if not formal, education. I had to face myself and face my complications and face my frustration and face my ambitions and, ultimately, face my God.  I put facing others well behind on the list.  I was physically in the mountains, a mile high, surrounded by trees, birds, refreshing hikes and infuriating neighbors who thought weekly reconstruction of their home was a good use of the space. For five years I lived among the trees, birds, refreshing hikes, and infuriating neighbors.  I was deepened and I was honed, facing my depression and anger and hopes and disappointments, temptations all while free to pursue creative fancy.

Where was I in terms of a theological education? I was in Skete.

Skete is a place in Egypt where monks found loose community in the midst of relative isolation. They were able to spend a lot of time in private prayer, wrestling with temptations, often (if able) reading Scripture, working at basic tasks to keep the acedia away. This wasn’t done alone, as the community allowed for a flexibility of discussion, prayer, confession, education. Conferences as John Cassian and his friend Germanus found most fruitful.  They learned in a community of informal education in ways that led them to deeper truths about God and themselves, able to engage this pursuit proactively and giving space to fight against the passions that led to frenzy and frustration.

My Skete wasn’t in a desert. I had snow in winter and I kayaked on a nearby lake and jogged on forested trails for exercise. But I was isolated from formal theological april20Cconversations (though my parents were quite adept at informal conversation, guiding me with much wisdom).  I was distant from a practical expression of my profession. I had a Master of divinity but was hardly even a master of my self.  I lost friends as they thought I had abandoned sense and practical responsibility. Maybe I had. Indeed I did.

A hermit said, “When you flee from the company of other people, or when you despise the world and worldlings, take care to do so as if it were you who was being idiotic.”

I was in pursuit of something deeper, something more. I had seen the Face and it had turned away. I knew there was something more–stillness, heaven, centering–but I never was in the right place to find it. I was in the wrong city. I was using the wrong maps.  I found myself constantly running from the tidal wave of discontent.

Rather than running away from the crashing wave, I turned around at let it crash over me. I was left to discover myself, to find God in the midst of the whispers and shadows, the singing of wind blowing through trees, the scratchings of men and women long dead.  And, on occasion, fruitful conversations with other women and men who may not have understood what I was about but who were curious enough to stay in touch and encouraging me that there was indeed something worth discovering.  I shared with them, they shared with me, an exchange of counsel and prayer and words of hope and wisdom.  Some I talked with on the phone, some I wrote online, some took me to literal mountaintops and real islands off the coast where contemplation could be indulged alongside exploration and a fair bit of silliness.

Skete isn’t a bad place if you find the right people.

Skete is the city where independent learners can find conversation and connection in their pursuit of understanding God and God’s call.  This is a place where becoming whole in God is the priority, not to accomplish a task but to participate in a calling of being who God wants you to be, a particular discovery in the unity of shared goals.

Where Berlin (intellectual) emphasizes orthodoxy and Jerusalem (missional) emphasicoptic-hermit-2zes orthopraxy, Skete prioritizes discovering orthopathy, a right understanding and expression of passions, including the fruit of the Spirit as part of faith, hope, and love.

I think the city of Skete has the most people, even though they’re spread out.  There are independent learners everywhere who are not finding their core theological education in either church or in an institution. Many have graduated such institutions and are left to fend for themselves. Other have experienced abuse or disregard in churches and institutions so to find God they enter the desert.  They love Jesus, seek Jesus, but don’t have a formal place to deepen their relationship with him once they go beyond the shallows of contemporary ecclesial life.  Some assume there is no more depth to be found. Those who know better begin a journey of discovery, using previous education, or suggestions from others, following rabbit trails of recommendations in footnotes or conversations.

This used to be a very solitary pursuit indeed. It doesn’t have to be anymore. The internet allows communities of such learners to find connection and conversation. It did for me.

And the fruit of my time in Skete was writing two published books and receiving a fully paid fellowship at Fuller for my PhD.  I went back to Berlin Pasadena, but often visited Skete in times of frustration or emptiness. Skete is my hometown now, the place I find peace, and given the uncertainty of academic careers, may be the place I return to more permanently at some point.  I don’t think this is God’s plans, but I’ve learned not to anticipate.

The dangers of Skete are manrays14y.  A person has to be able to self-tutor and self-navigate the many pitfalls and distractions. They have to be able to focus, as there’s no demand to stay on course. They have to be willing to risk relationships in the pursuit of the unknown and stay the course when all is dark.  Stay in one’s cell and there one will learn everything the desert fathers said. The cell is a slow teacher, unhurried and without immediate reward.

It is easy to fall away, get lost in the shuffle, get pulled out of the process. It is also easy to be lulled by one’s own sense of progress into assuming more maturity than one possesses.  It is easy to be arrogant and easy to be depressed, easy to be to rigorous and easy to be all too lax.

But the views in Skete are marvelous to behold and it seems to be a place where many people find themselves when they don’t know where else to go.  So is well worth considering as a key city in the framework of theological education.

And that’s that’s the last city I have to talk about. I’ve presented a brief map and tour guide of these places, sharing my experiences with them.  At the end of this tour, however, I’m not convinced these are the best way to talk about theological education. While these cities are descriptive I am not sure they are the best way to understand the future of theological education. I think cities are the wrong analogy in our era.

So, I’ll keep sketching out my thoughts in the next post in this series.

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Theological Education in Skete (part 1)

I was pre-law in college. Took the LSAT and did very well on it.  But I couldn’t apply to law schools because of the financial trauma. The application fees were expensive, but so was Wheaton, and I couldn’t get ahead of those bills, which tied up my transcripts until well after graduation.  I worked, and my family was more than generous as they were able, but every time I’d start to catch up, there would be an emergency draining bank accounts.

The delay allowed me to catch up to myself and consider my passions and real interests. I wanted to be a lawyer because of an idealism about how I could help people, including my family.  But then I kept meeting lawyers, none of whom liked their jobs.  And in my free time I increasingly was going back to the books I discovered at Wheaton: Eugene Peterson, John Wesley, JI Packer, and many others.  It wasn’t a time for peace for me, as I was still recovering from my time at Wheaton, which enlightened me intellectually but crushed me spiritually and socially. I felt alienated from life and all my hopes and plans were cut off by chasms in every direction.  I knew God had led me there but I couldn’t see that it was a good thing.  My pursuit of God made everything worse in my life.

That’s troublesome language, there, I know. “It wasn’t God,” people want to say.  It was God.  And I say this more confidently than ever.  Why? Because of all that reading I was doing.  I found light in the midst of deep darkness by discovering the place of darkness in the lives of people who found the light.

To live is Christ, I prayed deeply my junior year, teach me to understand this.  I assumed the way to life was through mountain tops and achievements and discovering great insights and transforming the world. I didn’t expect the place of hurt, the place of abandonment, the forsaken experience of crying out to a silent God who made things darker the closer you got to the entrance, at every step defeat, and every victory accompanied by even greater loss.  Needless to say, I wasn’t a very good evangelist during this season.

That which should work out didn’t. That which shouldn’t work out also didn’t.  It wasn’t that I couldn’t do anything right. It was that I could do everything right and it didn’t make a lick of difference.  There was a storm in my life and a storm in my soul, pursuit of peace in one erupted the storm in the other. God would not help me but would not leave me alone.  WalkatDuskpres

In finding the glimpse of light in writings of long ago, I knew there was something still to discover. I was being drawn onward not pushed away.  My casual reading turned more serious when I quit my seasonal job at the post office and bought the 10 volume set of the ante-nicene Fathers.

No one I knew had read them, I didn’t have access to discussion groups. All I know is that I found depth and life and hope in them. Even more, I found this emphasis on love that rocked my experience of church.  Reading through these started a turn in my life, but a turn like a supercargo ship. It wasn’t a quick process.  I found life. I found the profound emphasis on love. But I hadn’t yet found myself.

On a cool for California day, very early in 1999 I walked over to a nearby county park. I was filled with anger and I found that every time I went to church my anger and depression worsened.  Attempts to share, to open myself to possibilities, to try to find guidance was met with confused responses and attempts to put me in the box of programs that were set in stone.  My one light, my one release, was playing saxophone in the worship band, but the day came that I couldn’t even do that without my inner being raging inside.

Did you know that historically, the followers of Odin who  took his name for themselves were Berserkers? Boiling over with rage is not often socially acceptable, especially in church, so I just left before the service started without mentioning it to anyone.

Anger and depression are two sides of the same coin in my experience. The one outward the other inward, a storm that raged at the world, God, myself; a cyclone of indeterminate blame and exhausted frustration.

I skipped church, bought a Sunday LA Times, walked over to sit by the lake at the park. and read the paper. The reading turning to contemplating, the contemplating turning to praying, the praying turning to listening.  Stop obsessing about money and letting it drive you.mt sac and more 074

What would I do if money wasn’t an issue?  How would I spend my time?

Clearly, even without money, I found myself making rather irresponsible and socially confusing decisions to read books written by long dead Christians.  This inclination was part of the stirring that I found alternately invigorating and infuriating.  I wasn’t able to make sense within a life that wasn’t making sense.  My depression would blossom and I would turn back to solace in the saints.  I liked studying Scripture, Church history.

“Have you thought about seminary?” the little whisper asked.  So I started looking into seminary. For the first time, we were able to save money without an emergency draining the funds. My transcripts were freed, my application submitted, my application accepted, my time at seminary beginning in Fall of ’99.  I traveled to Berlin Pasadena for my studies.

Fast forward to early 2003.  I finished my coursework the previous summer. My last internship was officially done in early December of 2002, but was drifting on. I had worked on a number of projects, led a small young adults ministry, played in the worship band.  But the previous years had not progressed smoothly.  Everything I could do, I did well and as far as I could tell I even did right.  But nothing clicked and that which clicked clacked soon after.  Church upheavals and dysfunctions deepened. The dynamic reality that was NewSong was caught in all sorts of competing tensions.  A pastoral search that should have gone quickly after the lead pastor resigned (well after he should have), dragged onward.

I was caught up in the politics of church life and despised it.  I found light and life with the people in my ministry and a number of others, but couldn’t find light or encouragement with those who were defined as leaders and elders.  I finished seminary with strong acclaim by professors and others, with encouraging creative instincts in ministry, but when I looked for mentoring there wasn’t any to be found.  I was left adrift and my depression broke free from its constraining chains.  I tried to join the army.  I tore my ACL after starting the process.  I sought jobs. Not even interview. I couldn’t afford to pay the gas to drive the 20 miles east to the church. I had to drop out of ministry life.  I tried holding on to making sense but there was no sense to be found.baldy01

Once again I turned to my books and to writing. When I wrote I felt alive, I felt free.  I read John Cassian, and spurred on by my interest in John Wesley, I discovered Evagrius and others.

I started reading a lot of monastic works and finding renewed hope, if not life, in their words. I found the volumes of the Philokalia, and I fell in love with beauty.  There was something living beyond the horizon of my experiences.  So after finding all my funds and all my interest in regular living falling away, and finding life and hope in reading and writing, I decided in late 2003 to move to the mountains.

I turned 29 that same month.  I lived with my parents, helping out as I could. I wrote a lot. Wrestled with God and myself a lot.  Realized that God wasn’t calling me to do but to be, and to be me with God. Realizing the passions and frenzy in my soul were constant clamor, undermining my peace and contentment. In the nothingness I found something.

I found theology.  I discovered the city of Skete.

I realized I had already been in Skete, between my time at Wheaton and Fuller. Now I was back, and I was back for a long stay.

More on Skete in the next post.

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Azusa (part 1)

I’m a bit of an ecclesial mutt.  Some families can point to involvement in denominations going back generations, and if you’re in those denominations they like to point it out. I, on the other hand, have a bit of trouble describing my specific denominational tradition.

Over the course of my life, I’ve been part of an interesting array of traditions: Baptist (various kinds), Wesleyan, Assemblies of God, non-denom of the Bible Church kind and of the charismatic kind, Foursquare, Nazarene, Emerging. The church where I did most of my active ministry time was planted as a postmodern Conservative Baptist church for a while before splitting away from that denomination for various reasons.

My formal theological education came in what can be called “Broadly Evangelical” institutions. Though they were broad in student traditions, the faculty at Wheaton (still) and Fuller (much more so when I did my MDiv) were very Reformed.  Coming out of Wheaton and through Fuller meant that I had a lot of different threads and paths I might have taken.   I consider myself a Pentecostal Wesleyan because this best expresses my understanding of Christian thought and practice. Though not dogmatic, as I appreciate the emphases of a number of traditions (which is likely why I like teaching at Fuller). My being a Pentecostal Wesleyan isn’t because of allegiance to a family tradition, it comes from my own searching and journey.

Why not a Wesleyan Pentecostal? Well, because I currently am part of a Wesleyan church.  I like to also call myself a Californian theologian, because my theological and family influences really only make sense in the 20th century religious history of this state.fixedw_large_4x

I note this both because of my tendency to begin with overlong prefaces and because it feeds into my understanding of the next two “cities” that I’ll visit in my exploration of a theology of theological education.  While the four cities I’ve discussed so far–Athens, Berlin, Jerusalem, Geneva–may be considered the “standard” models, they do not necessarily represent the whole of theological education in history nor even in my own life. In this post, I’ll start my discussion of another yet “city,” and leave out the prefaces from later posts. If you’re in need of a long preface for those posts, feel free to come back to this one. Now, finally, on to the main content.

Cheryl Bridges Johns suggests a fifth city to add to the standard list: Azusa. By this, she is referring to the Azusa St. revival, so it’s a bit misleading if you’re a Southern Californian like I am. Most people aren’t (though LA traffic sometimes feels like the majority of the world is on the freeway), so the reference is still useful.

In her article, “Athens, Berlin, and Azusa: A Pentecostal Reflection on Scholarship and Christian Faith,” Johns notes the “cities” of Berlin and Athens tend to disregard Pentecostal patterns and priorities. These cities assume more of a static experience of faith, an established narrative of what it means to understand and express truth.  Geneva is explicit about this task, understanding the variety of traditions out there and being intentional about enculturating a student in what is often understood as specific contrast narrative of faith.

Athens and Berlin are less explicit about the goal of enculturating a narrative, but no less active in such a pursuit.  Indeed, they tend to be totalizing about it, essentially saying “This is what it means to be educated,” as with Berlin and “This is what it means to be a good citizen” as in Athens.  They universalize their goals and in their models create self-replicating systems of meaning.  This is the nature of education in general, whether intentional or not. Once education goes beyond the goal of teaching bare facts (the so-called 3 Rs: reading, (w)riting, and ‘rithmatic), it enters into the process of enculturation.  How we use time indicates what we see as important and the direction we think we should go.

The main use of the term “doctor” suggests the emphasis of a given age.

Back in the middle ages, the term Doctor was an expression of theological mastery that provided trustworthy theological teaching.  Doctor comes from the word “to teach,” after all.  These are the men (and later women) who every student must study.  In the Enlightenment, understanding of both the purpose of knowledge and what it means to be a good citizen moved away from a theological emphasis.  The term Dr. became an expression of wide general knowledge, attributed to the great polymaths like Benjamin Franklin or Samuel Johnson.  In our scientific age, a doctor is a physician.  Not that the title is exclusively used for physicians, but in popular culture it really is assumed that when you say you are calling a doctor you’re not phoning up your friendly neighborhood theologian.  We’ve gone from theology as a core of learning, to broad knowledge, to professionalization and vocation.

What matters? Theology and right belief in God? A wide understanding of the world, human nature, and all fields of human knowledge? Professional skill in a specific field?  All these are patterns of culture that then impose a narrative on those who would seek to be successful in that culture.  Azusa_street_group_photo

But what is it that the Spirit wants of us?  That’s the question of Azusa. The Pentecostal emphasis on unity in Christ and diversity of expression by Christians highlights the need for a flexible, individualized course of training that allows each person to find freedom in their formation. This doesn’t rule out theological education, of course, it just resists a static model of what it means to be a fully formed person.

Following the definition of Pentecostal knowledge offered by Jackie Johns, Cheryl Johns pushes back against assumptions that Pentecostals are somehow nonrational or anti-intellectual. Rather, Pentecostalism “is transrational, and the ‘spectrum of knowledge includes cognition, affection, and behavior, each of which is fused with the other two.”  Reason, in other words, is just one element of discovering and expressing truth.  She highlights the “relational logic of the Spirit” approach taken by James Loder and Jim Neidhardt. I had James Loder for a class on Theology of Faith and Human Development, and his class and book was among the more radical influences in my seminary career. That I poured an immense amount of my time in this summer class to the neglect of my class on the Life and Work of Jesus suggests a lot about my own educative priorities.

Anyway, as Johns describes it, the relational logic of the Spirit “is based upon the proximate relationality of the human spirit, the contingent rationality of physical reality, and ultimately the Trinitarian relationality of God’s Spirit.”  We’re relational beings, shaped by those around us, in a specific context, formed by the Spirit as a community in particular ways.  300px-AFM_on_azusa_streetTheological education, then, involves a fluid interaction of this relational development with practice and understanding.

Education is deconstructive in resisting static absolutes and expressions, while orienting each person in light of their calling in Christ within the overarching reality of the Kingdom of God.  Because the work of the Spirit is primary, there is an openness to a wide variety of wisdom from all sorts of directions, without limiting wisdom to a narrow range of accepted topics, sources, practices.

As Johns writes, “Its paideia would enculturate students into an inviting and yet dangerous landscape of education where the disciplines of science and the humanities interact to formulate new paradigms. At the core of the curriculum would be an all-consuming passion for God and the kingdom. Visions and dreams would be honored as well as highly technical scholarship.”

This post is now getting a bit too long and I haven’t yet described my experiences with this model and my critiques of it, so I’ll make that discussion a subject of another post soon.  Suffice it to say that this model has been profoundly influential in my non-formal Christian education, to the point that it really continues to drive a lot of my research and personal development.

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Live Your Creed

I’d rather see a sermon than to hear one any day.
I’d rather one walk with me than just to show the way.
The eye is a better pupil and more willing than the ear.
Advice may be misleading but examples are always clear.
And the very best of teachers are the ones who live their creed,
For to see good put into action is what everybody needs.
I can soon learn to do it if you let me see it done.
I can watch your hand in motion but your tongue too fast may run
And the lectures you deliver may be very fine and true
But I’d rather get my lesson by observing what you do.
For I may misunderstand you and the fine advice you give
But there’s no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.

by Langston Hughes

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Jerusalem and Geneva

My formal theological education in theology began in Athens and carried on in Berlin. Not the actual cities, the framework cities of theological pedagogy. Wheaton, with its highly intentional integration of faith and learning in a liberal arts setting, sought to form the whole person. In looking back, the model of the ideal Christian was itself of a certain sort. If you fit into this mold, Wheaton was a place to thrive. If you didn’t, well, Wheaton was a place of shaping and sharpening, if not thriving. I never felt at home at Wheaton the place, even if I took as advantage of the intellectual offerings as much as possible. I found important mentors, though in my books not in person. I felt spiritual deepened and spiritual emptied in successive waves. Then instead of law school I went to Fuller, where the Berlin model was emphasized. But southern California was home, and I had my family, friends, my home church to provide a measure of grounding and community. But when church dysfunction started slashing and burning my ecclesial life, and continued life issues tugged at me from almost every direction, I didn’t have the resources to navigate my frustrations or my successes. Neither Athens nor Berlin were particularly contextualized for me, shaping and forming, but in general ways that didn’t give me a continued map in my calling.

These aren’t the only cities in a theology of theological education. Scholars have added a few more stops on this journey.

In a 2005 article titled “The Theology of Theological Education,” Brian Edgar adds Geneva as a model. In “Geneva,” theological training takes place in a confessional setting. Confessional means a context where a specific ecclesial tradition, liturgy, interpretation helps orient the seminary student in the life of this tradition. 50537Teaching involves including the student in a developed narrative, one filled with heroes, and conflicts, and priorities. As Edgar puts it, “Formation occurs through in-formation about the tradition and en-culturation within it.” The city of Geneva was the setting for Calvin’s great work and became a center for Reformed thought and practice. Life was not segmented into isolated fragments, rather every part of life was thought to be included in a new vision of ecclesial transformation. Edgar notes that theological education in Geneva is understood through contrasts. The context of theological education is a confessional seminary rather than a broader academic institution, where the training takes on the priorities and methods of this university. The goal in Geneva is for students to know God through the context of the confessional tradition. It is not about training the mind or the transformation of one’s own self. It may include these, but these are not the core values.

I can’t say that I’ve ever visited Geneva, either the real city or the theological model. My theological tradition is fairly diverse, rather than established in a set tradition. I consider myself a Wesleyan Pentecostal or a Pentecostal Wesleyan, as these form the bulk of my own ecclesial influences. My parents come from a Conservative Baptist background, Fundamentalist and Evangelical. It might even be said that my family religious tradition is emerging movements, as discontent with establishment leads towards embracing new patterns of devotion and community. We’re pioneers who made our way westward in geography and Christianity. I’m a Californian Theologian more than anything else, really.

In an American context, we can see the Geneva model expressed in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. My family tradition has tended to play the part of Roger Williams in that story, valued participants who are either kicked out or happily leave for better soil. This family tendency really does resonate in my own life and thought, but I can’t imagine shaping a seminary after it. Of course, the fact that I’m very interested in exploring new models of theological education is likely driven by this in-formation and en-culturation.

A fourth city to consider is Jerusalem. Proposed by Robert Banks in his book Revisioning Theological Education, Jerusalem emphasizes a missional priority, where education takes place in the midst of outreach and praxis, seeing the reflection and expression going hand in hand in developed informed practitioners. While we had significant ministry opportunities at Wheaton, most were not embedded in a context, rather Wheaton was certainly more of a bubble (or rather a “citadel” as I’ll discuss in a later post). Fuller was much the same way for me. peter-preaching2Ministry was a secondary act, rather than a coordinating experience. That said, part of the tension I had with both Wheaton and Fuller was my own missional instincts. I am certainly not an evangelist, but I do have a drive to have an integration of my faith and life within the context of a community. My home church after high school had a very strong missional impetus, and I was radically shaped by the emerging/missional conversations that happened in the late nineties and then onward. Indeed, my dissertation, later book, argues for a transformative church that draws personal, communal, and contextual formation. That said, or maybe because of these experiences, I am not sure this is the best model for foundational theological and ministry training.

These settings are often very demanding and immediately pragmatic, about getting things done rather than developing as a whole person who can then contribute with discernment in a context. I know Banks doesn’t see this as necessarily the case, but in my experiences the busyness of missional life leaves integrated formation a distant goal. That is why so many missional communities tend to shine bright and burn out quickly, or have a high turnover rate, as people embrace but then wander elsewhere. Indeed, I’m not sure missional models are intended as theological formation. Paul the Apostle, for instance, was sent out as a missionary after spending many years in learning and reflection. Being grounded in an understanding of the faith and of one’s own self is key to persistence and deep transformation. We have to be grounded in order to not get co-opted by the many narratives of the context or established pragmatic patterns.

I have a couple more “cities” in my next post: The city of “Azusa,” as proposed by Jackie David Johns, and “Skete,” which is a city I’m adding to the list.

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Models of Seminary

I haven’t posted on my seminary musings for a while, but this doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned this topic. Indeed, as I’ve traveled, conferenced, worked on current classes and future courses, the theology of a seminary education has continued to burrow into my daily thoughts.  So much so that my problem isn’t as much what to say as it is where to start.

I’m tempted to jump into my own ideas about what a seminary education of the future should look like–and I do have some developing ideas–but that wouldn’t show any of the background to my thoughts nor the much wider conversations about a theology of seminary education. And as I’ve poked around the topic, I have found much of worth indeed.  So, in this post I’ll offer a brief summary of key themes and ideas I’ve encountered now in various directions.

First some key books. First is Between Athens and Berlin: the Theological Debate by David Kelsey.  In this book he offers two main types of theological education that exist in North America. The title of the book indicates his terminology. I’ll get to those more thoroughly in a little bit. Quickly, Athens is more concerned with personal formation and Berlin is more concerned with intellectual training.

Second, there is Reenvisioning Theological Education by Robert Banks.  In addition to the two suggested by Kelsey, Banks suggests “Jerusalem” as a third model. This model prioritizes a missional approach to theological education. It is worth noting that the first edition of Paul’s Idea of Community by Banks was a central text for me as a sophomore in college when I began to seriously wrestle with the purpose of the church. A number of theological impulses that later landed in my dissertation began with the research I did at that time and with this book in particular alongside Lesslie Newbigin’s works.

A third key resource is an article written by Brian Edgar titled, ” The Theology of Theological Education.” He summarizes the first three I mentioned and adds a fourth which he, following the pattern, calls “Geneva.” This model approaches theological education from a confessional standpoint, in which the student in taught initiated in a particular theological tradition, learning to live and teach within it.  Tradition is seen as the key avenue for knowing God, and so this model invites the student into the relationship with God and with the history of God’s particular work.

Here’s the helpful diagram Edgar uses in his article:
Theol_ed_diagramEach of these is helpful in different ways. That’s my struggle as I think about it.  And I continue to wrestle not only with these models but also how any such model might also be best established in a given context.  How do we approach these models in light of a global and connected world, where students may enter into seminary with different vocational goals, different theological traditions, different experiences and priorities of ministry?  Is it best for a particular seminary to specialize in one of these modes and leave other seminaries to carry the mission of the others?

And more particularly, I continue to wrestle with the way Fuller Seminary can best carry out its own mission, which does not fit neatly into any one of these categories while involving all of them. Here’s the current mission statement:

Fuller Theological Seminary, embracing the School of Theology, School of Psychology, and School of Intercultural Studies, is an evangelical, multidenominational, international, and multiethnic community dedicated to the equipping of men and women for the manifold ministries of Christ and his Church. Under the authority of Scripture we seek to fulfill our commitment to ministry through graduate education, professional development, and spiritual formation. In all of our activities, including instruction, nurture, worship, service, research, and publication, Fuller Theological Seminary strives for excellence in the service of Jesus Christ, under the guidance and power of the Holy Spirit, to the glory of the Father.

In reflecting on the context of Fuller in light of these models, I think about how best we can prioritize our time and resources to fulfill our mission. I am not an administrator at Fuller, I am a teacher, so my interest is more in those pragmatic directions.

A few things come to mind in light of this that contribute to my theological musings.

Theological education has to be relational, we are formed as persons in the context of a community.  It has to be transformational, otherwise why put in the time, effort, and money. This transformation should include the whole self, including the mind.  It has to be contextual, as students are not objects intended for a general setting but are formed in a context of a particular community located in a specific time and place. Without reflection on and from these contexts, the education will be unmoored and irrelevant.

We are participants in the Christian tradition called to help communicate and shape this tradition in light of current concerns and present struggles.  Becoming creative participants in this tradition is the only way we can balance the many strains placed on us from one side or another. We need to teach discernment and we need to teach engagement, both in light of Scripture, history, and current reality.

Does this mean picking one of the models and digging into it? Whether or not this is even possible, it still doesn’t help answer how any one or all of these models may best be applied in light of current technology and current cultural shifts. Which is why I’ll keep musing on a theology of seminary for a while longer.

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