Searching for the Self: Classic Stories, Christian Scripture, and the Quest for Personal Identity

by Adrian T. Smith

My story is one of voluntary exile to the USA, in search of a paradise I have not yet found.

At times I feel virtually homeless. At such times, I often turn to the New Testament document known as Hebrews. There, in a first-century sermon, God seems to say to me, “Homeless? We can work with that!”

When we turn to the New Testament letter known as Hebrews, we are given a new map of the world. The gospel gives us a new set of spatial images for picturing and experiencing life.

The author of Hebrews was a pastor, writing to help these demoralized and discouraged listeners. The pastor searched the Old Testament for a spatial image of this demoralized place in life . . . and the analogy he found was Israel’s wanderings in the wilderness: We must be afraid—in case, with an enduring promise to enter God’s rest, any of you seem to miss out. For we, too, have received good news—just like the Israelites in the wilderness. But the word they heard did not benefit them, because they did not combine hearing with faithfulness. Now we—the faithful—do enter into God’s rest, just as he said in the psalm: “As I swore in my anger: No way those Israelites will enter into my rest!”—speaking about his rest, even though his work was finished at the foundation of the universe. For he spoke elsewhere about the seventh day, saying: “And God rested on the seventh day from all his works.” Yet in the psalm he said, “No way those Israelites will enter into my rest!” Since, then, it remains for someone to enter into God’s rest (and the first generation failed to enter because of unfaithfulness), God, many years later, appointed another opportunity—“Today!”— saying in a psalm, through David: “Today—if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts!” Now, obviously, if Joshua (in the Conquest of Canaan) had obtained true rest for Israel, God would not have spoken of another opportunity (many years later). So, then: there remains a sabbath rest for the people of God; for the per...

The message of Hebrews is as follows: Is your life story taking you through a bleak and barren wilderness? Don’t despair. Through Jesus, through the exercise of faith in him, you can legitimately escape to the most glorious place in the universe, the epicenter of the entire cosmos. Indeed, Hebrews gives an even better picture of the Christian’s true environment. The sacred tent was temporary, impermanent. The heavenly city is the Christian’s permanent, ultimate, and perfect environment. Chapter 12 of Hebrews uses sublime poetry to open our eyes to this greater environment that actually surrounds us right now. In most audacious terms, it addressed its ancient Christian listener: You have already, now, drawn near to Mount Zion, city of the living God, heavenly Jerusalem; and to myriads of angels in victory celebration, and to the assembly whose names are registered in heaven, who inherit God’s promises; and to a judge—the universal God, who will accept you and not condemn you, and to the spirits of righteous, perfected people;

and to Jesus—mediator of a new covenant; and to his sprinkled blood that speaks—not of vengeance, like Abel killed by Cain, but of forgiveness, reconciliation, peace with God. (Heb 12:22–24, my paraphrase, italics mine) Hebrews dares to situate the Christian reader in the suburbs of heavenly Jerusalem. Thankfully, with a claim like that, the writer more than hints at how this locality may be reached. This transcendent environment manifests itself wherever the blood of Christ is speaking. Blood speaking? How? Well, blood symbolizes vitality, and it symbolizes death. The blood of Christ speaks of his noble life and sacrificial death. When his purity makes contact with our impurity, he consecrates us so that we may enter boldly and confidently into the presence of God. Through Jesus, the gate of the holy city is flung wide open for us to enter in. Wherever the blood of Jesus is speaking, wherever the holy and imperishable gospel is encountered, the eternal city—the heavenly Jerusalem—graciously invades our personal space. In church. Where the Lord’s Supper witnesses to the blood of Christ. Where the Scriptures are encountered in reading, exposition, prayer, confession, and song. But not only in church. Even when we occupy the “secular” realm, the heavenly city surrounds us. Through the channel of our faith-filled imaginations, its sacred energy and joyful celebrations can transform our mundane space into holy ground.

24 The Men Who Would Be King (Mark’s Gospel) America is no longer a British colony, but a democratic republic. The British monarchy may be reduced to a figurehead, a tourist attraction. The idea of kingship may seem outmoded. However, scratch beneath the surface of our personal narratives, and the regal archetype appears to be alive and kicking.

“Adam” and “humanity.” They are the same word in Hebrew; his story is our story. Adam; a royal figure. From dust to dominion—an ancient metaphor of enthronement.749 Ruling the animals—a kingly privilege (cf. 1 Kgs 10:22). Bearing God’s image and likeness—words inscribed on ancient statues of kings. “Eat the fruit of knowledge. Be more like God. Why settle for vassal, when you could be the Great King?” (cf. Gen 3:5). From dominion to dust. The exiled keeper of the royal garden (cf. Eccl 2:5–6) now cuts his hands on thorns and thistles. Adam. Humanity. The regal reality is lost, and yet the royal ideal remains. The quest for a true king propels the plotline of the biblical narrative. Fast forward to the time of Samuel. The royal ideal resurfaces. “Establish for us a king to rule us, like all the nations!” (1 Sam 8:5, 19–20). Samuel tried to warn them (1 Sam 8:11–18). Conscription. Taxation. Enslavement. The king would rewrite the royal script; he would import too much of himself into the role. Royal reality may disappoint, but the royal ideal burned bright. Israel’s poets give voice to the royal ideal: O God, grant your justice to the king, and your righteousness to the royal son. He will judge your people in righteousness, and your afflicted ones with justice. The mountains will bring wholeness to the people, and the hills, righteousness. He will vindicate the afflicted among the people, save the children of the poor, and crush the oppressor. (Ps 72:1–4) Fast forward to the...

Time to return to my unfinished biographical snippet from the start of this chapter. We left our “hero” in the throes of “crucifixion”—well, carrying the cross, if only in ceremonial procession. This ritual symbolized (for me) a semester of humiliation, something I had not yet experienced in my academic career. I could have reacted in one of two ways. Tempting, very tempting, was the path of pouting: “This ‘community college’ is beneath me, anyway. Who cares about their dumb awards?”, followed by grinding out my dissertation, padding my resumé, and exiting for academic pastures more in keeping with my Ivy League pretensions. Thankfully (and doubtless prompted by the Holy Spirit), I chose to bear my “cross.” Instead of pouting and bolstering my shattered self-image, I embraced the “death” experience. (After all, isn’t that the wisdom we learn from the “monomyth,” the “hero’s journey” template, the blueprint of all good stories? See chapter 7.) Out of the death experience comes new life, and wisdom to share following our “return” from the ordeal. So I asked myself, “Is there a way I could change my teaching style to connect with the local students?” (Perhaps I could learn something from The Teacher of the Year!) So I did. Out went the big academic technical terms from my lectures. Instead of “metanarrative,” I spoke of “God’s big story.” Instead of info-packed, two hour lectures, delivered without a pause for breath, I went with less-is-more. Less lecturing, more time for cl...

Questions for Reflection and Discussion

6. In the current episode of your life, is God frustrating your desire for glory?

25 Out-of-Body Experiences (Ezekiel 1)

This chapter taps into contemporary thirst for the transcendent. I will investigate one of the most influential mystical encounters recorded in the pages of Scripture. To get us started, I invite you to go find a Bible, and read the “throne vision” narrated in the first chapter of Ezekiel.

Hebrew apocalyptic imagery loves kaleidoscopic representation. Rather than reproduce a single, graphic image in the mind’s eye, Hebrew apocalyptic generates an overwhelming thread of hyper-text linkages. The layers upon layers of images activate the deepest cultural memories of Israel’s religion. In the act of self-disclosure, God meets us “where we are at”; he enters into our story.

God’s freedom means that we cannot use magic formulae to manipulate the presence of God. God shows up when, where, and how he pleases.

In Jewish Chariot Mysticism, meditation on the text of Ezekiel 1 became a springboard for a mystical experience, in which the mystic allegedly ascended to the throne of Yahweh, and saw visions of glory like Ezekiel’s! And those who saw the divine glory were transformed by it. This form of mysticism feeds into the New Testament in many places: • Revelation 4–5 is an obvious point of contact. John’s vision of the throne of God and the Lamb is clearly patterned after Ezekiel’s experience. • And then there is chapter 3 of John’s Gospel, where Jesus says: “No one has ever ascended into heaven, except the one who descended from heaven—the Son of Man. Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life” (John 3:13–14). Is Jesus contesting the claims of the Jewish Chariot Mystics? Is Jesus claiming that he, uniquely, has that kind of access to God? Is Jesus saying that, through the Cross, we too may enjoy that kind of access to God? • And then there’s the conversion and commission of the Apostle Paul, on the road to Damascus. Acts 9 describes his experience in terms that echo Ezekiel 1: the glorious light; the heavenly voice; Paul’s response of falling to the ground.

Intriguingly, there is evidence in 2 Corinthians (chapter 12) that Paul—like many others trained by the Rabbis—may, at one time, have practiced something akin to the techniques of Chariot Mysticism.758 Paul speaks of (what may have been) an out-of-body experience, of being caught up into the third heaven, of being caught up into paradise, and of hearing the ineffable language of paradise (2 Cor 12:2–4). Unlike modern rationalists, Paul is not interested in denying the reality of such experiences. Instead of denying such experiences, he takes a completely unexpected tack. Remarkably, Paul, in 2 Corinthians, does not dwell on the details of his experience of mystical exaltation.

In the act of self-disclosure, God meets us “where we are at”; he enters into our story.

God’s freedom means we cannot use magic formulae to manipulate the presence of God. God shows up when, where, and how he pleases.

Mystical experience cannot be an end in itself. Such encounters are a means to an end, an empowerment for a role in God’s unfolding drama. Thrill-seeking, experience for its own sake, is never encouraged in Scripture.

As one partakes of the Lord’s Supper, the heavens may open, and one may behold the glory of God.

Part 5 Sequels and Backstory

26 Artists Don’t Borrow—They Steal (a select annotated bibliography)

Biblical Meta-Narratives Bartholomew, Craig G., and Michael W. Goheen. The True Story of the Whole World: Finding Your Place in the Biblical Drama. Grand Rapids: Faith Alive Christian Resources, 2009. Concise, readable unfolding of the biblical drama from Genesis to Revelation. Uses the establishment of God’s kingdom as the plotline to integrate the whole. Offers practical discussions and thought-provoking questions, to help the reader live inside God’s story.

Smith, Adrian T. “The Fifth Gospel.” In Eyes to See, Ears to Hear: Essays in Memory of J. Alan Groves, edited by Peter Enns et al., 77–91. Phillipsburg, NJ: Presbyterian & Reformed, 2010. In this essay, I explore the paradise-lost-and-restored plotline of the Bible. I hint at some practical implications of owning this storyline.

Biblical Counseling (Using Narrative Paradigms) Emlet, Michael R. CrossTalk: Where Life & Scripture Meet. Greensboro, NC: New Growth, 2009. Many Christian counselors view the Bible as a collection of laws or human exemplars. Others view the Bible as a “system of doctrine,” or as a collection of abstract timeless principles. Emlet disagrees. He sees Scripture as a Christ-centered (and cross-centered) narrative for reshaping the broken narrative of the counselee.

Disruptions Externally-enforced, unwanted change. Think back to the last time you experienced a major disruption. What roots from the past did you cling to for continuity and comfort? The deeper the trauma, the deeper the fissure of individual or communal identity—the deeper the narrative roots needed to tether us to sanity. That appears to be the testimony of 1–2 Chronicles, written in response to the enforced exile of Israel to Babylon.

Here are some of the storytelling devices that Chronicles uses to emphasize the continuity of Jewish identity: • The present is linked to antiquity, via nine (yes, nine!) chapters of genealogies . . . going all the way back to Adam. • The past is mined for patterns of history, to generate a script for the present. The script is summarized in 2 Chr 7:14 (a verse that—for some reason—often appears in bumper-sticker form on American automobiles): “If my people . . . humble themselves, pray, seek my face, and turn from their evil ways—then I will hear from heaven, forgive their sin, and heal their land.” In retelling Israel’s story, Chronicles delights in showing how this pattern (repentance à restoration) repeats itself. • The present is anchored to the past by glorifying those institutions that persist. The Jews of Chronicles’s day no longer have a king—but they do have the rebuilt temple and its rituals. Chronicles’s narrative glorifies the temple and its rites.

New Beginnings Voluntary, self-generated change. Think back to your last major new beginning. What scripts from the past guided you into the uncharted waters? As you embarked upon personal change, what did you cling to from your past to conserve your identity? In the first century, Christianity faced a “PR” problem—it looked like a new religion. Why was that bad? Doesn’t latest = best? Isn’t the iPhone 7 automatically better than the iPhone 6? Well, the cultural values of antiquity totally inverted the modern dogma of progress. In antiquity, religions required pedigree. The older the better. First-century Christians faced an identity crisis, as they embarked on living out a religion markedly different in many ways from its Jewish parent. Luke’s response (in two volumes, Luke and Acts): Root Christianity as deeply as possible in the venerable religion of Judaism. Here are just a few of the storytelling devices whereby Luke-Acts constructs a robust, deep-rooted narrative identity for the early church: • Take Jesus’ genealogy all the way back to Adam (cf. Chronicles, discussed above). • Articulate the story of Jesus as the fulfillment of the entire Hebrew Bible (Luke 24:27, 44). Christianity may be a new story, but it climaxes an old story. • Pattern characters on Old Testament figures. In Luke 1, Zechariah and Elizabeth walk onstage in the literary garments of Abraham and Sarah. Jesus reprises the miracles of the prophets Elijah and Elisha. And so on. • Pattern the history o...

The Onset of Demise When did you last face the death of a storyline you were living? How did you attempt to conserve the g...

I believe the Pastoral Letters are his response to the crisis of his own demise. His passing of the torch to the next generation.

Here are some hints of the legacy-conserving devices of the Pastoral Letters: • a strong sense of the trans-generational continuity of “the faith.”760 • successors as Paul’s “children in the faith.”761 • crystallized, portable truth: a “good deposit” of “faithful sayings.”762 • institutional structure: the church, God’s household, as “pillar and foundation of the truth.”763 A mechanism for preserving and propagating the crystallized truth of the “faithful sayings.”

BackStory September, 1992. I had barely set foot on the Philadelphia campus of Westminster Theological Seminary. A throwaway line from a brilliant professor. “Eschatology governs protology.” Translated: Revelation explains Genesis. Ends clarify beginnings.

Planting the Seed: Biblical Theology 1.0 Geerhardus Vos was never on faculty at Westminster. He remained at Princeton when Westminster began in 1929. Nevertheless, Vos has been a major player in the Westminster story. He planted a seed idea that was cultivated over the generations at Westminster. The seed Vos planted was the discipline known (in academic circles) as “biblical theology.” For Vos, biblical theology “deals with the process of the self-revelation of God deposited in the Bible.”766

Along with this geometric metaphor, Vos also used an organic metaphor for biblical theology: The organic nature of the process of revelation . . . is from seed-form to the attainment of full growth . . . [F]rom the organic character of revelation we can explain its increasing multiformity, the latter being everywhere a symptom of the development of organic life.768

This organic metaphor leads Vos to underscore the practical concerns of biblical theology: God’s self-revelation to us was not made for a primarily intellectual purpose . . . He has caused His revelation to take place in the milieu of the historical life of a people. The circle of revelation is not a school, but a “covenant” . . . All that God disclosed of Himself has come in response to the practical religious needs of His people as these emerged in the course of history.769 In sum, Vos bequeathed us two powerful, interrelated concepts: a dynamic, developmental way of understanding the Bible; a “situational” perspective that highlights Scripture’s sensitivity to practical, existential human needs.

Green Shoots: Biblical Theology 2.0 The seed ideas of Vos’s biblical theology fell on fertile soil at Westminster. Over the decades, the seed grew, being cultivated by men such as Edmund P. Clowney.

Firstly, Clowney underscored the Christocentric character of the unfolding of biblical revelation.770 So imaginative, so compelling were his visions of Jesus in the Law, Prophets, and Writings, tempting speculation that Clowney himself had journeyed to Emmaus and heard Jesus expound the Old Testament (Luke 24:27)! Secondly, Clowney emphasized the practical utility of biblical theology. Harvie Conn describes this dimension of Clowney’s contribution: He brought to every course biblical insights shaped by his studies in the history of special revelation. Whether homiletics or Christian education, missions or ecclesiology, each class moved from Genesis through Revelation, drawing together the whole of Scripture with new insights that pointed in a fresh way to Christ and His redemptive purposes.771 Thirdly, Clowney begins to articulate biblical theology via more explicit use of “story” vocabulary: “The Bible is the greatest storybook, not just because it is full of wonderful stories but because it tells one great story, the story of Jesus.”772 This appreciation of narrative dovetailed with Clowney’s strong aesthetic sensibilities. As a gifted amateur painter, he was well-equipped to appreciate the artistic dimensions of the biblical story: The rich literary art in the Scriptures displays the wealth of allusiveness in which God’s revelation is given. Symbolism appears not only in metaphorical language but also in the elaborate patterns of the Old Testament ceremonial cultus. It ...

First-Fruits: The Bible as Literature (Biblical Theology 3.0) Tremper Longman III taught Old Testament at Westminster for almost two decades in the eighties and nineties. He was adept at tracing a biblical theme, Clowney-style, from Genesis to Revelation.774 Longman also shared Clowney’s instincts on the practicality of biblical theology.775

However, from the vantage point of our story, Longman advances the plot in two related areas: appreciation of the Bible as literature; awareness of the transformative power of narrative.

Longman’s book Literary Approaches to Biblical Interpretation might have been subtitled “English Literature 101 Meets the Bible.” Genre. Point of View. Narrator. Setting. Plot. Characterization. Irony. Dialogue. Type-Scene. Style. Reader-Response. Longman employs these staples of literary critici...

The scales fall from our eyes. Our Sunday School teachers were right: the Bible is best appreciated as story!

I owe him a considerable personal debt. In the fall of 1992, as part of my seminary coursework, he kindly facilitated an elective study for me, entitled, “Literary Approaches to Biblical Interpretation.” As I worked my way through the assigned reading, I had a light bulb moment. “What if,” I mused, “Christian ministry tried to unleash the liberating power of the Exodus narrative, by fusing that story with the lives of parishioners?” Back then, I was an Old Testament major. When I later switched to New Testament studies, I had another light bulb moment: The New Testament unleashes the liberating power of the Exodus narrative by using the plotline and imagery of Exodus as the “grammar” of the story of Jesus and by fusing Jesus’ Exodus-narrative with the lives of the first-century disciples. From such seeds, this book grew. I view my book as a contribution to “biblical theology 4.0”—namely, the sustained investigation of how to fuse our personal narratives with the meta-narrative of scripture.

Epilogue

Looking back, a lot has changed at Westminster since 1992, when I first stepped onto the venerable campus. Most of my professors from the nineties are no longer on faculty. Some, like J. Alan Groves, have fought the good fight, run the race (2 Tim 4:7).779 Others now teach elsewhere.

I have come to see the emergence of narrative theology as a plotline of ascent, in which the “protagonist”—i.e., narrative theology—strives to reach maturity, to fulfill its potential. A potential which I do not think it has reached.

Maturity can, of course, be defined in many ways. Since I owe so much to Christopher Booker, I will use his definition. (I will give him a hall pass for his gender stereotyping.) Booker sees personal maturity as attaining a fusion of ideal “masculine” and “feminine” traits.781 Using this characterization, maturity would fuse traits such as rationality, independence/strength, with traits such as intuition and empathy. Regardless of the limits of such a definition, it can serve as a metaphor of the task of narrative theology. To reach its full potential, narrative theology must consolidate the following traits. (One might also say: a narrative theologian must cultivate these traits.) 1. Independence/Strength: Narrative theology should unapologetically cultivate its own narrative categories of thinking. Some might respond, “Well, Duh!” as if this injunction is unnecessary. But (in my judgment) narrative theologians have been captive to modern western philosophical and theological categories, which have hindered the maturation of a robust narrative theology. (Please note: I am not advocating that we negate traditional beliefs. Rather, I am expressing a hunch that sustained reflection on Scripture and life, through the lens of narrative categories, may yield insights not provided by more traditional approaches.) 2. Rationality: Traditional theologians speak of doing “systematic theology.” Narrative theologians also need an orderly, systematic description of their discipline. Ho...