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Jesus, was he Miraculous? - By Peter Jensen

Jesus, was he Miraculous?

(Third Boyer Lecture)

By Peter Jensen

What do you think of Jesus? Well, here is a prior question: what do you think of miracles? Possible? Impossible? Unlikely?

With that question we come to a highly significant fork in the road. Much about your whole attitude to Jesus and to the Bible rests on this issue. From the late seventeeth century onwards, historians and philosophers began to assume that Jesus should be assessed independent of the miraculous. Rigorous history had no more place for miracles than rigorous science.

Paradoxically, this attitude was in part the product of Protestant theology. In the sixteenth century, the Protestants took two moves which unintentionally fed into the scepticism of a later age. The first Protestant emphasis was on God's power. They saw much religion as an attempt to manipulate God, akin to magic. They saw it as the church enabling people to contribute to their own salvation, by their own efforts.

For them, God ruled the world by his power, and ruled the world intimately and consistently. Saints and sacraments lost their importance. The one world moves under the control of the one, sovereign will. The mercy of God encouraged humans to approach him directly through Jesus, without intermediaries.

The thing which preserved the Protestant view was a powerful sense that God is our Father, that Jesus is our Saviour and that the Holy Spirit lives in the heart of the believer. In short, a spiritual, relational religion. But if you took the religious heart out of Protestantism, you were left with a cool metaphysic.

Over time, the stress on the consistency of God came to be described, by some, in terms of immutable laws, set up by God to run the world. This kept him at a welcome distance from the world. He was certainly not an interventionist. You never asked God for anything in prayer; you acknowledged him, by saying 'thank you'.

Miracles allegedly broke the unbreakable laws of nature; this is incoherent; so, logically, there can be no miracles.

The second Protestant move was a response to the frequently claimed miracles associated with Catholic shrines and saints. Such miracles seemed to validate the claims of the church to authority.

Protestants could have met these claims with stories of their own miracles. On the whole they did not. Instead, they virtually denied all miracles, except the ones in the Bible. As far as they were concerned, this made the miracles of Jesus all the more dramatic and wonderful. It helped keep the focus on Jesus.

As far as sceptical historians were concerned, however, it encouraged them to doubt all claims to miracles whatsoever. After all, if the laws of nature are virtually unbreakable, which is more likely - that a miracle has occurred, or that the observer is wrong or lying?

In these terms, there is never a report of a miracle sufficiently persuasive for you to believe. It is not that miracles are impossible; they are just implausible. How could there ever be enough evidence for you to believe in one? Such an argument is associated, of course, with the name of the great Scottish philosopher and historian, David Hume.

So, miracles are impossible; if not, at the very least, highly unlikely.

That left a major cultural problem. Apart from the fact that many people claim to experience the supernatural in the form of a miracle, what do historians do with Jesus, when they are persuaded that miracles are not on the agenda?

Broadly speaking, apart from sheer unbelief, three responses developed. There were those who regarded the stories about Jesus as pious frauds. The disciples had invented them to boost the product, so to speak.

The second response was to regard the miracle-tales as a mixture of misunderstanding and the effects of a powerful personality. Thus, did Jesus walk on water? No, but he was walking on a sandbank just under the water. Did he feed a great crowd with meagre provisions? No, but he so shamed those who had brought their lunches with them, that they shared what they had with those who had nothing. Did he rise again from the dead? No, but it seemed as though he had, because he was in a deep coma when he was buried, and awoke as if from death itself. Did he heal the sick? No, but such was the power of his personality that he brought help to those with psychosomatic illnesses.

The third response invoked the category of 'myth'. 'Myth' is a slippery word, but some myths, at least, function to tell the truth via stories: the stories may have none, or little, or much connection with historical truth, but that is not what marks them out as mythical. It is their explanatory power. Thus, we speak of 'the Gallipoli myth.'

So, to ask whether Jesus walked on water is to miss the point. You may say that it is utterly impossible, but the author probably never intended you to believe this literally. It was his or her way of showing the divinity of Jesus. Likewise the resurrection stories are merely the outward garb, intended to tell us that Jesus is still alive.

Some modern authors write as though they have invented one or other of these approaches to the miracles. In fact, all three of these responses had developed by the 1830s. They continue to have their responsible advocates, although the last is the most popular.

But here we arrive at the fork in the road.

Much historical writing about Jesus is clearly shaped by whether the author believes in the possibility of the miraculous. Your atttitude to Jesus depends on whether you think that the Gospel miracles, or some of them, are likely to have occurred.

But are modern people committed to be sceptical about miracles? Must we accept the view that they are either impossible or implausible? I believe that the answer is 'no', for three main reasons.

First of all, the philosophical mood has shifted somewhat. It is agreed that talk of 'unbreakable laws of nature' depends on a certain view of God. But it is not the only possible view of God. Thus, the old definition of miracles did not make miracles impossible, except by definition.

We are not bound to define miracles in the old way, or to think that the remote non-interventionist God is the true God. The God of Jesus is certainly not remote. His God rules all things in a constant, consistent but direct manner. We may if we wish, call this consistency, a 'law of nature'. But God is able to vary his habitual actions on occasion for his own good and wise reasons. We live in a personal, not an impersonal universe.

Thus, as a philosopher, Dr Bruce Langtry of Melbourne University, uses the following definition of a miracle: 'An event is a miracle brought about by God, wholly or partially without the mediation of causal powers given by God to created persons and objects.'

In these terms, we could develop a coherent philosophy quite consistent with the Bible, with modern science and with historical research. It would not validate all claims, but it would not rule them out either. In short, whether you are open to the idea of miracles depends on the sort of God you start with.

Furthermore, the idea that critical science and history only developed in opposition to Christianity is a philosophical and historical mistake. I would argue the contrary case, that Christian theism was at least congenial - indeed perhaps it was critical - to the development of modern science and history.

I agree, of course, that both science and history in their normal operational mode, make no provision for miracles. This is a working assumption, one that is indispensable in these specific fields of knowledge. But great as these disciplines are, they are limited by their working assumptions. In particular, they find the unique or rare events difficult to assimilate: but miracles are rare events. Nonetheless, you can trust good evidence for a miracle.

Science tells us what can and cannot occur, provided that we assume that the system under study is a causally closed system. But no such branch of science has discovered by empirical investigations that the physical universe is a causally closed system, that nothing affects it that is not a part of it.

Once we accept theism as plausible, much of the old case against miracles takes up its tent and steals quietly away. Even an atheist can logically admit the possibility of miracles, if he or she is prepared to concede as little as one chance in twenty that theism is true.

Of course this does not demonstrate that any particular miracle has taken place. But we may rationally be far more open to the possibility than has been the case in previous generations. It is not intellectually indefensible.

I can chart the process in my own experience. When I began my serious study of theology almost forty years ago, the philosophical ethos was overwhelmingly hostile to theism. As Protestants, the only ally we seemed to have was existentialism - a dangerous friend at best. One of the formidable foes of theism was Professor Anthony Flew of Reading University in the UK.

I don't suggest that the mainstream has shifted to theism. But there are significant philosophers who have created space at the table for belief in such a God. Interestingly, the fearsome Professor Flew now appears to be flirting with theism - certainly not Christian, but no longer atheism.

Second, there is the nature of the New Testament itself. I don't think it possible to give a historically plausible account of how the early Christian movement developed, and how the New Testament was written, on the assumption that we are dealing with fraud, or myth or misunderstanding. Reputable historians are divided on this matter, but that is my critical judgement in the light of the evidence.

And not mine alone. I recall Professor CFD Moule, of Cambridge University, drawing attention to the indisputable fact of the existence of the Christian church from the earliest relevant time. He then asked pertinently, that if this fact, 'rips a great hole in history, a hole the size and shape of Resurrection, what does the secular historian propose to stop it up with?'

More recently, Bishop Tom Wright, of Durham, has written massively, persuasively and positively about the bodily resurrection of Jesus. Once you can see that there is no a priori argument which renders miracles impossible or even implausible, his is a case to answer.

The 'myth' classification simply doesn't fit in with the way we see the New Testament authors actually handling their own historical sources, and their emphasis on eyewitnesses; and the explanation about handy sandbanks and generous crowds are harder to believe than the miracle tales themselves.

I agree that my conclusions about Jesus would be utterly different if I did not believe in a God fully capable of miraculously healing the sick and raising the dead. But I do, and that changes everything. It all depends on your starting point.

Third, there is the significance of Jesus for our estimate of the miracles. His words were remarkable, and his words and his miracles actually hang together. In line with Old Testament expectations, he spoke of a coming kingdom in which the world would be renewed, evil put to flight, the sick healed, the prisoners released, the poor cared for and the hungry fed. The point is, that if anyone could do miracles, Jesus would be that person.

His miracles embodied that kingdom. To assess them fairly, you must ask why they occurred. They are not mere wonder-works, magician's tomfoolery, charismatic ego-trips, or demonstrations intended to silence sceptics about the supernatural; they are experiences of the world to come, reflecting the very abundance and grace of the Father God about whom he preached. To that extent, they are mythological: but, they are the point at which myth and truth kiss. The truth embodies and transcends the myth.

Here, then, we may part company, intellectually at least. You may choose one road, and I the other. You may decide that the whole category of miracle is impossible. So, without further ado, you may say that while the teaching of Jesus is remarkable, he is indeed a failed prophet, of marginal interest in the years ahead.

For me, accepting the category of miracle as at least possible, I must continue to explore whether Jesus is a success or a failure. But, even I would have to admit that crucifixion would normally be regarded as a particularly dismal failure.

John the Baptist was not crucified, but he certainly had a famous way of dying. His severed head was presented to Queen Herodias after her daughter had danced for the king. Some dance; some gift!

John was the cousin and forerunner of Jesus. He also preached the coming of the kingdom of God; He was also murdered in a political assassination. But no one suggested that he was more than a prophet of the kingdom; he did not have a personal role in it. Jesus said that he did.

Jesus had a linguistic trick of using the phrase 'Son of man', usually to refer to himself. Interestingly it hardly survived his lifetime. When the first generation of Christians spoke about him, they reported him using the term; but they did not much employ it themselves; another indication of their care as witnesses.

'Son of man'? It can mean 'man'; but that won't cover all the uses. It has the ring of an office, an official position, about it. It does not mean 'Messiah,' or 'King'. And yet, it seems almost certain to be part of Jesus' beliefs about the coming kingdom of God and the end of all things.

Most scholars rightly see it coming from the Book of the Prophet Daniel in the Old Testament. In chapter seven of that book, there is the prediction of four fierce earthly kingdoms. But the fifth kingdom, the kingdom of God is given to 'one like a son of man'. Daniel seems to think of this Son of Man as the whole people of God, who are given an eternal dominion. By using it of himself, Jesus puts himself personally at the centre of God's future plans for his kingdom, as if he has become the representative of all the people.

It's obscure. But Jesus fostered a degree of mystery, of reticence, about himself. A bold public claim to be the messiah (or 'Christ') would have led to his early demise, and in any case have created false expectations about what he was trying to achieve. 'Son of man' language still makes a surprising but very impressive claim for authority.

So that raises the question sharply: what connection did Jesus see between Jesus himself, and the kingdom which he was announcing? Here is some evidence: He called himself the 'Son of man'. When he was asked about the timing of the kingdom, he replied 'the kingdom of God is among you' (Luke 17:21).

According to the gospel writers, he once privately asked his disciples, 'who do you say that I am?' and accepted the reply that he was the Christ, the son of the living God, a royal title (Matthew 16:16). But what are we to make of his claim, 'some standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God come with power'? (Mark 9:1). Surely that was not proved true; surely here we see his failure as a prophet. After all, he was crucified: then as now, that spells failure.

Crucifixion. Of the grotesque and fearful nature of crucifixion I need say little. The Romans were masters of the art of public propaganda punishment. The shameful agonies of the victims were so obscene that mention of them was forbidden in polite society. We think of it as a static death: perhaps it was more like a slowly moving death, as the victim struggled for air, pulling himself up and then collapsing, until he could move no more.

You would not invent a religion centred on a crucified man. This posed immense difficulties for the first Christian missionaries. Their scriptures explicitly cursed anyone who hangs on a tree, and we can imagine what the masses made of the story, or any claim that this was somehow the kingdom of God come in power.

In fact we have some striking evidence. There is a famously spiteful graffiti from the second century, which depicts a crucified man with an ass's head, another man with his hand upraised, and beneath it the scrawl, 'Alexamenos worships god'.

The Gospel records of the death of Jesus have been subjected to as much research as any in history. There remain outstanding questions about the arrest and trials and the responsibility of the different actors in the scene. The blame attached to the Jewish people as a whole for such a tragedy is utterly reprehensible, tragic and unhistorical. Jesus was, after all, himself a Jew.

Clearly, the death of Jesus was connected with an alleged claim to be a king. Nailed to his cross was an inscription which read something like this: 'This is the King of the Jews' (Luke 23:38). 'Son of man' language; reports of miracles; kingdom of God talk; an attack on the temple; it all added up to a case against him.

But - to state the obvious - the death of other insurrectionists at the same time is a mere footnote in history. We are fortunate even to know their names. What makes the death of Jesus one of the best known facts in history? It is still commemorated in unnumbered sacramental meals week in week out, day in day out; the cross is still a sign better known than the twin arches.

I think that we are dealing here with three things: the meaning of his death; the manner of his death; the sequel to his death.

First the meaning: There is no evidence that Jesus was a political rebel, aiming to overthrow the Roman rule and set himself up as a king in Jerusalem or anywhere else. The idea has, of course, been rightly suggested, rightly tested and rightly dismissed.

He understood that judicial death was a likely outcome of his activities. But his teaching was pacific and his disciples were not a guerrilla group.

In one of the most famous scenes in the Gospels, he was challenged about whether to pay taxes to Caesar or not. A highly loaded enquiry. He pointed to the head of Caesar on the currency and said 'Give to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's.' Given the vital role paid by taxation in the Empire, this was not the speech of a mutineer or political activist.

Yes, the kingdom would be a great transformation. But it had to come from the hand of God, not from the efforts of men. The kingdom he preached about was to be accepted, received, obeyed, prayed for - but not built, fought for or created. Except, in a sense, by him. For others, crucifixion was the end to their career as a rebel. He saw his death as somehow the pivot of the kingdom; the fundamental precondition of the kingdom; the flashing forth of the divine judgement which preceded the establishment of the kingdom.

Thus, in the Passover meal he shared with his disciples before his death, he makes this promise: 'I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer. For I tell you, I will not eat of it again until it finds fulfilment in the kingdom of God' (Luke 22:16).

The Passover, in which the lambs were slaughtered to create safety for the people of Israel, is to be fulfilled in his sacrificial death. Human beings have always gropingly sought to find peace and power in and with the universe, through sacrifice. Sacrifice of animals, of food, of people, of children, even sacrifice of ourselves, our money, our time, even the gifts of our good works and our religion. All this is shown up, and summed up and made obsolete, in his sacrifice. Wherever the sacrifice of Christ is truly trusted, animal and human sacrifice ceases.

Second the manner of his death: In Luke's version of his death, there are two events which have always deeply moved me. They help explain why the crucifixion somehow expresses God's love.

Jesus prays for God's forgiveness on those who crucify him: 'Father, forgive them, they do not know what they are doing.' He lived and died enacting God's forgiveness on those who most needed a new heart and a new start in life. His death brought - and still brings - a sense of forgiveness.

There is another crucified at the same time who, recognises his own faults, recognises the innocence of the man dying beside him, recognises that he was dying beside a dying king, and said to Jesus: 'Remember me when you come into your kingdom'; Jesus replies: 'Today you will be with me in paradise.'(Luke 23:42-43). This is not the end of my kingdom; it is the beginning of it, and it has room even for a man like you.

No wonder Jean-Jacques Rousseau, no friend of Christianity, said 'The life and death of Socrates are those of a philosopher; the life and death of Jesus are those of a God'. As an incontestable but astonishing fact, the kingdom of Jesus did come; his crucifixion was not a portal to oblivion, but to glory. That is, within a short time of his death and with ever-growing intensity, the fact that a crucified man was the Christ was preached, and men and women were invited to attach themselves to him with a loyalty surpassing their loyalty to any person or state. And in ever-increasing numbers, so they did.

Since the death of Jesus there has always been a kingdom of Jesus in the world. More than that. For a time it seemed that Christianity would confine itself within Judaism. In much of the New Testament you can still see the signs of the original great debate in the new movement. Was it going to be for all, on the same simple terms and conditions, or was it to be for the Jewish people only?

The decision that Christianity was to be for all was momentous; it flowed from all that Jesus had said and in particular, how he died. It turned Christianity into a world movement. It was not so much a new religion as a new and extraordinary empire, based on the possibility of peace with God through the death of Jesus. The Roman Empire did not become Christian because the Emperor did; it would be truer to say that the Emperor became Christian because his subjects did.

Now the sequel: The announcement of God's kingdom is really declaration that the old age is passing and a new age has begun. The Jewish expectation of such an age included the hope of a defeat of death in a general resurrection from the dead. If the death of Jesus was not a mere failure, but somehow the institution of the kingdom of God, you would look for resurrection. His disciples 'bore witness' that he rose from the dead, as he said he would. According to them, he ate and drank with them in the kingdom of God. Of course, such a resurrection is a miracle; if a priori you do not believe in miracle, you will deny the resurrection in principle.

For you, Jesus lies buried still, no new age has begun; the kingdom of Jesus and the kingdom of God are not the same thing at all. No kingdom of God has arrived. No amount of evidence - and it is interesting to investigate the matter from the point of view of evidence - would ever convince you. From this point of view, despite all the positive signs we have noted along the way, Jesus falls at the last hurdle. He is indeed a failed prophet, placed back in his tomb by modernity. The dust which he has become lies there still.

Of course, if the resurrection is credible, it helps us to be positive about the other miracles recorded in the Gospels. It means, too, that we do not live in a closed universe, but an open one. For me - but I speak very personally - it is the difference between living in a black and white world and a world of colour.

In my judgement, then, Jesus is not a failed prophet, but a vindicated, successful prophet. Thus he predicted the coming of God's kingdom, and then he brought it in.

I agree, the whole matter revolves inexorably around the question of what we make of Jesus. But that is, after al1, one of the key things about this discussion: I cannot make the judgment in your place. We must all read the gospels and answer for ourselves the very question that he put to his disciples: 'Who do you say that I am?'

--The Rt. Rev. Peter Jensen is the Archbishop of Sydney, Australia

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