The Gnosticizing of Evangelicalism

As the Nag Hammadi Library of gnostic writings began to be made available to scholars in both editions and translations, the Dutch scholar, W. C. Van Unnik, surveyed a handful of these writings and compared them to the New Testament texts. He noted, “Nobody who is to any extent at home with the currents and undercurrents of our spiritual life today is likely to assent to this description of Gnosticism. Such widely separated movements as theosophy and anthroposophy have been instanced—and with every justification—as modern forms of Gnosticism. Time and again one comes across similar ways of interpreting Christianity—for example, among the Rosicrucians who, just like the ancient Gnostics, give out their interpretation as the real ‘truth’ of Christianity.” (W. C. van Unnik, Newly Discovered Gnostic Writings: A Preliminary Survey of the Nag-Hammadi Find, Studies in Biblical Theology 30 [Naperville, IL: Allenson, 1960], 89.)

I am, however, not so sure Christianity has not, after all, suffered from a gnosticizing influence throughout its centuries. And I am becoming more and more convinced that American evangelicalism—in almost all of its denominational (and non-denominational) forms—has suffered both bruises and lacerations at the hands of this phantom philosophy. After several years of living and breathing the air of American evangelicalism, experiencing firsthand both the smog and the fresh ocean breezes, having drunk from both the pure spring waters and the cracked cisterns of our tradition, having eaten the bread made from both the ground wheat and crushed tares of our living and departed saints, I have become increasingly concerned about the influence of essentially gnostic ideas on Christian truth.

I have developed an unscientific sense that gnosticization of Christianity is a constant threat. It is not, as was once believed, a challenge of the second and third centuries that was overcome by the institutionalization of the church, the formation of the canon of Scripture, and a concretizing of a common creed. Rather, all of these things necessitate human interpretation, which opens the door to countless presuppositions and preunderstandings. I have come to believe that the delicate balance—nay, the excruciatingly painful tension—that marks the orthodox doctrine of the incarnation as well as its implications for an incarnational theology and worldview, is simply too difficult for most humans to sustain without being pulled or pushed to one pole or the other. That Jesus Christ is both God and man, that the Bible is both divine and human, that salvation is both physical and spiritual, that the kingdom is both heavenly and earthly—the balance of such statements are far too easy to disrupt when humans begin to interpret and apply them in the twisted chaos of both the psychological and cosmic realities of this present world. Worldviews constantly collide with the Christian conundrum and confront the incarnational irreconcilables with demands for modification, reinterpretation, and reform. Thus, I believe the gnosticizing of Christianity seen in the early centuries of the church is a phenomenon that we can detect throughout church history. And it is a challenge that threatens to distort and destroy evangelical theology today.

When I say that evangelicalism is suffering from gnosticization, I do not mean that some specific form of Gnosticism or a Gnostic system—ancient or modern—is directly exercising influence on the thinking of modern Christians. Rather, evangelicals have long ridiculed many of the extreme expressions of classic Gnosticism—the distinction between the unknown Father and the unknowing creator god; the numerous emanations from the Father, the fall of Sophia, the creation of evil matter, the complex revisions of orthodox Christian truth, and so forth. These errors are easy to avoid, and evangelicals have remained essentially orthodox in their avoidance of Gnostic heresy. Furthermore, I do not mean that evangelicals have become Gnostics. I do not believe the gnosticization of evangelicalism means that evangelicalism has ceased to be fundamentally and authentically Christian. The effect of gnosticizing has not caused evangelicalism to fall into heresy. It has, rather, maintained a classically catholic and orthodox identity.

What I actually mean by this assertion is that, like some sectors of the ancient church in the second century, evangelicalism has reinterpreted Christian truth—or adopted others’ reinterpretations—that diverge from a classic incarnational theology. That is, contemporary evangelicalism has fallen into the pattern of trying to relieve the incarnational tension and has, to a large degree, opted for the same kind of spiritualizing, other-worldly, non-material philosophical direction as the ancient Gnostics.

What does this look like? Many evangelicals fail to maintain a doctrine of Scripture that takes seriously both its fully human and fully divine qualities. We have created a view of humanity more in line with a body-spirit dualism in which the “true me” is entrapped in a body, regarding God’s physical creation as a mere “shell” that needs to be shed. We have spiritualized the ordinances, stripping them of their sacramental power and relegating them to mere symbols and memorials of spiritual truths. We have severed the spiritual church from the physical church, the universal from the local body of Christ, and have made membership in one (the spiritual) possible without membership in the other (the physical). We have put up with a dichotomizing between the spiritual, personal experience of salvation by an invisible faith and the material, physical manifestation of faith through acts of love, manifested in a radical division between justification and sanctification. We have tolerated extreme expressions of the Spirit working directly with individuals outside the physical, institutional community of Christ, allowing many radical departures from classic Christian orthodoxy by means of special “movements” of the Spirit or new revelations. We have opted for a spiritualized and personalized eschatology that de-emphasizes the redemption of this physical creation through history, and even premillennialists have suggested that God’s plan for this world includes its absolute destruction rather than transformation and resurrection.

Sadly, this already long list could continue.

What is the solution to the gnosticizing of evangelicalism? I believe the only lasting solution is a rigorous christocentric theology that continually checks and corrects biblical interpretation, dogmatic systems, and practical applications against the standard of an authentically incarnational christology.

Leading Evidence

Throughout my college and seminary training, I often heard both teachers and students say things like, “You can’t conclude that based on the evidence,” or “The evidence clearly points to such-and-such a conclusion.” My least favorite statement of all, however, was “We need to be willing to go wherever the evidence leads.”

The problem with this whole approach is that evidence leads nowhere.

Perhaps I ought to nuance that slightly. On very rare occasions the evidence is so clear that it leads to an obvious conclusion for the vast majority of reasonable (i.e., “sane”) people. Two examples: “something exists” . . . “I exist.” From that point any assertion based on evidence begins to move—ever so slightly—away from the center-point of certainty. But once a person steps from that very small bounded pasture of certainty into the open range of uncertainty and probability, the evidence must be shepherded by arguments—guided toward a reasonable end.

Let me be clear: I don’t buy into the idea of “following the evidence wherever it leads” because in the vast majority of cases the evidence does not lead . . . we lead the evidence. An argument, which incorporates evidence, leads in a particular direction. And arguments, while hopefully including all evidence in a cohesive, coherent, and consistent manner, are led by the arguer. Thus, the arguer leads the evidence. Even when people are all examining the exact same evidence, the result will be a variety of interpretations supported by different groups and individuals. Sometimes when the amount of evidence increases—or old evidence is reevaluated—the picture may change. But not always. Each of us is leading the evidence in a particular direction based on our pre-understandings, presuppositions, agendas, methodologies, questions, and biases. The point? Every endeavor to analyze evidence is perspectival.

In decades (and centuries) past, when a scholar claimed to be compelled by the evidence in a particular direction, many times he or she strived to act as a judge or juror, valuating and evaluating the objective facts without bias. With the decline in modernist confidence in such objectivity, most scholars today admit that they approach all evidence with biases and questions. But often people suggest that the solution to this problem is to strive to strip away biases—that is, “Admitting that you have a subjectivity problem is the first step in overcoming your subjectivity.”

Shouldn’t we strive to be as objective as possible and then proceed with the investigation? No! This is impossible and could, in fact, be more dangerous than simply embracing our perspectives and running with them. Here’s why: if overcoming our perspective is not really possible, then believing that we have somehow overcome them is worse than not being aware of them in the first place. It’s like digging ourselves into a pit, looking up, realizing we’re in a pit, then solving the problem by making the pit larger. We may have worked harder at digging. We may have even employed people to help us dig. But in the end, we’re still stuck in a pit.

Another problem with buying into the method of approaching evidence with as much objectivity as possible is this: what if your original perspective, bias, and set of presuppositions is right? What if your understanding of a particular subject and therefore your arrangement of the evidence is actually the correct one? If this is the case, then stripping yourself of those presuppositions is not only unnecessary—it’s dangerous!

A while back, when I worked for a particular ministry of a well-known pastor, the ministry received a letter from a critic stringing together evidence from the pastor’s writings proving that he held to a particular false doctrine. That man examined the evidence, drew his conclusions, and demanded repentance and an apology. The problem is that that person completely misinterpreted the evidence. For a few rounds, we tried to combat the person’s views by pointing him to other writings of the pastor that showed that he clearly did not hold the false view. But it didn’t work. Finally I said, “This is ridiculous. We know this guy’s interpretation is wrong because we know Pastor So-and-So doesn’t hold this view.” There was no point in argument or evidence in this case, and even though we couldn’t prove to the critique that we were interpreting the pastor’s writings correctly, our unique perspective guaranteed that we were.

I think in many cases this analogy works for reading Scripture. Christians should not be ashamed to read the entire Bible in conformity with classic Christian theology. I am completely unimpressed with lexical, grammatical, and exegetical arguments based on probabilities, historical parallels, or other evidences that do not align with a normal Christian understanding—touching on issues of orthodoxy. In my mind, when a person’s methodology leads to conclusions that are at odds with the classic Christian faith, it doesn’t mean my interpretation needs to be revised or that the faith needs to be modified—it means the methodology is flawed.

This works best at the macro-level, dealing with big issues of orthodoxy (God, Christ, Salvation, etc.). But it can also function as a working principle at the micro-level. For example, I am unimpressed with evidence and arguments that conclude that the “Angel of the Lord” appearances of the Old Testament—classically regarded as appearances of the pre-incarnate Son of God—are merely created angels acting as stand-ins or heavenly representatives of God. The traditional interpretation of the Angel of the Lord as the Son/Logos of God is so ancient and compelling that in my mind the methodologies used to arrive at competing views are discredited. That God the Son (Logos) has always served as the divine mediator between the Father and the creation goes back to Ignatius of Antioch, the Epistle of Barnabas, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, and more. But isn’t this reading the Bible in light of tradition? YES! That's the whole point.

But wait! Am I not, then, simply approaching this question from my own particular perspective? Of course! Then how do we arrive at the undisputed truth of the matter?

We don’t. There will always be dispute. There will always be challenges. Our responsibility is to engage in the real practice of theology. It’s not understanding seeking faith. It’s faith seeking understanding. It’s not exegesis leading to a biblical theology. It’s traditional theology guiding biblical exegesis. This means contributing to the quest for understanding in community, offering up arguments and critiques, incorporating new evidence as it comes, constantly re-evaluating evidence, exploring new arguments, and always operating under the assumption that the dialogue will continue long after we’re gone. But we must always carry on the conversation in the context of the tradition and in the confines of the believing community.

Ideally my dialogical hermeneutical method ought to take place in a community of free and open dialogue in which various perspectives are heard, understood, discussed, and critiqued. But this is, of course, impossible. So, in the absence of such an ideal dialogical community we’re really just left with one practical solution. It’s the solution through which the Holy Spirit guided the church into truth for the last 2000 years. We struggle with the questions, we agonize over them, and we debate each other, all the while trusting that the Spirit will guide His church into the future as He has faithfully done in the past—in, though, with, among, and, more often than not, in spite of us.

The Oldest Excuse in the Book

I honestly didn't think the “My-Dog-Ate-My-Homework” excuse was still in circulation. I thought some law had been passed—or at least some unspoken code had been woven into the fabric of modern society—that prevented its use.

But today I got this email:

Dr. Svigel, this sounds crazy I know, but do you have any extra copies of the mid-term. We have a puppy, and our puppy has half the mid-term in his belly at the moment. He some how found liberty to get stuff off my desk now.

Anyway, I can come by your office on Monday if that is possible. Sorry for the trouble. One can feel pretty stupid when his excuse is the oldest line in the book.

How would you respond?