In an introductory theology course at Eastern University, our professor quite deliberately assigned us readings from a wide variety of Christian traditions. Among these, one story makes a text we didn’t read memorable: Professor Boyer read aloud an email exchange wherein he had asked colleagues at Eastern and other friends of his whether any of them had a particular text on the theology of Anabaptism, so that he could scan copies of a chapter rather than asking us all to purchase the whole text for the course. The only reply he received was, “Theology of Anabaptism? Isn’t that an oxymoron?!”
It is true, to some extent, that what other traditions might call “theology proper” (purely focused on the Trinity and the doctrine of God) isn’t a topic of much interest at least in my experience of the Church of the Brethren, even at Bethany Seminary. We tend to be much more interested in praxis; we want words about God doing something in the world, not God in Godself alone. This accords with Anabaptist emphases more generally.
But perhaps more pertinent to the conversation is this: the very language (or more accurately, jargon) that would academically be recognized as “theology”, and particularly the vernacular developed in the Reformation and following, was a product of tradition, of which much would have been foreign to the early church, and therefore set aside by the Radical Reformers to the extent that they identified it as such. After all, “Anabaptists, spiritualists, and evangelical rationalists all wanted to cut back through the accretions of ecclesiastical tradition…to the authentic root of faith and order…”1 While Paul’s letters certainly contain some magnificent theology, none of the apostles would immediately have recognized terms like “double predestination” or “transubstantiation.” Furthermore, key biblical words have continued to evolve in meaning such that their usage (whether in the sixteenth century or today) conveys something different than what a first-century audience would have heard.
With this article, I would like to offer readers a possible reclamation and revitalization of theological language, beginning with the Radical Reformer’s keen interest on stripping away the accretions of tradition, and insisting that plain language is often better–not just for communicating our “words about God” (theology) as clearly as possible, but also for sparking greater emotional and intellectual responses in another. I refer to “plain language” not merely in contrast with academic jargon, but also in contrast with “Christianese,”2 where words that were once integrated with the rest of their language of origin have become words that are rarely used outside of the church (and even then, are used nearly exclusively in reference to their “churched” meaning).
One rather clear example is the word “baptize.” As an English word, even metaphorical uses outside the church context derive their meaning from the religious significance of the word: a ritual of induction into the community. However, our New Testament authors were not using an exclusively religious word. The Greek word was one and the same as the word for dip, dunk, or immerse as would be used in any other context—it was a word of plain language that was the key verb in the religious practice used by John and instructed of disciples by Jesus. Emerging from a context within which “baptism” had for centuries only referred to a practice of infants having water sprinkled on them, the Anabaptists’ first emphasis was on the necessity for a believer’s own repentance; only a few of the early Radical Reformers asked to truly be dunked or immersed, and even then there may have been less concern for maintaining the word’s original meaning as for the practice to convey the fullness of the practice’s theological significance in a Christian perspective. As one document attested in 1574, “Where you don’t dip or immerse in the water, you can have no understanding of baptism unto the death, burial, and resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ.”3
However, let’s imagine that instead of transliterating the original word (rendering its Greek letters into those of another language), we had consistently translated it instead. For the sake of clarity, we would have not been arguing over “the correct form of baptism,” but instead the question, “What’s the right way to dunk someone?”—which might have shifted the balance away from involving infants. We might never have called the Anabaptists the “Double-Dippers,” but Catholic, Lutheran, or Reformed churches opposing them would have had to argue that their heresy was for dipping twice. And the Great Commission could have read, “As you are going into all the world, make disciples of all nations, immerse them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, and teach them to obey all that I have commanded you.” That evokes layers of richness not found when turning “baptize” into an English word: beyond naming the step by which disciples fully enter the community, what does it mean for any of us to be immersed in the Name, perhaps as an ongoing and continuous activity of our faith life? It seems to me that there would be gains in both clarity and efficacy by using the plain speech of “dunking” or “immersion,” rather than the transliterated “baptism.”
Though I will readily admit that I have not studied the origin and evolving use of each and every word to be discussed here, the general pattern and trend seem quite understandable: Once a word of plain speech is picked up by the community of faith for a “spiritual” use (the concepts of spirit/spiritual will themselves be discussed below), that possible meaning of the word becomes its primary meaning, especially when significant texts of scripture or theology show a higher prevalence of that use than its “ordinary” meaning. A word thus “spiritualized” might become a distinct word altogether in one of three ways: 1) by transliteration rather than translation (angel4 is another such case, to hold up alongside baptism), 2) when its metaphor crystallizes to an extent that its meanings are almost entirely divorced (like the grace of a ballerina and the grace of God), or 3) when it falls out of use in contexts beyond church and faith (like pray5 or fellowship).
After sufficient time that this divergence is taken for granted, a “spiritualized” word is separated from its original meaning—and yet many will assume that its adapted use must be exactly what was intended by the author or community that first used their ordinary words to speak about God’s activity in their midst. This leads to confusion or inaccuracy to the extent that the intention of the word itself has changed, and to a reduction in emotional or intellectual effect on one’s audience to the extent that the dynamism between “ordinary” and “spiritual” uses of the word was part of the power in its originally metaphorical adaptation into theological use.
Let’s go back to the second imperative of the Great Commission, to “baptize” or dunk/immerse in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit: To imagine that Jesus is commanding a process of sprinkling water on babies is inaccurate—that’s one version of “baptize,” but it would not make sense as the meaning conveyed to the Apostles by Jesus in that scene. Regardless of differences of opinion in sprinkling/dunking infants/adults, it is also less evocative to say “baptize them” if we hear the word “baptize” only as a technical term for the ritual entry into the faith; even those of us who have already entered the community can continue to be immersed in the name of Father, Son, and Spirit—to soak in and meditate upon the Triune God of our salvation, which is a potential second layer of meaning held by the way that plain language opens into metaphor.
For this series working at themes of the Radical Reformation, I’ll offer another step further into this matter of original plain language: at the root of nearly every split where a “spiritualized” word separates from its original meaning is the invention of a dualism between “physical” and “spiritual,” rather than a discernment of the activity in God’s one physical creation. So while I believe we could improve our theological communication in many of the ways this article suggests whether or not readers agree with what I’m about to propose, here’s the most “radical” claim of this piece: God’s creation is one reality, with many levels of emerging complexity entirely continuous with and dependent upon the physical, and the notion of a “spiritual realm” as a distinct reality independent of the “physical realm” is the misleading mythology that contributes to all other instances of “spiritualized” words mistakenly severed from plain theological language.
This contrast can be clearly seen in theological anthropology, or the way that people of faith articulate what it is to be human. In the most common conception that I encounter among lay Christians, the basic “equation” would be as follows:
Body + Soul = Human
In this understanding, the word “soul” is treated as synonymous with “spirit,” and refers to something, some essence or substance, that exists “in the spiritual realm”—meaning that it is not observable by any means of our material existence. Often, this view assumes that “having a soul” is what sets human beings apart from other creatures. Yet the connection between any particular body and soul is not well articulated, other than that any one person “has” both a body and a soul. To distinguish this understanding as Christian rather than a variety of conceptions from other faiths, we should note both that souls are not eternal (uncreated, and automatically continuing beyond death by their own power) but are created by and dependent upon God, and that both body and soul are created good by God (thus the hope that they will be reunited in resurrection). I will refer to this as the spiritualist point of view; as it leads to sorting things into physical or spiritual realms.
An alternative perspective would offer a different basic “equation”:
Body + Spirit = Soul
In this construction, spirit is not a thing, as in essence or substance that could exist independently of the body, but instead refers to the activity of the body, or the “animating principle” of a body that is the source of its own actions. A body with its spirit—its own proper activity—together is a soul; one does not “have” a soul, but is a soul. Correspondingly, many living creatures created by God are souls; human beings are set apart by the image of God residing in our vast array of complex interpersonal capacities that reach far beyond any other of God’s creatures on the planet. I will refer to this as the realist point of view, as it tends to view all things as existing in one physical reality.
Scripture does not speak univocally on this matter; there are some verses or passages which appear to support the former view, and many others the latter. That said, it is difficult to set aside whatever our preconceived notions might be about what the words we read even mean, though this is necessary for us to give a fair evaluation for which usage seems more appropriate for understanding a particular passage. Furthermore, the prevalence of the spiritualist point of view has led to translations that obscure points of evidence in favor of the realist position when reading the Bible in English.
For example, in the creation poem of Genesis 1, we might read God’s invitation for the waters to bring forth “living creatures” (found in Gen 1:20 in English ranging from translations like the NRSV or NASB to the Message paraphrase), but the Hebrew word is nephesh—the word for “soul.” Rather than human beings being set apart as uniquely “having” souls, Hebrew scripture broadly names human beings and animals (but not plants) as souls (nephesh). Plants are not considered the source of their own actions,6 but fish and squirrels and ants and humans are.
One might argue that nephesh should be rendered differently in its various appearances because it has more than one meaning: perhaps sometimes it means “life” (let the waters teem with lives/living creatures) and other times “soul” as in the spiritualist conception of a soul. However, this assumption that the meanings can be so cleanly divided comes from outside the texts of scripture, and imposing such an assumption precludes the possibility of ever seeing the realist reading in them. If the realist understanding of the word soul–a bodily creature that is the source of its own actions–would make sense of these diverse appearances of nephesh, then it is not necessary to draw such a sharp line between different uses of the same word.
While there are a host of scriptures worth reading carefully, and double-checking our assumptions to consider both spiritualist and realist readings,7 a fascinating study into Biblical understanding of soul could bring together the Hebrew and Greek words for spirit with the prohibitions on consuming blood. Both the Hebrew ruach and the Greek pneuma, in their respective languages, are words that many have learned and are variously translated into English as wind, breath, or spirit. (The shared root with words like pneumatic is a helpful connection.) These words all convey activity that is visible in the motion of something, not a substantive thing in its own right. The life-giving air conveyed by wind, breath, or spirit is quite closely connected with nephesh or its Greek corollary psyche/psuche —each of which themselves is derived from words connected to breath or breathing, and are most often translated as soul. When providing an explanation for the ban on consuming blood (one of very few laws about food upheld while admitting Gentiles into the fellowship of believers in Jesus in Acts 15:20), Leviticus 19:11 says that the nephesh is in the blood. That sentence couldn’t well be completed by inserting some non-physical substance, but our blood does indeed carry oxygen—the life-giving part of our breath (or wind or spirit?)–throughout our body. While not conveying perfectly the rationalist conception of the word soul that I have described above, this use certainly speaks powerfully for the understanding that our life, our true essence, is carried in physical bodies.
This should not at all convey that we are “nothing but” complex arrangements of matter. In a manner analogous to the way that the Christian spiritualist view should take care to distinguish itself from non-Christian concepts like the “eternal soul,” the realist point of view should be sharply distinguished from the sort of reductionism that presumes everything will eventually be understood according to physics. A non-reductive view is often used at other “levels” of reality: biology emerges from, is dependent upon, and yet cannot be reduced to chemistry. Likewise, the realist view understands the interwoven psychological, social, and spiritual dimensions of reality as emergent from, dependent upon, and yet not reducible to our human biology and environment.8
Recognizing the difference between the spiritualist and realist perspectives’ understanding of our language may already spark thoughts about our articulation of certain portions of our theology. The second portion of this article will draw on the realist perspective while considering the early Anabaptists’ articulation of beliefs surrounding baptism and communion. These matters were certainly dearly held theological positions, though they may have been articulated in plain language, rather than the jargon of academic theology.
Caleb is a graduate of Eastern University and Bethany Theological Seminary, and thankful for many professors and mentors in his background in sociology and theology. He serves part-time alongside Irvin Heishman as a pastor at West Charleston Church of the Brethren, a multilingual/multicultural and open and affirming congregation north of Dayton, Ohio. Caleb is thankful for that rich community’s embrace of diversity as a family of faith in which to raise two children with his wife, Allie. When he’s not caring for his children or tied up with church activities, Caleb’s always eager to join in some tabletop games, theological conversation, or both together!
- Timothy George, “The Spirituality of the Radical Reformation,” Southwestern Journal of Theology (45, no. 2; Spr 2003, accessed via ATLA), 22.
- I first heard this term when I had used the word “fellowship” while expressing how much I valued the relationships in a group that had gathered for a tabletop game night. “I’ve never heard that word outside the church!” a friend exclaimed; “I thought it was just Christianese.” And indeed, to the unchurched it can sometimes seem like Christians are speaking in a language all to themselves.
- Timothy George, “Spirituality of the Radical Reformation,” 35.
- The word “angel” appearing anywhere in the Bible would actually have been identical to the ordinary word messenger (in its respective Hebrew or Greek) and it is entirely a choice of translation to render some instances with a special new word “angel” (which derives as a transliteration of the Greek word), and some instances with the plain language of messenger.
- It may not immediately spring to mind, but archaic-sounding phrases like “pray tell” (asking another for information) are using the word “pray” in its original meaning of simply requesting or pleading of another–it wasn’t only of God that one prays for something. The automatic assumption that to “pray” means to ask something of God comes about only as the word has become “Christianese.” (This evolution is worth considering when discussing the merits of “praying” to Mary or other saints: are we Protestants really using the word the same way as Catholics?)
- Even a Venus flytrap, or a sunflower tracking the sun (plants that do move), act as a reflexive trigger rather than with self-generated actions.
- Gen 2:7; 6:3, Deut 6:5 (and its parallels), Matt 10:28, James 2:26, and 1 Thess 5:23 would be a start for verses that could be examined for understanding the essential parts of a human being. The last appears to confound both simple “equations” presented above, appearing to list body, spirit, and soul all three in parallel.
- A cogent articulation of emergent “levels” of reality can be found in Christian Smith’s book What is a Person? Rethinking Humanity, Social Life, and the Moral Good from the Person Up (University of Chicago; 2010), pages 25-42