The Word Becomes Flesh then Word Again... then Flesh Again

By José Francisco Morales Torres

The church, I propose, is constituted as the church at the intersection of “word” and “flesh.” Allow me a word or two to flesh this out a bit. (And I promise if you stay with me until the end, I will “land this plane.”)

God’s saving acts are always fleshly. Salvation always includes the material. Any doctrine of salvation, which occludes the thingliness of life, is incomplete and (some might argue) ineffective. The Church is called to be “visible”—what Bonhoeffer refers to as “this-worldliness”—and not an invisible, spiritual entity. Drawing from two of the earliest preachers who theologized about the church, Paul the Apostle and Ignatius of Antioch, I propose that the Church is constituted as the visible, “this-worldly” body of Christ by “word” and “flesh.” We need to turn to Paul’s doctrine of preaching (i.e. word) and Ignatius’s doctrine of the triadic structure of bishop/presbyter/deacon (i.e. flesh) to make this claim.

Paul and Preaching:

For Paul, the Church is constituted homiletically: the Church is made manifest when and where the Word, who became flesh, is made word again. I do not mean simply that preaching Christ happens in the church, but rather that church “happens” through the preached Christ. The “gospel,” so argues St. Paul, is the highest authority in the Church. (Gal 1.8-9) And by “gospel,” he intends the proclamation of the gospel. “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” (1 Cor 1.18) Preaching Christ is not simply some information to be related, but “power” and “wisdom” to be experienced. It is important to note that “power” and “wisdom” are part of Hebrew creation theology: they create, they “bring forth.” (Prov 8.22-31; Wis 7.21-8.1) The preached word, too, “brings forth.” Paul does not say that the cross is the “power of God”; instead he asserts that the message of the cross is power. “Proclaiming the gospel is the ministry of ‘reconciliation’” and not merely a message about reconciliation. (J. Beaudean) The Church preaches Christ and consequently is constituted as the body of Christ. The Church preaches the Word made flesh, and enfleshes that Word by way of the proclaimed word.

Is this not too much power to give to preaching or the preacher? Well, only if the human proclaimer is the only agent in the equation. After all, Paul connects “the message of the cross” to “the power of God.” Disciples (in keeping with our tradition) must maintain this elevated, transcendent theology of preaching. Louis Dupré speaks of “the tight link between the message and the experience,” wherein “the transcendent reality as communicated in revelation” becomes, by way of faith, the “reality we experience.” The weekly exercise of preaching preserves this reality by “means of continuing interpretation” of the gospel. God’s Word is “operative through the medium of preaching.” (J. Beaudean) Bonhoeffer puts it best: Preaching “is not a medium of expression for something else, something which lies behind it, but rather it is Christ himself walking through his congregation as the Word.” Preaching brings the faithful in close, actualized contact with the risen Christ. The Word, who is made flesh, is made word again, and in doing so, gathers the assembled body into union with that Word.

Ignatius and Preachers:

Ignatius of Antioch wrote all his letters en route to his martyrdom. Urgently pastoral, his epistles can be read as farewell sermons to his congregations. Ignatius’ ecclesiological emphasis diverges from Paul by focusing on what later became known as the “holy orders.” (Deutero-Paul does focus on these.) Ignatius gives voice to the institutionalization of the Church’s many “gifts” into the threefold order of ministry of bishop-presbyter-deacon. For the Antiochene bishop, the Word made flesh, which is made word again in Paul, now becomes flesh again through the offices of the church.

A necessary, critical aside: It must be named that with the institutionalizing of “gifts” came the exclusionary genderizing of church leadership, which had been much more inclusive among the first generation of Christians. By the time of the Pastoral Epistles, the trifold ministry starts congealing into the offices of bishop, deacons, and the “council of elders” (cf. 1 Timothy 3.1-7; Titus 1.5), the latter of these not being clearly defined. In later texts, like The Apostolic Tradition (~215 CE), the distinct roles of “teacher” and “prophet” still remain “offices.” The term “widow” in the Pastoral Epistles seems to be honorific and functional, and not simply familial. This office of widow remains for roughly three centuries, since it is found in later manuals on church order (cf. Apostolic Tradition of Hippolytus and Didascalia Apostolorum [~230 CE]). Yet, all these varied offices seem to be absorbed within the trifold structure and turned into functions within these three offices. As inevitable and necessary as institutionalization is, the oppressive gendered politics of the emerging triadic structure, which silenced the Priscillas and Junias of the early church, must be acknowledged and rebuked.

Now, I am not here to argue for (or against) the triadic structure of bishop-presbyter-deacon. (The Disciples of Christ, as an ecclesial body, has debated this extensively with the wider ecumenical church, resulting in that brilliant document from the World Council of Churches, Baptism Eucharist and Ministry.) Rather, I want to point to the subtext of Ignatius’ preoccupation and why this matters for us today. Ignatius wants to historicize the Church so that it not become an illusive, ephemeral thing. Why? Because he is deeply concerned about the docetistic influences at the time. Docetists denied that Jesus really came in the body, only a purely spiritual, invisible Christ. They as a consequence posited a purely spiritual, invisible church with special, privileged accessibility to the truth (gnosis). Ignatius emphasizes the triadic structure in order give historical flesh to the Church through its bishops, presbyters and deacons. He admonishes the faithful, “Without these no group can be called a church.” (To the Trallians 3) Again, rigid adherence to this ecclesiastical program is not my point here. Note why Ignatius affirms this. He worries that believers would begin thinking that the church is only an immaterial reality. For this would then lead a manipulative few to posit, and to profit from [think: televangelists], the dangerous belief that the church and the gospel are reserved for a select few, for an elite “inner circle.” His ecclesiology seeks to cement the church’s visibility and to guarantee the accessibility of salvation. No gimmicks are needed to access Jesus. No special gnosis is needed to encounter the truth of the gospel.

This preoccupation is eerily Disciples of Christ—is it not?—except that we make this theological assertion eucharistically. Our theology of the Lord’s table is the way we preserve the historical, visible fleshiliness of the church. With this said, I must add that offices did matter to the founding Restorationists as well, even as they touted the priesthood of all believers. Terms like “elder” and “evangelist” were not merely functionary for the Campbells, Stone, and others. These offices carried theological—nay, ecclesiological—weight. Toulouse rightly reminds us that the major theological question of the founders was ecclesiology. Like Ignatius and our Stone-Campbell ancestors, we affirm clearly and simply: no gimmicks are needed to access Jesus. No special gnosis is needed to encounter the gospel.

Preaching (Word) and the Preacher (Flesh)

Okay, so what? What does this mean to you “servants of the word” (Acts 6.4)? Well, to state the obvious, your preaching matters. That is to say, your preaching gives matter to the Word. Your preached word prepares the way for Christ to walk through the pews as the “true and lively word.” (Cf. Heb 4.12) More than information about Christ, preaching is “power” and “wisdom.” It “brings forth” the body of Christ as a historical, assembled reality. The homily you proclaim on Sunday is the ministry of salvation and not merely a message about salvation. Your sermon, as a word placed on your lips by God (Isa 6.6-7), weaves together word and flesh, clothing the assembled with “the flesh and spirit of Jesus Christ.” (Ignatius, To the Magnesians 1). The Word made flesh is made word again, so that we, the “hearers of the Word” (Rahner), can be transfigured into the revolutionary flesh of Jesus in the world. 

But there is one more thing: you as preachers matter. You may not know this, but your sermon started the moment you pull up in the church parking lot. Your body—your flesh—enfleshes the word for the faithful gathered around the scriptures and the eucharist. And, by the way, so do the flesh of the elders and deacons who help serve the word, the bread, and the cup alongside you. Preachers, elders, and deacons are embodied reminders of our being called by the Word made flesh to hear the word again and to then enflesh that truly and lively word in the world. Your preaching bodies and your enfleshing utterances recall for the whole church that we are constructed as the body of Christ by the intersecting of word and flesh. And this intersecting—of word and flesh, of message and meal—makes us something else, something more.

The beauty of this ecclesiology is its simplicity, its clarity. Manipulating, calculating charlatans [televangelists] do not like clear and simple. They trade in secret gnosis available to an elite few. Our Disciples ecclesiology—bolstered by robust preaching and by the weekly observance of the Lord’s table—cements the visibility of the church and guarantees the universal, accessible reach of salvation. As the Protestant Reformers oft declared, the church is when and where the word is rightly preached and the sacraments rightly administered.

No elusive “truth”! No easily-manipulated “church”! No gimmicks are needed to access Jesus. No special gnosis is needed to encounter the power of the gospel:

—“You want to receive Christ? And belong to the church?”

—“Yes. What do I need to do?”

—“Well, you see over there? That building with the sign that reads, ‘Primera Iglesia Cristiana (Discípulos de Cristo)’?

—“Yeah.”

—And you see that person, Pastor Daphne, with Bible in tow and a long piece of fabric hanging over her shoulders?

—“Yes.”

—And those deacons holding bread and wine?

—“Yes…” 

—“Ok then! That’s all you need to know.”

—“Really?!”

—“Yeah, that’s all. So, go over there. ‘Cuz there, you will hear and eat and drink what you seek.”

Chickening Out

Rev. Will Ryan

I chickened out. There are no two ways around it. It was right there in my manuscript. I wrote it Thursday morning and practiced it in my office earlier that Sunday, but when the time came to just say the word, I didn’t. I chickened out.

I had already challenged the congregation. Made them feel uncomfortable. Told them a hard truth that was going to ruffle feathers. God’s grace, when taken to its end, tends to do that. I could see and hear the squirming. At least, that was what I told myself as I was going along. The self-justification I clung to.

You know how even when you’re talking out loud there’s still a running commentary in the back of your head? Well, mine was telling me to move along. Substitute the word for something else. Make it more palatable. Sanitary. Safe. That internal commentary said, I know you’re trying to show the vulgar lengths God is willing to go for the least, last, lost, little, and dead…you know, those the world deems vulgar. “Shit” is the right word here, but your mom didn’t even let you say “crap” growing up. You don’t want people to be talking about the cuss word you said, instead of the good news you tried to proclaim. Don’t say it.

So, I didn’t say it.

The problem was that there were going to be people who saw that I wrote it, even if I didn’t say it. Probably the population who would most likely have had a problem with me saying it. They had the evidence in their hands.

You see, I was taught always to produce a manuscript when preaching. Even if I wasn’t taught to do this, I would. It helps me organize my thoughts, try out phrases, and make sure I know where I’m going. You know, beginning, middle, and end. Without a manuscript I’m prone to wander, Lord I feel it. So, I always go into the pulpit with my size 18-font manuscript.

When I had some older members share with me their troubles with hearing, I knew the solution. Moving pews in the church was a non-starter. Turning up their hearing aids left everyone around them buzzing. Even the hearing loop in through our sound system wasn’t working right. At my suggestion, I started printing off copies of my manuscript as an aid for them to receive the Good News. I told them I don’t read from the pages, but I stick pretty closely so they’d be able to recognize when I went “off-script.”

Who knew I was my own foreshadow?

I thought I was going to hear about it in the handshake line after the service. I just knew one of those 8 ½ x 11 pages was going to make its way back to me with a complaint. “How could you write such a thing in a sermon!?!” I imagined they would say. The pit in my stomach sank every time someone passed by.

Then: “I’ve got a bone to pick with you!” I heard her say.

Oh boy, here it comes, I thought to myself. Sure enough, Carol stepped forward with the evidence.

“Oh?” I feigned ignorance and innocence.

“How come you didn’t say it?”

“What?”

“You wrote “shit” in your sermon. I saw it. How come you didn’t say it?”

Confused, I said “I don’t know. I thought it would have been distracting. Taken away from the message. I don’t know…”

“Well, if you’re going to write it, say it!”

She hugged me and went on her way.

If you’re going to write it, say it. They trust me to be honest, to be forthright, to speak the truth, to share the goods. They trust me to be vulnerable, to take risks. If I’m going to chicken-out on a four-letter word, what about something that is actually challenging, like God’s grace and mercy and love? Would I chicken out then?

If you’re going to write it, say it. Who would ever believe such a thing?