Does faith demand evidence that demands a verdict? The surprising answer from the Gospels is that face to face with a resurrected savior, the disciples still doubted. Those of Jesus’ hometown saw his miracles and scoffed at him. Religious leaders heard the Messiah’s amazing mastery of the the Law and the Prophets and still sought all the more to kill him. The list goes on. Jesus is sitting on the beach cooking fish and none of his disciples dares to ask if it is him. If we read them in the spirit in which they were written we see that quite contrary to our assumptions, the Evangelists go to great pains to show that those closest to Jesus had the toughest time believing in him.

Where does that leave us? First, we must read the Gospels as hagiography rather than history. I tremble even to type that. Such is my upbringing and my worldview that I have been conditioned to accept the Gospels as first and foremost histories. No logical argument is too intricate to prop up the “gospel as history” viewpoint. Jesus cleansed the temple twice. Once at the beginning of his ministry and once at the end. How do we know that? Well, the synoptic gospels list this event at the end of his ministry while John lists it at the beginning. In one gospel, Jesus heals two blind beggars in the other he heals just one. Various explanations exist. What is needed is not explanations but rather a suspension of presuppositions. The Gospels, and in fact most of our sacred text, are first moralizing documents. History in itself is never the primary aim of the Bible. In the worldview of the writers, no evidence was needed. The de facto verdict was that the events and people described were true. But the writers, whether they be the Evangelists or the writer of Genesis were telling stories to prove a moral point. The account of Martha anointing Jesus’ feet and the story of Veronica’s veil share many points of similarity, principally the moral punch line. Yet we accept one as “gospel truth” and the other as “hagiography.”

In the context of faith, the line between history and creative writing is very faint, and largely inconsequential. The Gospel writers wanted us to see that. Because to their tastes, the proof of the pudding was not evidence but experience. The band of believers, even in the presence of the resurrected Messiah, was rather a group of demoralized doubters. One event changed everything. Pentecost. While hope may be based on the evidence of the resurrection, faith is based on the experiential in-filling of the Holy Spirit. We as Christians are not illogical. We’re alogical. That’s what makes us so irritating to unbelievers. The old Pentecostal saw, “A man with an experience is never at the mercy of a man with an argument,” is truer than you think. John said, “These things were written so that you may πιστεύω that Jesus Christ is the son of God and that by πιστεύω you might have life in his name.” Here’s where the English language fails us. Belief here is not an intellectual conviction but rather a heart-felt trust.

Borg is right and wrong. We should take the Bible seriously but not literally. Yet, we should take the Bible literately. Just because the Bible is composed of highly artistic recounting of events does not mean that those weren’t in fact true. This is one of the things I find most refreshing about interacting with Mozambican Christians. Their whole worldview is inhabited by wonders. Old women are transformed into lions. Thieves sprinkle magic powder on locks and they fall open. Trees and birds are not just biological but spiritual. So when they come to the Bible they have no trouble with sticks turning into snakes, axe heads floating, or demons inhabiting pigs.

The Enlightenment ironically cast a dark shadow on the Western mind. We are just coming back into the light of spiritual illumination. Perhaps we can find an equilibrium between the rationalism of scientific enquiry based on a Judeo-Christian worldview of God’s perfect creation warped by our human wickedness and a spiritual sensitivity and openness to the unverifiable.

Veronica holding her veil, by Hans Memling , ca 1470 via Wikimedia Commons.