I wonder if such realities as Elisha’s servant sees are always happening. My awe is accompanied by the subdued doubt that chariots of fire are extremely rare exceptions—much more the opportunity to see them. My Presbyterian friends would sympathize with that doubt (as I do), and my charismatically inclined friends would revolt.

As I often mention, the old apparent dualism in Christianity has troubled me. I’ve found, however, that the dualism is not so much in Christianity as it is in humanity, what Walker Percy calls angelism-beastialism. Christianity, rather than being strictly transcendent or totally immanent, is incarnational—which is what humans must be. I suppose the problem is that we polarize between one and the other, probably many times in the course of a day. On the other hand, without the message of Christianity, immanence would prevail, and the brand of transcendence available to naturalism—i.e. that of science and art—would ultimately be an exalted form of immanence. So, as incarnational as it is, Christianity also saves us from utter immanence, and offers our imaginations a vision of transcendence that we, mired in immanence, cannot see. To the naturalist, this is Don Quixote positing enchanters to satisfy the mundane message his senses send him; to the Christian, it is a probable antidote to the hopeless situations in which we find ourselves.

So, on the one hand, we are called to be incarnational, neither angels nor animals, but men: sovereign wanderers, lordly exiles, and pilgrims, to borrow again from Percy. On the other hand, immanence overwhelms us and motivates us to seek transcendence. Fallen, we look for it either in socially authorized or unauthorized places: science is safe and the achievement of that transcendence is usually rewarded; art is dangerous, and more often than not, its transcendence is punished. The problems with the transcendence of drugs and drunkenness are well known. Are the problems with the transcendence of sex well known or not, these days? I can’t tell, but I know them myself. Of course, religions offer transcendence, or ways to deal with immanence, but they all differ in their conceptions of the two.

I propose that a good litmus test of a religion is to see how it deals with this dualism. Is incarnation at its heart? Does it denigrate immanence beneath an unattainable transcendence? Or does it deny transcendence, saying all Being is one? Does it motivate legalism? Does it motivate mercy? Does it establish a sane tension between heaven and earth, or does it deny one at the expense of the other?

As for Christianity, I used to think it was intolerably transcendent. However, my view has changed. It establishes a tension between heaven and earth, and it has a place for both. Everything on earth has a place on earth, and every good thing on earth has a place in heaven.

I can hear the objections at this point:

“You sound like you want God’s gifts more than God himself, creation more than the Creator.”

To which I say, “And you sound like you want to refuse the gift out of a pious pretension to loving the Giver more than you do.”

“I do not love God as much as I should, true. But you, in your immanence-mongering, have little hope of ever loving the Giver as much as you should.”

“The gifts, for me, are evidence of the Giver, and they make me grateful to Him.”

“You’re an idolater. God is holy and transcendent, and because you cannot bear it for your sinfulness, you bury your head in immanence like an ostrich.”

“You are right. I could not bear God’s transcendence. But rather than frying me with lighting for it, he became immanent himself, marrying the Word with the flesh in the incarnation.”

“You’re a closet Catholic, aren’t you.”

“Was that a question?”

“Ne…No.”

“Catholics do seem to have less trouble with incarnation than we do.”

“If you love them so much, why don’t you go worship Mary with them?”

“I don’t know who worships Mary, but I believe Catholics venerate Mary. However, I do think I will go have a glass of wine with them.”

“Oh, you’re probably going to tell me to enjoy my grape juice  next, aren’t you?”

“No. But since you are my creation,  I think I’ll just put that sentence in your mouth, along with the distasteful use of italics to indicate your sneering tone.”

“Not fair. I’m going to return to the desert to fast and pray in my burlap bag.”

“Hmm. John the Baptist pretty much did that… Honestly, he was pretty righteous…in addition to being pretty ascetic.”

“Exactly.”

“But Jesus really wasn’t, so I’m ‘a still go have that glass of wine. Later.”

For all my dithering on the issue, all my past confusion, all my plunges into utter immanence and launches into unauthorized transcendence, this passage calls me to believe in a reality I cannot see yet. Without spiritual reality, our situation would be hopeless. I must believe: God, who is invisible, really exists; that his heaven is real, and that it is filled with his angels; that those angels have business on earth; that that business has to do with other, dark spiritual forces; that my life is hidden with Christ in God; and that God is present, and that Christ and the Spirit dwell with us always.

When our immanent circumstances overwhelm us and we can see no way out, the Gospel tells us that God is stronger than our problems, wiser than our adversaries, and richer than our deprivations. We have to listen to the Gospel’s message that even suffering works to build and eternal weight of glory for us, that death itself—the last immanent experience—is not the last experience. We have to believe that Jesus is coming back, though we do not see it yet. If chariots of fire do not now surround our surrounding foes, they one day will, and we will be delivered.

I have to address the way this story in II Kings ends—very un-Old Testament. God answers Elisha’s prayer to blind the Syrian army, and somehow, Elisha manages to lead them to Samaria where, apparently, the king of Israel waits. There, he says something hilarious:

“My father, shall I kill them? Shall I kill them?”

You get the senses that he’s freaking out, excited that a massive contingent of his enemy’s army has been delivered helpless into his hands. He sounds like a little girl who has just seen a fluffy puppy: “Can I pet it? Can I pet it?”

Elisha’s response is incredible:

“You shall not kill them.”

Stop. This is the Old Testament, right? Shouldn’t you tell the king to cut them with saws and sharp instruments (I Chronicles 20:3), or to kill them and go murder their womenfolk, children, dogs, cats, and grandmothers (I Samuel 15:3)?

“You shall not kill them.”

“What?”

“Would you kill those you have taken captive with your sword and with your bow? Set bread and water before them, that they may eat and drink and go to their master.”

“What!”

The next verse (23) says, “So he prepared a great feast for them; and when they had eaten and drunk, he sent them away, and they went to their master. And the marauding bands of Syria did not come again into the land of Israel.”

As far as endings go, this one is anticlimactically—and hilariously—happy.

Postscript: Immanent and Transcendent Violence

The issue of violence is crucial for everyone, especially when it comes to worldviews and values. Violence has always been caught in the tug-of-war between immanence and transcendence. Human history and texts like the Bible prove that violence has always had to do with religion; the 20th Century proves conclusively that it has just as much to do with irreligion and secularism. This tells me violence is neither religious nor secular: it is human. What does your worldview say about violence, then, and what resources does it give you to deal with it?

Thankfully, a vast contingent of human society is categorically against violence and bloodshed, and, in their own way, perhaps all people are. Unfortunately, violence  is nearly (if not absolutely) universal, and the response to it consists usually of more violence.

If you are a Christian, you have to deal with the fact that God commands and inflicts violence in both Testaments (even though you know the heart of your faith is God’s refusing to use violence and rather suffering it unto death for the sake of peace–the cross). The violence in the OT is particularly distressing, and many people use it as occasion to dismiss the faith. I think such an objection to violence in general is commendable. However, I would ask, if you think you’ve avoided it here, how do you expect to avoid it elsewhere? I mean, if you reject this history, which history will essentially and effectively free you from violence? Naturalism and evolution? Sorry. Even if you buy the zen bonobo, Pax Pleistocene history, even that rosy age was brief, and as soon as agriculture came around, humans turned from using their clubs on tapirs and tigers to each other.

Is violence at the heart of Christianity? Yes. But keep in mind, “Thou shalt not murder.” How could it be then? First of all, Judaism and Christianity say violence is at the heart of human nature. In Scripture, the first brothers on the planet, Cain and Abel, prove it. Is God ever violent against humanity? Yes. But why? I think, if you investigate, you’ll soon see and find something you may not have expected. Has God’s attitude towards violence or his stance on human violence ever changed? His use of it seems to have changed. And this is one of the things that make Christianity unique among the great world religions.

God flooded the earth violently to kill every one but Noah and his family; Genesis 3-9 (4 and 6 in particular) shows why. The rest of the Old Testament shows God using violence and commanding people to use violence. But right after the flood, he indicates a progressive change in his and our use of it.

For the first time, God’s explicit interdiction against murder is explicit in revelation: “Whoever sheds man’s blood,/By man his blood shall be shed,/For in the image of God He made man” (Genesis 9:6).

And then he gives the rainbow: God’s promise that he will never annihilate humanity with a flood again. But in addition to being a reminder, it also indicates how justice would make this possible. I used to associate the “bow” in “rainbow” with the frilly things you wrap around presents and which girls tie in their hair. Of course, to an ancient audience (and perhaps to most people—more sensible than I) the “bow” refers to a bow of war, as in bow and arrow. I’m sure he wasn’t the first to do so, but Spurgeon points out (which I caught via Tim Keller) that the bow points up—not at earth, but at heaven.

When God married immanence and transcendence in the incarnation, he did it to show us what a righteous man looked like and to solve the problem of violence, both transcendent and immanent violence. For our rebellion, for our murders, for our wars, for our genocides, we deserve flood and fire. And individually, participants in Satan’s war against God via Adam, we deserve God’s violence. In the incarnation, however, he smote His Son instead of us. And because He died in our place, he cancelled our sentence; and because He rose from death, He made available to us His life and His peace, His shalom. In the crucifixion, God condemns human violence. Violence is His prerogative, and, mysteriously, He poured it out on himself. On us, he pours out mercy. Though there won’t be another flood, the New Testament tells us that fire is coming. But God made us an ark–Christ; in Him, we have free passage

Until we enjoy the full fruit of Christ’s resurrection in heaven, we must live in a world full of violence. God’s transcendence, revealed in scripture, is a resource to us. He surrounds our enemies with chariots of fire. He tells us to leave vengeance to him (Romans 12:19–also, the epigraph to Anna Karenina). Though we were his enemies, and surrounded him with the Romans and the Pharisees, he vanquished us by letting us slay him. But once he pulled the wool over our eyes (and his archenemy the devil) and led us away, instead of killing us with swords and bows, he prepared a great feast for us and returned us to our Master.

The immanent world is a history of violence and a faint promise of peace, but the transcendence of the Gospel promises that God causes all things to work together for good for those that love him. Until then, He, in the person of Christ and in the power of the Holy Spirit, gives us the resources to be properly incarnated, peaceful people.

For more on violence check out C.S. Lewis’s essay, “Why I Am Not A Pacifist,” and Derek Webb’s song, “My Enemies Are Men Like Me.”