Has Anybody Seen ‘Erape’? (Part I)

If those invisible rebel spirits of the lower world should suddenly reorganize as socialist legions, and if one materialistic demon then were specially assigned to our world and charged to subvert the Christian churches, what strategy would he use? What ideas and ideals, what particular goals, would best advance his collectivistic cause?

Should this query seem amusing, perhaps even ludicrous, it need not therefore be irrelevant. A bit of disciplined imagination, in fact, may prove highly instructive in appraising Protestant social welfare programs.

A SPECTACLE OF LOVE

Let us call this particular demon Erape (a hybrid of eros and agape—a double dash of “love” as it were). Since Erape arrives as a spirit of love, anyone who dares to dispute his claims would face an immediate handicap of seeming to scorn love or to condone lovelessness. (Strategically, the Erape-label would excel Agros as a mark of identification, since [being three-fifths ag ape] it implies honor for the biblical view, although giving priority really [Erape] to speculative traditions. Forwards or backwards, however, Erape spells socialism on the move.)

In courting Christians, Erape’s major obstacle would be their attachment to the notion that Christ’s Church has been commissioned for a specific world task, evangelism and missions (Matt. 28:19, 20). This Christian preoccupation would be weakened, of course, could one discredit the Gospel as the message of “supernatural redemption from sin.” With one eye on evolutionary theory, and the other closed to “salvation by atonement,” liberal theologians professed to find in Jesus’ teaching a “social” exposition of the kingdom of God. “Real core” Christianity was equated with the Master’s teaching about “sacrifice,” while the substitutionary quality of his life and death was obscured. The “good news” lost its ancient soul and from rational secularism gained a modern mascara. The churches were then easily drawn to a new world mission. But critical theories no longer convincingly effect a revision of Christian supernaturalism. The “social gospel” no longer sparkles with John Dewey’s enthusiasm over the efficacy of environmental changes to remake human nature.

Since Erape’s interest lies mainly in economic secularism, and not in redemptive religion, his influence would register most fully were the churches encouraged to separate their financial vision and investment from their spiritual mission—that is, were they no longer to identify their stewardship overtly nor symbolically with the divine revelation of redemption. Charity would then cease to be a commentary on the Gospel, since it would no longer reflect to others the believer’s own unmerited participation in “the redemptive grace of God.” Instead of its performance truly “in Christ’s name,” social welfare activity would then become simply an appendage to the Gospel. This ambiguous relation of charity with redemptive love (agape) would also weaken its connection with supernatural justice and justification. In short order, charity could thereafter gain a relatively independent status, and merely secular considerations could soon govern public welfare activities.

This separation could be furthered by arguing that modern life requires new economic principles not comprehended in biblical religion and that neither the temporal ethical rules nor permanent precepts of the Bible provide formulas appropriate to our modern economic situation. The Industrial Revolution (and especially automation), it might be held, has so changed modern conditions, that one can no longer expect from biblical ethics answers to contemporary social problems differing in kind. This emphasis even seems to take modern history “more seriously” than those who gauge the differences simply as a matter of “degree,” and therefore hold that sociological changes, however extensive, do not contravene controlling biblical premises applicable still to the whole of life. The newer emphasis, that the Bible relates to only part of our social predicament, is soon combined with another: that failure to accept modern social theories in dealing with mass situations not only impairs the relevance of Christian ethics, but imperils the Christian religion itself!

Even after gaining a status independent of revealed theology and ethics, welfare work would nonetheless retain a modicum of Christian devotion because of the inherited and almost intuitive generosity of the Christian community. If enthusiasm flickers momentarily because the fires of religious particularism now burn low, the Church’s enlarging participation in cooperative community programs of benevolence should soon revive the glow, until finally the Christian community experiences the warmth of a merely humanistic social vision. Mounting support for community chest and other civic programs might provide a psychological transition for the ultimate use of all church benevolences for general purposes. In the one world of “togetherness” Christian brotherhood will politely assume its place within the larger brotherhood of the human race without raising provocative and ungentlemanly distinctions.

REVISING THE CHURCH’S TASK

Sooner or later, however, the reaffirmation of evangelism, rather than of direct social change as the immediate responsibility of the Church, may stifle ecclesiastical enthusiasm. In order really to carry the day, Erape must therefore popularize the notion that secular welfare rather than spiritual regeneration is the very heartbeat of the Christian mission. This exchange of mission calls for more than merely altering the nature of Christian charity. It requires the substituted notion that the economic imbalances of society are inherently sinful, that it is wrong for one person to have less than another, and that it is wicked for some people to have more than others. Of course all people believe in democracy; hence, economic democracy! The thesis that Christian love requires the human leveling of material possessions therefore supplies Erape’s strategic propaganda weapon.

How may this economic doctrine be introduced most compellingly? By stressing that poverty is obviously an evil, and by citing cases of destitution that—in the post-Christian era—would stir even a pagan conscience. Next, churches are called to condemn, not only the misuse of riches and the exploitation and neglect of the poor, but the very idea of economic disproportion. The clergy are urged to badger the wealthy into sharing their possessions voluntarily with the poor, or to promote the multiplication of their tax burdens as a means of involuntary equalization.

To establish this economic mission as legitimate and as indispensable, a ringing appeal is made to the “social indignation” of the ancient prophets, and then—to vindicate the details—a further appeal is made to “modern social insights.” The prophets assuredly were concerned about man’s exploitation and neglect of the poor; they stressed that wealth is a divine entrustment to be responsibly used; they even implied God’s special awareness of the needy (the rich so often think they are self-sufficient). The Old Testament clearly teaches love for neighbor, and Jesus lifted love for stranger, even for enemy, to new importance. There are prophetic warnings against plundering the poor (cf. Isa. 3:14, 15), apostolic judgments against the oppressive rich (cf. James 5:1–6), biblical denunciations of social injustice. And although they nowhere espouse equalization of possessions, or community of property, as a divine ideal, the sacred writers are invoked propagandawise to provide leverage for modern redistribution of wealth. A ministry to the poor that levels earthly riches, while neglecting the supernatural gifts of revealed religion is thereby advanced as a Christian economic duty.

WHAT OF THE HERITAGE?

Any attempt to vindicate the universal elimination of poverty as an authentic Christian mission indubitably faces troublesome obstacles in the biblical data. The first century Jew is not the problem; like some twentieth century Gentiles, he had become possession-minded, and interpreted personal poverty as implying God’s rejection, and personal riches as implying God’s special favor. Hence it seemed incredible to him that Jesus actually addressed “good news” to the poor. It would, of course, be easy for us, though unjustifiable, to distort Jesus’ words, “The poor ye have always with you” (John 12:8), into a controlling principle to justify social indifference to material needs—although the statement indicates that poverty is part of the risk, if not of the structure, of our present state of life. Yet the Gospel was not essentially a message of economic readjustments. Jesus’ own acts and deeds imply that universal elimination of poverty is an objective extraneous to the Christian mission.

For one thing, the disciples of Christ gained no reputation for handouts of their material belongings and redistribution of wealth. Jesus assuredly fed the five thousand, but he expressly repudiated the multitude’s clamor for a bread-and-butter ruler. Instead, he identified himself as “the Living Bread,” that is, as the Redeemer who assuages man’s spiritual hunger. Nor do the Gospels depict Jesus as preoccupied with physical wants of the poor. He did, indeed, heal the sick and raise the dead—but only a few, comparatively speaking (cf. John 5:3, 8), and these only in connection with forgiveness of sins. He gave alms to the needy, and that consistently—but it would be difficult even for many good Bible students to supply chapter and verse to support the fact. So unobtrusive were his gifts to the poor (he would instruct Judas on occasion to reach into the moneybag and contribute to some needy person) that the fact itself stands only in the shadows of the record. On one occasion, the disciples mistakenly think he is aiding the poor, and from this misreading of his intentions we learn of his custom (John 13:27–29). The sacred records reveal Jesus’ almsgiving to the needy as voluntary and private, in contrast with that ostentatious almsgiving of the Pharisees condemned in his Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 6:1–4), and they simply leave us to infer that he made frequent distributions to the poor. Equally important, they nowhere erect the redistribution of wealth into a motif of Jesus’ ministry.

To ground an “equalize the wealth program” in the example of the apostles is fully as difficult. The so-called “communist experiment” in Acts—apart from the fact of its failure—was voluntary. It sought to implement a spiritual ministry, not the universal leveling of individual belongings. Nowhere do the apostolic letters view equality of possessions as something non-Christians have a right to expect; nowhere do they enjoin Christians to demand from society the communizing of property. As the apostolic age opens, Peter, in the company of John the apostle of love, greets the long-crippled beggar seeking charity at the temple gate with these words: “Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee: in the name of Jesus of Nazareth rise up and walk” (Acts 3:6). Although the memory of Jesus’ words, “It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35), rings fresh in their minds, the apostles nowhere recall any doctrine that riches are wicked and that elimination of economic inequalities is a primary, indispensable, or authentic task of the Church.

THE BIBLE AND ECONOMIC VICES

The Bible grades as vices all inordinate use of riches, exploitation of the poor, and indifference to destitution (privation which reduces men to hunger and beggary). But neither man’s possession of wealth nor the predicament of poverty is viewed as intrinsically sinful. Doubtless many of the Church Fathers view riches with suspicion. They regard the wealthy as spiritually obliged to justify their use of their possessions, and they criticize luxury or extravagance beyond one’s station in life. Although viewing the rich as under special moral and spiritual obligation, neither the Bible nor Christian tradition condemns riches as such, and neither supports equality of wealth or of income as an ethical ideal.

The fact, moreover, that Jesus Christ in his advent renounced “the riches of glory” voluntarily to become poor for our sakes held striking fascination for the Middle Ages. Instead of the modern notion that wealth is wicked, however, this great drama yielded the medieval discovery that poverty can mediate special spiritual values. The Church Fathers regarded poverty as within God’s particular providence, as covered by special promises of divine solicitude, and as carrying both possibilities of eternal reward in the future (recall the Communist caricature of “pie in the sky”) and of spiritual consolations and compensations in this present life. These spiritual rewards were not simply negative benefits—such as the poor man’s freedom (alongside his exposure to the sin of covetousness which he shares with the wealthy) from the temptations peculiar to the rich (recall 1 Tim. 6:10 on the love of money, and the numerous passages on greed). Jesus’ beatitudes, “Blessed are the poor … Blessed are the poor in spirit,” if not suggesting actual virtue in poverty, at least imply its contribution toward a virtuous attitude more difficult of attainment in the climate of abundance.

Modern churchmen may scorn the idea of “holy poverty in an opulent society,” but the Middle Ages did not hold poverty in such contempt. Indeed, Christian leaders found spiritual value not simply in involuntary poverty, but even in voluntary poverty. Doubtless medieval ecclesiasticism carried its vindication of the propriety and spirituality of poverty to unjustifiable extremes, at times seeming to idealize poverty as a state, but it avoided the fallacious modern equation of poverty with sin.

This strangely unmodern view of poverty did not imply, however, that biblical religion regards the plight of the destitute with indifference nor that it silently condones the sins of the wealthy. Indebted to the biblical outlook, the Middle Ages came to view benevolences to the poor as a loan to the Lord. The rich, moreover, were obligated to justify spiritually, by way of accounting to the Lord, both their possessions and their use of wealth. The rich are stewards, guardians of God’s wealth, especially in relation to the poor, particularly to brethren in Christ. While the Bible views poverty neither as a blessing nor an evil, it commends relief of poverty as a virtue, and deplores indifference to destitution as a vice.

MATERIALISM AND MODERN DISCONTENTS

Before the influence of Karl Marx and John Dewey, who shared the romantic notion that human nature can be intrinsically revised by environmental changes, the modern Christian movement reflected the traditional understanding of its mission in economic affairs. Universal removal of poverty was no announced objective of the corporate Church. The doctrine of redistribution of wealth as a social imperative was not part of the biblical heritage. Was not Job the richest man of his day? Although Eliphaz rebukes Job for economic injustices to others, none of his philosopher “friends” traces his affliction to a failure to level his wealth. Were not Abraham, Jacob, Solomon, and David wealthy, and does not the Scripture say that God loved them? Nor do the Christian writings advocate or look for the effectual elimination of poverty in the present course of history. In fact, poverty was not, as by Marx, regarded as immoral. The modern condemnation of riches and of poverty depends upon a prior assumption of an ideal equality of possessions which historic Christianity does not share. It is part and parcel of a philosophy of “equality of condition” that any sound Christian theology must recognize as working inevitably, through its radical alterations, a great injustice upon society. For the spiritual vision of righteousness and redemption sustained by the Christian religion, it substitutes the illusion of a terrestrial Utopia, nourished by the dream of universal prosperity, and promoted by material means and earthly weapons. Seldom, if ever, is the warning of the Christian moralists heard that “the world is too much with us” and that, virtuous as it is to satisfy legitimate needs, it is also virtuous to reduce our wants. Equally, it betrays an unspiritual philosophy of possessions, one sure to arouse man’s desire for material possessions by catering to the false notion that true happiness lies in a stipulated quantity of things. Contemporary American life, in which the scope of poverty is much reduced, bears full testimony by its personal discontents—its drunkards, divorcees, drug addicts, and neurotics—that plenty no less than poverty corrupts the spirit in the absence of a spiritual vision of life. In these dimensions, the prevalent philosophy of poverty serves to inflame the passions of avarice, and its implication that no life can be blessed in the absence of a proportionate share of this world’s goods makes a basic concession to materialistic views of life.

Dr. Russell Kirk, editor of Modern Age, recently remarked—and with pointed relevance—that no era has held poverty in more contempt than ours, and that the twentieth century, having discarded the decency and respectability of poverty, has sought to abolish it. Needless to say, it has sought to abolish wealth also. Both “leveling” movements—although sometimes piously promoted under the canopy of “Christian social ethics”—may well prove destructive of Christian charity also.

CHRISTIANITY AND CHARITY

Does Christian charity then idealize poverty, and does it then regard human suffering and pain with indifference? The total impact of Christian humanitarianism through two thousand years condemns the thought. From the beginning the Christian churches have distributed material alms as a function of the churches, and devout leaders in all ages have emphasized that not only do the needy suffer, but the Church herself declines spiritually whenever this responsibility is neglected. Whoever would impugn Christian missions and extol Communist revolution is blind to the past history of the West and to the signs of our age. If anything characterizes Christianity but not communism, as Evangelist Bob Pierce often reminds Christians throughout the Orient, it is compassion. In the Western world today, welfare work is carried on in larger proportion than in any earlier age; in a sense, ours is the century of philanthropy. Whatever may be said of the method and motive of modern almsgiving, there can be little doubt but that its historic inspiration and impetus have come mainly through the evangelical Christian religion.

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