Unraptured

by Zack Hunt

  Of course, we all have preconceived ideas about what Jesus taught, preached, and stood for that come into play too. In our telling of the gospel, Jesus often believes all the things we believe and despises all the people we despise. Which is why we need help keeping our preconceived ideas and biases in check so that as we go about reading the Bible and trying to understand what is being said, we always remain focused on love, just as Jesus was. It is to this end that Augustine steps in to be our guide as we interpret Scripture with his hermeneutic of love. Augustine challenges us to stop and ask ourselves whether the meaning we settle on is worthy of the One who loved so much that he gave up his life to save those who didn’t love him back. Or are we so focused on being right and using the Bible as a weapon to attack and destroy our enemies that we don’t really care about finding a meaning worthy of the God we claim to follow? Too often the answer is yes.

  For centuries the Bible has been used to harm and oppress our neighbors in the name of God. Some 150 years ago, white Christian preachers in the American South had a litany of proof texts to justify slavery. They only cared about the literal words on the page, because diving any deeper into Scripture would have forced them to confront the fact that loving our neighbors means we can’t enslave them, even if we have a Bible verse we think lets us do just that. During the Jim Crow era, the Bible was again used to keep races separated, condemn people in mixed-race marriages, and sanctify discrimination against anyone who wasn’t white. In more recent years, the Bible has been used in a renewed effort to demonize the LGBT community, cast all Muslims as demonic forces, and ostracize immigrants and refugees. We’ve always needed a hermeneutic of love for reading the Bible, but as our list of “enemies” seems to grow, perhaps we need it now more than ever.

  The great thing about this old, new hermeneutic is that it doesn’t require an advanced degree. It certainly doesn’t replace traditional biblical scholarship, but most of us don’t have PhDs in biblical studies. And yet we still have to wrestle with difficult passages in Scripture. As we do that, a hermeneutic of love challenges us to continually ask ourselves this: Does the meaning I think I’ve found in a particular passage or verse lead me to love God and my neighbors? By leaning on the teachings of Jesus himself, Augustine and Origen give us a hermeneutic of love that not only teaches us how to read and apply the Bible better but also helps us discover in the mysterious imagery of Revelation a meaning worthy of God.

  8

  Mill Creek

  Some of my best childhood memories were made on Wimpole Drive, the street where I spent several of my most formative years. Our house was in the perfect location. The neighborhood was less than ten minutes from downtown Nashville and the church we attended. The main road running outside our neighborhood was lined with restaurants that everyone from church seemed to eat at on Sunday afternoons after church let out. Best of all for me, my grandparents, who liked to spoil me rotten, lived in the neighborhood right next to ours.

  The neighborhood itself was rather quiet. A blue-collar community, its streets were lined with modest, ranch-style brick houses. We lived in one, and my best friend, Chad, and his family lived next door. Behind both our houses ran the peaceful waters of Mill Creek.

  Mill Creek was bigger than your typical creek, more like a small river. I can’t even begin to count how many hours Chad and I spent exploring its waters and the surrounding woods. We’d fish for what seemed like days, catching mostly small brim, although to us they might as well have been giant marlin. All the bait we needed was right there in the creek, waiting for us in the form of what was then an abundant supply of crayfish. In college I learned it was actually an endangered species called the Nashville crayfish that’s indigenous to Mill Creek. I can’t help but think we bear no small amount of blame for its endangered species status. I’m really sorry about that one, Planet Earth.

  But for as much fun as we had exploring and playing in its peaceful waters, Mill Creek had a darker side. It flooded. A lot. Whenever the forecast called for rain, we made sure to keep a close eye on the creek. And whenever the forecast called for a lot of rain, we made sure to pack a suitcase. Our fears weren’t unfounded. When it poured, Mill Creek very quickly turned into a raging torrent. And when it did, my mother always told me the story of two guys she knew in college who tried to kayak the creek while it was at flood stage. They were never seen again. As a kid, I always thought it was nothing more than a boogeyman story meant to scare us into behaving. But it wasn’t. One visit to Mill Creek during flood stage should have told me that.

  Even though my backyard sat a good ten feet up from the creek, it was little protection. A day or two of rain was enough to raise Mill Creek to the level of our backyard, which was even worse for Chad because his yard sat a foot or two lower than ours. A small drainage ditch that diverted neighborhood runoff into the creek also ran next to his house, which meant their garage and most of his backyard flooded constantly.

  When it did flood, it happened in the blink of an eye. That’s why we always had to have our bags packed. If the creek rose even a little bit over its banks, our tabletop flat backyards ensured our houses would quickly flood. Yet despite the constant flooding and near misses, my family managed to avoid the worst of it. The same can’t be said for Chad’s grandparents, who moved into his house when he and his parents moved to Oklahoma, and witnessed devastating destruction to their home during the great Nashville flood of 2010. I was living in Memphis at the time, but I watched it all play out on the news and through constant updates from my family, who still lived in the area, having moved into my grandparents’ house in the adjoining neighborhood when my grandmother moved out.

  The local meteorologists called it a thousand-year flood. It was unlike anything Nashville had ever seen and probably will ever see again, at least in my lifetime. More than a foot of rain fell in the Nashville area in just forty-eight hours. The Cumberland River that runs through downtown Nashville burst its banks and flooded several blocks of downtown, including a storage facility used by several Nashville musicians, who saw their guitars and equipment, for some their entire livelihood, destroyed.

  Further upriver, the Cumberland flooded a popular mall and the luxury Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center that stands next door. Water rose at least two feet high in the mall, and rumors spread that the aquariums in the aptly named Aquarium Restaurant had burst and that sharks were swimming the corridors where shoppers once roamed. Water got high enough in the hotel that its occupants had to be evacuated and ended up spending the night in the gym of a nearby high school.

  Mill Creek, of course, flooded too. Worse than it ever had before. I’ll never forget the picture of Interstate 24 where it crosses Mill Creek just outside downtown Nashville. The water was so high all you could see were the tops of cars that had been trapped in the rising water. A portable classroom from a local school had been lifted off its foundations and was floating down the interstate.

  The flooding on Wimpole Drive was just as catastrophic. My parents, along with several of our friends and family, rushed over to help Chad’s grandparents evacuate from their house. They worked to save as much as they could, but there was little they could do. Chad’s grandparents made it out okay, but the creek that usually just soaked the backyard and floor of the garage nearly covered their entire house that day. The floodwaters rose all the way up to the roof. Remember how I told you how we packed our bags whenever there was the threat of heavy rain in case we had to flee quickly? That wasn’t hyperbole. The water rose so fast that day that my mom’s car was completely flooded even though it was parked on the other side of Wimpole Drive, a good distance away from the creek. She and several others who were helping Chad’s grandparents evacuate had parked there thinking their cars would be safe because the creek had never come anywhere close to rising that high before. But it did that day.

  More than two dozen lives were lost as the result of the flood. Countless homes and businesses were destroyed. The city of Nashville e
ventually dried out, but the memory of those days are seared into the town’s collective memory for generations to come.

  Chaotic waters

  Flood stories tragically play themselves out around the world every year, as they have throughout human history. From the yearly monsoon rains in India to the annual flooding of the Mississippi, from the devastation of Hurricane Katrina to the mythical global flood of Noah’s day, the devastating force of water has played a powerful role in the lives and imaginations of people of all places, times, and beliefs.

  This was certainly true for people living along the Mediterranean Sea in the first century, and for the apostle John when he was exiled on an island there when he had his famous revelation. The people living along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea two thousand years ago knew just how deceptive and dangerous its sparkling blue waters could be. The countless wrecks that now litter its seabed are an eternal testament to how easily the waters of the Mediterranean Sea can turn dark and stormy, destroying lives and livelihoods.

  The same was true of the Black Sea, the great body of water not too far north of Patmos, where some scholars think the story of Noah might have originated. Whether the story of Noah has its roots there or not, similar stories of destruction could be told about any major body of water anywhere in the ancient world. From the Jordan to the Nile and everywhere in between, storms, floodwaters, and even pirates were a constant threat to life on the rivers or open sea.

  It should come as no surprise, then, that water became a powerful image in ancient literature, including the Bible and the book of Revelation. The sea, in particular, became an iconic image of power, destruction, and chaos throughout the entire Old and New Testaments. The story of creation begins with God hovering over the dark chaotic waters at the dawn of time. Just a few chapters later, the world is covered in a catastrophic global flood. As the children of Israel flee Egypt, they find themselves trapped between Pharaoh’s army on one side and a foreboding sea on the other. Forty years later, another body of water, the Jordan River, stands between them and the Promised Land. In Job, the power of God is displayed in God’s control over the raging seas and the terrifying monsters that dwell in their waters. Jonah is famously cast overboard in the midst of a storm, in hopes of calming the chaotic waters. In the Gospels, Jesus and his terrified disciples find themselves adrift in stormy seas. And while on one of his many mission trips, Paul encountered a storm that left him shipwrecked.

  Water gives life. But in the ancient world, water in the form of oceans and seas, rivers and lakes was also a symbol of chaos and destruction. It’s no accident, then, to see that image appear over and over again in the pages of the Bible. But it’s not there to simply reinforce the fear of stormy seas and raging rivers. The people of God already knew that fear well. The biblical writers also used water to confront that fear with hope.

  The disciples were terrified, alone in a storm on the Sea of Galilee, until Jesus walked across the water, conquering the chaos and calming the storm. Jonah was cast overboard into the tempest only to be rescued by God in the most unlikely of ways. Job stood awestruck at the mighty power of God, but found peace in God’s healing grace. The Jordan River raged before the children of Israel until God intervened to let them cross into the Promised Land on dry ground. Before Joshua parted the river, Moses parted the sea, giving Israel not only a way to escape but a path to their future. The floodwaters of Noah’s day covered the entire earth, but God protected Noah and his family from death and destruction. The waters at the dawn of creation were dark and chaotic, but God ordered the chaos and brought from it life and everything we see around us.

  And at the end of all things, when there is a new heaven and a new earth because the former order has passed away and there is no more sea (Revelation 21:1), it’s not the beach we’re losing. It’s the pain and destruction, the loss and heartbreak that come from the chaotic waters. Chaotic water is an apocalyptic metaphor that John’s original audience would have easily understood. If we can understand that simple image too, we can begin to unlock the mystery of Revelation and rediscover the apocalyptic roots of the Christian faith.

  Deciphering the meaning of images like “no more sea” in Revelation is not an easy task. Revelation’s symbolism is so radically foreign to us today that it really shouldn’t come as a surprise to see some folks look at that imagery as a hidden code to be deciphered. But to approach it as a hidden code to be deciphered is to read Revelation as a literal text. To stay at the literal level of the text—to say, for example, that Revelation 21 claims that God is going to get rid of the ocean—is to completely miss the deeper spiritual truth that John is trying to reveal. That truth is wrapped up in apocalyptic imagery, symbolic language that functioned both to protect John from the power structures and authorities he was criticizing and to open up Revelation and allow it to become a text that can speak to the church throughout the ages, regardless of time or place. To accomplish both these tasks at the same time, John utilized the transcendent power of myth.

  Myth, history, and truth

  Myth has become something of a dirty word in the church, particularly in fundamentalist and dispensationalist circles that insist on reading every page of Scripture literally. But myth plays an important role throughout the Bible, and especially in Revelation. The problem we have today is that we have been conditioned to think of myth and history in contrasting terms. We’ve been taught to believe that in order for something to be true, it must be literal history. We say that myth, therefore, is not true because it did not take place literally in history. As a result, myth has become a synonym for “not true.” Dispensationalism, then, with its roots in fundamentalism, can’t embrace myth, because it is convinced that for something to be true, it must literally take place in history.

  You can see this conundrum in the evolution versus creation debate. While a literal six-day creationism has become de facto orthodoxy throughout much of American Christianity, the insistence on a literal reading of Genesis is a fairly new phenomenon. The insistence that Genesis had to be read literally arose in direct response to the perceived threats of Darwinism, which in the minds of many of Darwin’s day and many more still today, juxtaposed Genesis to science because in order for Genesis to be true it had to be literally and historically true. There was no space for the truth found in myth.

  You can certainly find literal readings of Genesis throughout the history of the church, but that’s not how it has always been read or how the Jewish tradition that wrote the story of creation demands it be read. In fact, the Jewish tradition that gave birth to Genesis has long read the creation account as myth. Likewise, as we saw before, the great church father Saint Augustine said way back in the fourth century that anyone who reads the creation account in Genesis literally is foolish for doing so. And yet both Augustine and the Jewish tradition regard Genesis as true. How can that be? The answer lies in liberating ourselves from the need for something to be literally or historically true in order for it to convey or contain truth. Myths can be true, whether or not they literally happened. Take the tale—or myth—of Chicken Little. Talking chickens don’t exist, but the truth of the story—that constant paranoia and overreaction can destroy your credibility, and that loss can have serious consequences—is true nonetheless.

  Not everything in the Bible is myth, of course. The Bible is made up of all sorts of genres of literature—from poetry to history to gospel to apocalyptic. But the Bible also takes advantage of the power of myth. Why? Because myths can convey transcendent truths that can be shaped and contextualized over time to better fit a particular context and yet still contain the same basic truth. Myths have a power to convey truth that literal events don’t always have. That’s what we see in the book of Genesis, both in the creation account and later on in the story of Noah. Both myths are borrowed from older stories in other cultures and have been shaped and contextualized to meet the needs of the biblical writers. Nevertheless, they are true, and true in the truest sense of the
word. They are true in the sense of the message they convey: that God is at work in the world, creating and caring for God’s people.

  Revelation is a book of myth. Dragons and plagues and multiheaded beasts populate the book. That doesn’t make it any less true, nor does it mean the things it speaks about won’t happen. It is, and they will. But it’s the truth behind those events that Revelation is trying to convey, not their literal happening in history.

  The myths of Revelation also play another important role: they subvert the myths of those in power, in this case, Rome. Much like the early church appropriated “Caesar is Lord” by saying instead “Jesus is Lord” in order to convey the truth, Revelation takes myths, sayings, and images known to its original audience and subverts them with new myths, sayings, and images. In doing so, Revelation sets up an alternative way of living, an alternative truth to that which was proclaimed by the empire.

  Whereas the empire conquered through violence and power, Revelation tells of a slaughtered lamb who conquers with the power of his word (Revelation 5). Whereas Rome told the myth of an all-powerful, perfect empire, Revelation tells the story of a beast rising out of the sea who is utterly flawed and destined for destruction (Revelation 13). Whereas the empire tells the myth of the Pax Romana, Revelation tells of peace for all, not just the elite, who always find a way for others to fight their battles for them (Revelation 21–22).

  Myth allows Revelation to tell the truth in proactive ways that capture the imagination. The drama in Revelation helps readers to not only remember the events of the book but also remain open to more than one dogmatic interpretation. The text of Revelation is alive, and is ever open to new interpretations in new contexts and historical settings. Such is the power of myth. It’s a power that apocalyptic literature like Revelation takes full advantage of, not just for the sake of dramatic storytelling or even to convey the truth but to serve as a call to action.