In Pentecostal
worship, my Reformed theology finds its groove
James K. A. Smith
It can be a little intimidating in a Reformed
context to admit that one is Pentecostal. It's a bit like being at the ballet
and letting it slip that you're partial to NASCAR and country music. Both
claims tend to clear a room. And yet I happily define myself as a Reformed
charismatic, a Pentecostal Calvinist.
It's been said that testimony is the poetry of Pentecostal
experience, so permit me to begin with a personal poem to provide some
background. I wasn't raised in the church; rather, I was quite
"miraculously saved" the day after my 18th birthday through my
girlfriend (now wife!), who was doing a little missionary dating. I
received my
earliest formation among the Plymouth Brethren, in a sector that defined itself
as anti-Pentecostal and took a certain pride in knowing that the
"miraculous" gifts had ceased to function with the death of the last
apostle. Through a path that is convoluted and riddled with hurts, our
spiritual pilgrimage eventually took us across the threshold of a Pentecostal
church where we were welcomed, embraced, and transformed.
There, in that Pentecostal church in Stratford, Ontario—once
home to Aimee Semple McPherson—God showed up. Encountering him in ways I hadn't
experienced or imagined before, God shook my intellectual framework and rattled
my spiritual cage at the same time.
But let me add one more layer to this story: Just as I was being
immersed in the Spirit's activity and presence in Pentecostal spirituality and
worship, I started a master's degree in philosophical theology at the Institute
for Christian Studies, a graduate school in the Dutch Reformed tradition at the
University of Toronto. So my week looked a bit odd: Monday
to Friday I was immersed in the intellectual resources of the Reformed
tradition, diving into the works of Calvin, Kuyper, and Dooyeweerd.
Then on Sunday we'd show up at the Pentecostal church where, to
be honest, things got pretty crazy sometimes. It was a long way from Toronto to Stratford, if
you know what I mean—about the same distance from Geneva to Azusa Street.
For a lot of folks, that must sound like trying to inhabit two
different space-time continuums. But I never experienced much tension between
these worlds. Of course, my church and academic world didn't bump into one
another. Dooyeweerd and Jack Hayford don't often cross paths. But in a way, I
felt that they met in me—and they seemed to fit. I experienced a deep
resonance between the two. In fact, I
would suggest that being charismatic actually makes me a better Calvinist; my
being Pentecostal is actually a way for me to be more Reformed.
Sovereignty and Surprise
Reformed folks praise, value, honor, and make central the
sovereignty of God. The theological giants of the Reformed tradition—Calvin,
Edwards, Kuyper, and others—have put God's sovereignty at the center and heart
of a Reformed "world- and life-view." God is the Lord of the cosmos;
God is free from having to meet our expectations; God is sovereign in his
election of the people of God.
I think there is an interesting way in which Pentecostals live
out a spirituality that takes that sovereignty really, really seriously. In
particular, I think Pentecostal spirituality and charismatic worship take the
sovereignty of God so seriously that you might actually be surprised
by God every once in a while. You are open and expectant that the Spirit of God
is sometimes going to surprise you, because God is free to act in ways that
might differ from your set of expectations.
We can see this right in the DNA of the church. The church,
you'll remember, is "genetically" Pentecostal. The birthplace of the
church is Pentecost, at which some pretty strange stuff happened, strange
enough that others didn't know what to make of it and so concluded that the
apostles were drunk. But what I find really interesting about Pentecost is not
just that St. Peter participated in the surprise of the Spirit, but that he had
the courage to stand up and essentially say, "This is what the Spirit was
talking about" (Acts 2:16). Peter was open enough to God doing something
new and different that in the face of the madness that was Pentecost Sunday, he
could boldly proclaim, "This is God!" When Jesus ascended and
promised the Spirit, I don't imagine the disciples expected the scene that
unfolded at Pentecost. And yet Peter exhibits openness to God surprising our
expectations.
The heart and soul of that
Pentecostal spirituality is not the manifestations, but rather the courage and
openness to see God in those unexpected manifestations, and to say,
"This is what the Spirit promised."
That means acknowledging God's sovereignty in worship in ways
that have to be learned. I think most Reformed folk have learned habits of
worship that effectively constrain the sovereignty of God by adopting highly
defined and narrow expectations of the Spirit's operations. I long for a kind
of "Pentecostalized" Reformed spirituality that expects the sovereign
Lord to show up in ways that might surprise us. If we take our Reformed
convictions about God's sovereignty seriously, then we can, with Peter, be
boldly open to the Spirit's surprise. We need not immediately kick back in fear
at what might sometimes appear to be the madness of Pentecost, but can have the
courage to say the Spirit is at work.
I think that's exactly the sensibility embodied by Jonathan
Edwards, America's
greatest theologian. While presenting labyrinthine theological sermons in
monotone from his pulpit, the Puritan preacher witnessed strange
manifestations, convulsing bodies, and shouts and yelps among his congregants.
But Edwards the Reformed theologian was discerning enough not to write this
off, but to say, "There's something of the Spirit in this." In
Pentecostal spirituality, the Calvinist conviction about the sovereignty of God
is extended to worship in a way that makes us open to and even expectant of the
sovereign Lord surprising us.
The Goodness of Embodiment
Reformed folk, particularly in the Dutch tradition of Kuyper and
Dooyeweerd, often emphasize the "goodness of creation"— that God
created a material universe that he pronounced "very good" (Gen.
1:31). And although it is fallen, God is redeeming this world, not redeeming us
out of it. An important piece of that affirmation is the goodness of
embodiment—the goodness of the stuff we bump into, the bodies we inhabit.
But that's precisely why I've always found it a bit strange that
Reformed worship so often treats human beings as if we're brains-on-a-stick.
All week long we talk about how good creation is, how good embodiment is. But then we have habits of worship that
merely deposit great ideas in our heads, making us rather cerebral disciples.
Despite all our talk about the goodness of creation and embodiment, in Reformed
worship the body doesn't show up that much.
Pentecostals, on the other
hand, embody their spirituality. I would argue that Pentecostal
worship is the extension of the Reformed intuition about the goodness of
creation and the goodness of embodiment. We can see this in just a few
examples.
First, Pentecostals believe in healing—and they don't mean only
"spiritual" healing. They think physical healing is part of what the
Cross accomplished. God doesn't want to just save your soul; God also cares
about your body. The Pentecostal emphasis on the healing of the body is an
affirmation of the goodness of embodiment.
Second, Pentecostals use their whole bodies in worship.
Pentecostal worship can get a little messy; indeed, sometimes there are bodies
everywhere! I can still remember the first time I ever raised my hands in
worship—there in that Pentecostal church in Stratford. Tentatively and awkwardly raising
your arms, hands trembling, you feel like an idiot—and, of course, that's
precisely the point. To be in a position with hands outstretched, or prostrate
on the floor, is to be in a position of vulnerability and humility. And that
can be an especially powerful spiritual discipline for Reformed Christians, who
are probably prone to a certain staid confidence in our intellectual prowess
and doctrinal precision. I thank God for those practices of embodied
humiliation that are part and parcel of Pentecostal worship; they were exactly
the counterweight I needed as a young Reformed philosopher. But they were also
fleshing out the theories I was absorbing.
There is a third sense in which Pentecostals enact the Reformed
affirmation of embodiment: It's in touch. When Pentecostals pray for
one another, we touch one another. We lay hands on our sister or
brother. Pentecostal worship always involves dedicated periods of
prayer—"altar time"—that bring together the people of God with hands
clasped, embraced in prayer, laying hands in hope. Faith, hope, and love are
channeled and charged when the community expresses itself in that kind of
touch.
Because Pentecostals live out the Reformed affirmation of both
the sovereignty of God and the goodness of embodiment, I don't experience much
tension between these core aspects of Reformed identity and Pentecostal
spirituality.
The explosion of the Spirit's work in world Christianity reminds
us that the church's DNA is Pentecostal. It is important for Reformed
Christians to not be scared of that, and in fact, to see in it an invitation of
the Spirit to live out the Reformed intuitions we talk about all the time.
James K. A. Smith teaches philosophy at Calvin College in
Grand Rapids, Michigan.
His book Thinking in Tongues: Elements of a Pentecostal Worldview will
be published next year by Eerdmans.
Copyright © 2008 Christianity Today.
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