The Elder of Omaha

The Elder, with the publication of his book, On Giving My Word, is in transition. The focus of this blog now becomes the exposition and explanation of the book. Associated with his last book is an exploration of the systematic theology of Kathryn Tanner and deeper study of the Hebrew Text of the Book of the Prophet Isaiah. His hope is that this blog can contribute to a conversation about those things so crucial to finding community and purpose in a world in crisis.

The Devil and the Eikon of God

A Silent Retreat

I am sharing with you the outline of a retreat which I recently made with the thought that it will help to flesh it out. The retreat was occasioned by a Prosopon Icon Writing Workshop held at the Benedictine Center located near Schuyler Nebraska. It fell near the end of my annual observance of the Lent of St Michael which I have kept since 1992, subsequent to a visit to Alvernia. In addition, it was driven by my reading during that Lent of the works of The Rev. Dr. Gabriella Thomas, The Image of God in the Theology of Gregory of Nazianzus and The Problem of the Devil in Cappadocian Thought. To support my wife who wished to attend the workshop, I was faced with time at the Center which led to a resolve that would fill it with a self-guided silent retreat.

In the West silent retreats are shaped by listening for the inner word, the still small voice, and the text that follows. In the East, it is by looking for the inner light and the face that results from its discovery. Since this retreated was to be heavily weighted by the works of Gregory Nazianzus, it translated silence into detachment, or, perhaps better, the suspense of the senses. In the West this is most like the discipline which St. John of the Cross called the dark night of the soul, a visual counterpart of the silence. In the East this is well attested in the ascetic practices of the hesychasts. The detachment for which the retreat calls is not only separating from the noise of the world, but also from it sensory input, the light show put on by the world. The goal is to experience the light of God in us, “in whose light we see light.”

In his maturity, Gregory turned to poetry. His poem “On Rational Natures,” in the Poemata Arcana, provides a guide to finding the inner first light. This uncreated light, he argues, is the source of human reason, thinking and more broadly what we understand to be consciousness. This necessitates a consideration of the Angels who are according to Gregery second light. Second light is created light, and the spectrum of created light runs from Angels, unembodied rational natures, to humans, embodied rational natures to elements in which light is embedded. Among the Angels is the one who rebelled, so it is also necessary to reckon with the Devil and his relation to the eikon of God..

It was for Gregory a small step to move from light to face. The first light is the face of God, so if that light in us makes our light, that light makes our face. Not the physical mask, but persona! portal of our giving and receiving. This makes every human a potential “eikon of God,” a term Gregory has inherited from theological traditions traced to Origin, based on Genesis 1:27.

The course of this retreat unfolded over the course of three days, and it consisted of addresses followed by exercises. As it unfolded it asks you to address the question of how the angels reacted to that potential for the human to be an eikon of God? How did sin change that potential? What does the Christ, who is “the identical eikon of God,” change that for us? And finally, how does one, relying on their baptismal state, say with Gregory, “I also am an Icon of God.” Reflecting on this sentence, one hears it, on the one hand, as am powerful affirmation and, on the other hand as a solemn obligation, which, seems to me, to be the goal to which a retreat ought to reach.

Michael Tan Creti 2026

The Formation of the Final Servant Song and the Jesus Appropriation of It

Michael Tan Creti

Abstract

Isaiah 61:1–8 stands at the literary and theological center of Third Isaiah. This essay explores how the “Servant Herald Song” emerged from the prophetic community in post‑exilic Jerusalem, how it was positioned as the crown (keter) of the final Isaiah scroll, and how its openness to future appropriation shaped Jewish and Christian interpretation. The essay concludes with a theological reflection on Jesus’ reading of Isaiah 61 in Luke 4, situating it within the Seven Weeks of Consolation and the lived experience of an oral, text‑centered culture.

A Keter

This essay is an aside to my larger Isaiah Project, now completing its second reading of the Hebrew text. It has two aims. First, it seeks to clarify the role and meaning of the literary unit Isaiah 61:1–8, which stands at the heart of Third Isaiah. Second, it evaluates the report in Luke’s Gospel that Jesus read this portion of Isaiah during a visit to the synagogue in Nazareth. I have titled the essay A Keter. In Hebrew, keter means “crown,” not as ornament but as symbol of unitive power. In the Kabbalistic Tree of Life, keter is the highest emanation, the point where divine intention becomes manifest. I use the term to describe both the role of Isaiah 61:1–8 within Third Isaiah and the endowment of anyone who would act to fulfill its calling.

I. The Servant Herald Song in Third Isaiah

However one encounters Isaiah 61:1–8 — whether in Hebrew, translation, liturgy, or memory — one is struck by the compelling force of its voice. It speaks with a clarity and urgency that raise the question the Ethiopian eunuch asked Philip: “Does the prophet say this about himself, or does he speak of another?” (Acts 8:34). Scholars have offered many proposals, including Joseph Blenkinsopp’s “prophetic disciple,” yet none fully persuades. The difficulty is simple: in the context of Third Isaiah’s formation, there is no identifiable prophet, priest, king, or disciple who fits the role. The absence of such figures is precisely what defines the period.

The source of this song lies instead in the Third Isaiah editor’s deep regard for Second Isaiah, a regard he extended to the entire earlier Isaiah tradition. In Second Isaiah he found a servant theme that became the central vector of the evolving scroll. The theme begins with the conviction that Jerusalem’s future rests in a king who understands himself as a servant of God, and it expands to include a community that understands itself in the same way. This theme reaches its fullest expression in the Suffering Servant Songs (Isaiah 42, 49, 50, 52–53), which have long invited searches for the individual who created or experienced them. The frustration of that search suggests that the question has been wrongly framed.

In my earlier study of Second Isaiah, I argued that these songs emerged from the theological reflection of the prophetic school of Jerusalem in exile. Their reflection centered on the exiled king Jeconiah, who, deprived of warrior status, was reimagined as a servant who ministered to the memory and identity of the people. The first servant song (Isaiah 42) likely arose early in the exile; the last (Isaiah 52–53) came after Jeconiah’s death around 567 BCE. The first and last are third‑person narratives, while the two intervening songs are first‑person reflections — models for how the prophetic community could articulate its own servant identity.

This reflection stood in contrast to the agency attributed to imperial rulers. The Assyrian king and later Cyrus of Persia were described as “anointed” by God, yet their anointing served imperial ends. In the restored Jerusalem, theological reflection recast the servant of God not as a royal or priestly figure but as a herald of a new future — one who proclaims “the year of the Lord’s favor” and “the day of vindication of our God.”

What changed in Third Isaiah is decisive. The servant is no longer associated with royal or priestly status conferred by anointing, nor with prophetic status conferred by the spirit. The servant for whom the community waits is uncredentialed. And the reflection is no longer retrospective but prospective: the servant is one who is to come. The transformation of the servant in Third Isaiah opens the role to a future someone, and the community is asked to wait. From the beginning, the text asks to be fulfilled. It stands at the threshold of messianic expectation.

This literary unit — which I call the Servant Herald Song — was preserved within the prophetic community in Jerusalem during the early fourth century BCE. Before the return of the Ezra group in 458 BCE, the Third Isaiah editor recognized it as the crucial legacy of the community and placed it at the center of the final edition of the Isaiah scroll. He bracketed it with two poetic asides directed to Jerusalem: Isaiah 60 (“Arise, shine”) and Isaiah 62 (“For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent”). Around this core he arranged a preface drawn from contemporary homiletics (Isaiah 56–59) and an epilogue of reflective admonitions and instructions (Isaiah 63–66). The symmetry is striking. It makes clear that Isaiah 61:1–8 is the center — the keter — of Third Isaiah, not an adornment but a unitive power.

II. Jewish Appropriations of the Servant Herald Song

Before turning to Jesus, it is important to note that Isaiah 61 was not left unused until the first century. In the second century BCE, the Teacher of Righteousness — the founding figure of the Qumran community — appropriated Isaiah 61 in his eschatological teaching. His interpretation appears in 11QMelchizedek, where Isaiah 61:1–2 is read through the pesher method: the “year of the Lord’s favor” becomes the eschatological Jubilee, and the anointed herald is identified with Melchizedek, the heavenly deliverer. This is not a historical identification but a theological one, demonstrating that Isaiah 61 was already understood as a text awaiting fulfillment.

John the Baptist, still within the influence zone of Qumran, also drew on Isaiah. He denied being the messiah, yet he interpreted his own ministry through Isaiah’s imagery: “I saw the Spirit descend,” he said of Jesus, “and he will baptize with the Holy Spirit.” His language is thoroughly Isaianic. These appropriations show that Isaiah 61 was already functioning as a generative text, open to multiple claims.

III. Jesus and the Servant Herald Song

No one questions the heavy use of Isaiah in early Christian writing. The cause is often assumed to be obvious, but this overlooks the fact that Jesus’ own appropriation of Isaiah is the first and most consequential. Among his many references to Isaiah, none is as clear or dramatic as his reading of Isaiah 61 in the synagogue at Nazareth, reported in Luke 4:14–30.

Some readers dismiss the scene as too obvious — Jesus, possessing divine knowledge, simply reads the text that speaks of him. Critical scholars, on the other hand, doubt the historicity of the event, arguing that Jesus, as a Galilean peasant, was unlikely to be literate and that the account was created by the early church. I argue instead that the event can be reconstructed in a way that is historically plausible and theologically revelatory — a rebuttal to both views.

Luke places the visit at the beginning of Jesus’ Galilean ministry, in late summer following his baptism and not long after John’s imprisonment. This dovetails with John’s Gospel, which narrates Jesus leaving his Jerusalem ministry after John’s arrest and traveling with Andrew and others through Samaria to Galilee. According to John, Jesus initially lodged in Cana, six miles from Nazareth. Cana held significance for Jesus; he had traveled there with his mother and siblings for a wedding, remembered as the transformation of water into wine. This suggests family ties or partnerships in Cana. It was likely one of several places where Jesus worked his trade and later began his ministry of healing and teaching.

Luke’s account of Jesus’ arrival in Nazareth is simple and believable. He was well known there, and reports of his activity elsewhere may have given him a certain status. The leader of the synagogue called on him to read. The prophetic readings (Haftarot) in late August and early September were likely drawn from the end of the Isaiah scroll. In contemporary usage, Isaiah 61 is read with the Torah portion Nitzavim (Deuteronomy 29), which summons Israel to stand ready to enter the promised land. While the Second Temple reading cycle was not identical to the later fixed Haftarah cycle, the Seven Weeks of Consolation — during which Isaiah 40–66 are read — were already observed. Beginning on the Sabbath after Tisha b’Av, they culminate just before Rosh Hashanah. This strongly suggests that the Isaiah scroll lying open on the bimah would have been open to its final chapters.

When Jesus stepped to the bimah, he would have looked down at a column of unvocalized Hebrew — consonants without punctuation or vowels. His eye would have caught the letters rwch ’dny yhwh ‘ly — “The spirit of the Lord God is upon me.” In an oral culture, the text served as a prompt for memory. The rest of the passage would have flowed from his mind: “because God has anointed me as a herald for the poor, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim release to captives and liberation to those in prison, to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord and the day of vindication of our God.”

Jesus’ literacy need not surprise us. Galilean culture was unusually literate, though in a way different from our own. It was an oral culture in which large blocks of Scripture were committed to memory. The written text was an adjunct to oral memory. And unlike the vast content of our world, theirs was limited and focused: the Scriptures.

When Jesus returned to his seat, silence followed. The effect on the audience was stunning, and perhaps on Jesus himself. Then he said, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

The language of fulfillment has sometimes led to the claim that all prior appropriations were incomplete and that future claims are preempted — a view that implies the church replaces Judaism. A Jewish orientation rightly objects. As Paul insisted in Romans, God’s gifts and calling are irrevocable. The Teacher of Righteousness’ appropriation was valid and interesting. Any contemporary Jewish appropriation would be equally so. Christian appropriations after Jesus also fall within the intention of the Third Isaiah editor. And I would add that when I read this text, I am struck that it names something about me. Perhaps a keter awaits each of us.

I am publishing this draft which continues in the discussion of theology and economic, see and with the blogs interest in the work of Kathryn Tanner. Particularly relevant is the paper published in the blog Is Tanner Anglican? which argues that "Christ the Key" makes clear that in the end her theology is incarnational. In her book to which the paper responds, we raise the question if her theology is sufficiently incarnation to deliver an analysis that can provide parochial ministry the ground that it need to preach effectively and to engaged constructively is social action in the current economic circumstances of western life. We are with this draft still looking insights and correction,

A Response to Kathryn Tanner’s Christianity and the New Spirit of Capitalism

Yale University Press 2019

With Gratitude for

Kathryn Tanner and her Gift of Theology

and

Adam Smith and his Insight into the Science of Economics

One must begin with a note of appreciation that Kathryn Tanner not only for her extensive contribution to theology in general but also in applying it to the current state of economics. Economics is usually given a pass, based on a long-standing division of the sciences. We won’t interfere with your science, if you won’t interfere with ours. Hopefully her work will jar Christianity to set aside this unholy bargain and make a serious attempt to address the problem economic behavior. Her latest attempt, Christianity and the New Spirit of Capitalism has led to a response in a symposium in Modern Theology Volume 35, Issue 1 (January 2019). I would add to that with a response from a non-academic, parochial base, in other words, from life in the pastorate.

In her early work Tanner announced a new agenda for theology, Theories of Culture, 1997. For us who began our ministries in Seventies with Richard Niebuhr’s Christ and Culture, 1951, as our guide, this was a challenge. Was Niebuhr’s view of culture and his call for Christianity to be transformative, naïve? But this challenge was also exciting. We who were active in parish ministry in the Seventies were aware that our impact was limited and that had been eroded in the course of time. Those of us who eschew nostalgia saw the possibility of a new platform for a concern.

Since then, pieces of that prospect have appeared in Tanner’s works, particularly in God’s Politics, 2022. So, I approached this new title with great expectations as it seemed that it would be yet another step towards that end. My hope, however, has been undercut by Tanner’s choice to address this book to a consideration of “capitalism” and focusing it so heavily on the validity of Max Weber’s classic thesis in his book “The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.” Tanner argues that his thesis of the Protestant work ethic needs to be rebutted. It is not news that the “work ethic,” which Weber identifies as the “spirit” of capitalism was not derived from Protestantism and, that his Capitalism did not have a “spirit!” that is an internal sustaining life principle. She pursues her argument by exposing Weber thesis to the present day “finance driven capitalism.” In this new context the “work ethic” is even more corrosive than it was in Weber’s industrial capitalism. We agree with this as well. But I wonder if “new spirit” is actually be taken as an internal sustaining life principle? Or if Weber’s own criticism of capitalism is given its due.

The word capitalism only emerged in the socio-political debates of the late 19^th century. There it was used retrospectively to identify the state of a certain economies, by parties attempting to limit or ascribe privileges and prerogatives of capital as opposed to other factors in an economy. Capital is a component in numerous economies dating back a thousand or so year and spread a which variety political identities. This raises the question of capitalism identifies a formative culture system either in the pre-industrial world of John Adam, who never used the word or in the world that Tanner describes as “finance driven capitalism.”

“Capitalism” is simply an ideology. By identify “Capitalism” as a party of her inquiry, Tanner, not surprisingly produces a monologue since, sui genera, it is impossible to engage an ideology in a dialogue! This is a serious limitation since it stands in the way of Christianity, who she would represent, from entering into dialogue with the world. Dialogue is for Christianity is not a courtesy, but an obligation. Faith itself is dialogical, a call followed by a response, making dialogue constitutional.

The effect is immediate since each of us is embedded in the world and dialogue is necessary for our own very personal internal wellbeing. I styled myself in the Seventies as a worker priest and yet I have fallen into a comfortable pension made possible by the highly successful Church Pension Fund which has been a master of finance driven capitalism. You, if you are reading this off the internet and even more so if you have this lovely volume in hand, printed by the Yale Press, are likewise embedded in finance driven capitalism that has made this possible. Indeed, you and I are thankful that the philanthropy of a 19^th century capitalist, preserved and expanded by a finance driven endowment, provides a chair of systematic theology at Yale. In the broader picture, since each of us is related to others in the world A monologue leaves a part of ourselves silenced and others outside of ourselves unheard., dialogue in necessary our own external wellbeing as well. A monologue leaves a part of ourselves silenced and others outside of ourselves unheard.

The monologue could have been avoided if the subject was not “capitalism” but was with economic science which stems from pioneers such John Adams whose “The Wealth of Nations.” It is important to remember that his prior work was “The Theory of Moral Sentiments” which suggest that it would be possible to enter a dialogue with him since the existence of “moral sentiments” was a presupposition of economic behavior. Economic Science continued to develop with Smith, Ricardo, or Mill and eventually entered the academic world as disciplined behavioral science and which has blossomed into an array of institutes and consultants. Among these there is a wide variety of opinions including those who would not differ greatly from Tanner analysis of “finance driven capitalism. They should be a target for dialogue not simply for what we might tell them, but for what they might tell us.

After setting the stage in chapter 1, Tanner devotes three chapters to the demonstration that finance driven capitalism is incompatible with Christianity. In them, Tanner lays out a sharp and insightful analysis of the effects of a finance driven capitalism and then juxtaposes the with a similarly insightful analysis of the values of Christianity. Christianity’s interface with the world is inevitably framed by the relationship between time and eternity. It follows that economics (politics, sociology and other behavioral sciences as well) presents a concerned with the way its relates with the past, present and future.

The first of these is study of the past, titled “Chained the Past,” which leaves doubt as to where her assessment of the effects of finance driven capitalism will have on the past. She argues that individuals are driven into debt, and thus they become enchained to the past. A quick survey of contemporary life would seem to support this. One of the more damming examples is the extent of educational debt. Enterprise needs educated employees to function but are given a free pass. The cost of education on secondary level is borne by the individual, largely by means of college loans. This is taken by Tanner to be a value of finance driven capitalism and hence it is not to be dismissed as an unintended consequence or as something with which finance driven capitalism might be concerned as well. The Christian values on contrary are aimed at “liberation from the past. Tanner evokes the doctrine of conversion to justify this claim. From this point of view “The past is problematized” (50) which is the say it is both to be affirmed and to be repudiated. In the realm of an individual this is delineated by distinguishing the difference between an essential self and a sinful self.” How this translates into economic behavior is unclear. If economic behavior is simply sinful it would seem to lead to a Manichean understanding of the world, and redemption is an escape. If it is not, as it is well established, then work must have something to do with the essential self, not merely as behavior but as meaning, the latter of which is subject to redemption.

This raises the question of in what way history is subject to redemption, and it is striking how largely ahistorical Tanner’s analysis is. In this book, it is confined largely to Weber and with that a brief account of monasticism which is relevant to the question of the Protestant understanding of work. Protestantism, she points out, did not create a different set of ends. The enjoyment of the spiritual life was the same as that of the monastic world. The value of work was equally negative. The difference she argues is that in the monastic world others worked so that a few could enjoy the refinement of a spiritual life, while in the Protestant world that the spiritual life was now longer reserved for the few, but was meant for the many.

This historical cameo overlooks the fact that the original Benedictine foundations were not hierarchical but consist of 12 monks bound to the land and committed to work, opus, which was divided between the choir opus Dei and the field. Indeed, Weber thesis is an insufficient proxy for a long line of dialogues through which Christianity engaged in dialogue with the principals of economic science, Maurice, Gore and Temple of the Anglican tradition and Reum Novarum in the Roman Tradition, to mention a few.

Particularly, on the part of Anglicans, the foundation for that dialogue was the incarnation. These Anglicans were conscious of the fact that a soteriological approach which had dominated western Christian beginning with the Middle Ages and continuing in the Reformation Age was not adequate to do justice to the nature of history or work. Incarnation, they argued, made it possible to lift out history and work that which relates to the essential self which Christianity valued and to enter into the history and work input morality and energy which the world valued. Where Tanner stands in relation to this is unclear. The center of her systematic, “Christ the Key” suggests that she lies in this tradition. But for some reason it is not clear in “Christianity and the Spirit of the New Capitalism” in which she seems to depend on grace as non-competitive presence which in the end is too abstract for the task.

The second of these chapters, “Total Commitment,” has to do with the present. Tanner contends that finance driven capitalism demands “total commitment” and that as a consequence “workers themselves are to want nothing more than what the corporations ask of them; their own desires are to be brought into complete compliance with finance dominated corporate interests, in order to increase productivity.” (64) While it is possible that employees feel that they are being asked to make a total commitment, especially in the upper levels of white-collar employment, it is unlikely that a corporation actually asks it, though it might be tempted to make use of it. One is tempted to remind corporate business that it is not in their long term interest to do so and quite likely one will find some agreement on the part of the corporate business.

The third chapter which takes on the future is titled “Another World.” Tanner begins, as we are now use to, analyzing “finance driven capitalism.” She begins by argue that its approach lead to a “collapsing the present and future into one another.” (135) Finance driven capitalism argues that the future will not be any than different than what we can imagine it to be in the present. Hence it is possible to relieve any angst one might have for the future with rational behavior. “Finance driven capitalism” is aware, however, that this not easy for there are discontinuities in economic outcomes. For that reason, it has invented “derivatives” which are the means of hedging against future changes. Derivatives, however, simply manipulates who wins and who loses, profiting as it does so. While this ameliorates the problem of the future, it fails to remove it. There is, in the end, no calculation using behavioral data that can provide a forecast of the future which can remove the angst of life lived out under sway of “fiancé driven capitalism.”

On the other hand, Tanner maintains that “the future that Christian expect remains as radically different from the present as it could possibly be, short of not being a future suitable for human creatures.” (159) The difference defined here seems to ask the reader to exercise their imagination in a starkly abstract manner, the only restrain being stopping short of removing from it a suitable environment for “a human creature.” This formula leaves, at least me, I can’t speak of the world driven finance capitalism, puzzled. It would be better to say that this future is to be imagined as much “like the risen Jesus as possible.” This, to be sure, would not be an easy task to call the secular world to attempt, but it would not be so puzzling. At the same time let be said it is not an easy task to call upon Christianity to imagine it! To the extent that it can, however, Christianity is force to take seriously the value of temporal existence for its own end. This requires among other things for Christianity to step out of a monologue and to enter a dialogue with the secular world and vice versa.

At the end of Tanner’s three studies of past present and future, presenting the dichotomy of the worlds of “finance driven capitalism” and Christianity, she asks, “Which World?” In this new chapter answers the question in a section titled “A New Christian World.” (198) At this point it is necessary to raise a question about Tanner choice to use the word “world,” and whether alternative “worlds” are the proper way of framing the question. In the language of Biblical Christianity, “world” translates the Greek word kosmos. For example as in the saying of Jesus, John 17, “They are not of the world, just as I am not of the world.” and “I do not ask that you take them out of the world, but that you keep them from the evil one.” Christians however do not and will not live in a different kosmos, world. Their true future is incorporation in the risen-one who has entered eternity, not without taking what is really real out of this world, the kosmos.

If “Christ is the key” then it is clear that Eternity has something at stake in time and in human behavior lived in it. This means that it is incumbent upon Christianity to enter into a dialogue, however, uncomfortable or hostile it might be with the secular world. This not clear in Tanner’s prescription which suggests that Christian communities should cultivate: an alternative understandings of value, alternative rhythms of time, alternative visions of personhood, “ and an alternative forms of obligation and mutuality. This constitutes a posture which will cause Christianity to be disturbance or a “disruptive force” in the world. Yes, speaking from the tactics of the Seventies we did this. Back then we spoke of marginality and sought life choices which took us out the economic mainstream. While I have never repented doing so, I recognize that it was a matter of how we felt about ourselves rather than anything that was registered in the secular world. We did not, however, let that replace what we saw as an effort to “transform” culture as was suggested to us by Richard Niebhur “Christ and Culture.”

Tanner intends to move on from Richard Niebhur but it does not seem that this posturing will do much if anything to change the economic order, sadly it may not even trouble it. This leaves the question of how she can speak of different world without making Christianity into a culture, to be lived “above” the existing order, in Richard Neibhur’s terms, or worse to somehow brought down so the existing order to be it, the very poles that Niebuhr rejected.

While I don’t think Tanner intends this, I need her to explain to me how she intends to escape this conclusion. I would suggest that we need to say clearly that there is only one world and that for the duration of our lives we are part of it. Posturing seems of little value, a kind of self-serving relief. Agency within it seems possible by means of a dialogue. While this is not easy or comfortable, I argue that it is possible if we focus on economic science as a partner and can listen as well as tell.

It is true that dialogue with the behavioral sciences has been bleak, but dialogue with the physical sciences has proved fruitful in resent past. On the one side we have theologians such as Arthur Peacocke and John Polkinghorne and on other we have a scientist such as Marcelo Gleiser, astrophysics and recipient of 2019 Templeton Prize. His books “The Island of Knowledge” and “The Dawn of the Mindful Universe” are profoundly open for dialogue. Dialogue with behavioral sciences should not be so much more difficult, save, of course, for some vested presuppositions about humanity held by both sides. The beginning can come when the behavioral sciences, as the physical science already have, recognize that it rest on presupposition, about which theology might have something to say and when the theological sciences recognizes that the behavior sciences have some to say to it.

In conclusion, I would say that “Christianity and the New Spirit of Capitalism” succeeds as a monograph that sets aside Weber thesis of a “Protestant Work Ethic,” but it falls short of providing a much need basis for the homiletic and agency needs of the parochial church. The promise made in her Theories of Culture offered the hope that such a dialogue between theology and the behavioral science could be reopened in the 21^st century which would answer that need. To my knowledge that remains the best hope. The critique of this response should not be understood as an attempt to disqualify Tanner, but an encouragement for her, and academic theology in general, to fill the promise of location the life of Christianity in contemporary setting.

This brief piece opens a new area of discussion, prompted by Kathryn Tanner's recent books: The Economy of Grace, 2005 and Christianity and the New Spirit of Capitalism, 2019. In the series we will look at Tanner's attempt to subject the secular field of economic the theological analysis. Since we are not part of an academic structure this means that we will be interested in what way such a theological engagement yields for the pastoral ministry.

The Economy of Grace

One might likely object that this is an oxymoron, but the tension is precisely what makes this title worthwhile. The use of the word economy to signify the behavior of markets and enterprises of secular communities only appeared in the mid‑17th century. The term originates from the ancient Greek word to signify the behavior of a household. Long before its secular us, it has a lengthy history of theological use. For this reason, we should be comfortable using it to explore the nature of behavior in the House of Grace, that is, in the Church.

We might make a begin by looking at the parable of the parable of “the Laborers in the Vineyard” found in Matthew 20:1–16. It is not uncommon for homilists to belabor the apparent issue of inequity contained in the parable, but John Chrysostom famously embraced. In an Easter homily, his opening remarks were based on the parable. His success was so stunning that it counties to read at Easter, particularly in Orthodox Churches, where it has become part of the liturgy!

John used the parable as a way for greeting worshipers who had come the Paschal Liturgy: “If any man be devout and love God, let him enjoy this fair and radiant triumphal feast.” He goes on to welcome those who have wrought with fasting from the first hour and he continues on, hour by hour, until he comes to the end. “He gives rest unto him who comes at the eleventh hour, even as unto him who has wrought from the first hour.”

How is this fair? Grace is superabundant so that what is given to one, the eleventh-hour person, takes nothing from what is given to the first-hour person. Should that first hour person complain, he shall surely be told: “Friend I do you no wrong,” by no less than God himself!

A homilist will do well in asking his congregation to practice the economy of grace. He will error, however, if he poses it as an alternative economy to the secular economy, the economy of scarcity, least he starves or eats at the expense of others. He may be so bold as to challenge the secular economy, to respect the economy of grace, least it loses its foundation, its arche and its end, its telos both of which are framed by grace.

Parochial Theology

As a follow up on my earlier post in which a argue the case for a Parochial Theology, I am posting a brief homily which I preached at a midweek Eucharist commemorating George Herbert, 1593-1633. I do so because I think that his writing were an early contribution to the body of Parochial Theology.

A Brief Homily Preached at A Week Day Eucharist, Feb. 2026

+ George Herbert was born in 1593. The Herberts were a wealthy lot, not nobles, but important commoners who participated in English government. His father served in the parliament and held various governmental functions as did his elder brother. He went off to Trinity College at Cambridge, the academic bastion of the English Reform, intent on becoming a priest. Recognized for his rhetorical skills, King James recruited him to service in parliament and in the governance of the kingdom. Which he did until James’s death in 1624, when he was ordained a priest and took on a rural parish, in southwest England. The parish was about 8 miles north of Salisbury Cathedral. It consisting of two churches St. Peter’s Fugglestone and St. Andrews, Bemerton, the later serving as his residence.

The importance of this move is made clear if we recall that the reform of the English Church, at the time less than a hundred years old, was largely focused on political issues played out in public forum and on ideas debated in academic circles! Something that was broadly true of the 16rh century reforms across the board. At this point, we might register the thought that we could very well say the same about our own church in the 21st century.

One might suppose that George Herbert's action was an escape, but in truth it was a choice to take on the frontier, namely, the life of the parish church! After all, the Gospel is neither politics or ideas, but a Life. Herbert went out intent on living that life.

He wrote an essay called “The Country Parson” in which he described the role of a priest in a parish setting. He added a second title, “Priest to the Temple” which makes it clear that his essay was the blueprint of what he intended to do. During the ministry that followed he wrote poetry that captured his daily prayer life as a priest. This body of poetry is quite stunning, theologically and poetically. As late as the 20ieth century T. S. Eliot pointed to his poetry as a foundation for modern English poetry. Theologically, because he identified poetry as a basic media for English theology. In the poetry of the “Temple” he indicates a commitment to the liturgical life, for example, he commends the observance of Lent:

Lent

Welcome dear feast of Lent Who loves not thee He loves not Temperance and Authority But is composed of Passions

and he ends the “Temple” with his oft quote poem on the Eucharist:

Love

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
                                                               Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
                                                                From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
                                                               If I lack’d anything.

‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
                                                               Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
                                                               I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
                                                               ‘Who made the eyes but I?’

                                              ‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
                                                               Go where it doth deserve.’
                                            ‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’             ‘My dear, then I will serve.’
                                              ‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
                                                               So I did sit and eat.

This concern for the liturgical life contrasts with the concern of the public and academic reform focused politics and ideas for which it had little value!

Suffice it to say at this point, that when I began my priestly ministry over 58 years ago, my blueprint was “The Country Parson.” And that today, a day does not go by in which I do not ask ‘Holy Mister Herbert’ to pray for me. Indeed, today, “I ask “’Holy Mister Herbert’, pray for us.”

My Isaiah project has moved on to Second Isaiah, a text that divides between anticipation 40-48 and responding to a changed situation 49-55. This later section contain 3 of the 4 Suffering Servant Songs and clearly they are not anomalies but tied the central theme of the text. Sixty years ago in my formation I made a great effort at trying to understand these Songs which are so deeply embedded in Christian doctrine. So it is fascination to a close study them at this late point in my life an would like to share my results and would welcome comments. I have done this with the help AI which has made possible to put my ideas into a shareable text. I whole own what follows.

Jeconiah in Exile and the Origins of the Suffering Servant Tradition

The Suffering Servant Songs of Isaiah—42:1–9; 49:1–6; 50:4–11; and 52:13–53:12—have long been interpreted through the lens of later theological appropriations. Their meaning has been shaped by post‑exilic hopes, Second Temple messianism, early Christian readings, and centuries of doctrinal development. Yet these later layers often obscure the most immediate historical and theological question that confronted the community that first received these texts: What becomes of royal agency when the king is in exile?

This question, I argue, is the generative soil from which the Servant tradition grows. The Servant Songs are not abstract meditations on suffering, nor are they originally messianic predictions. They are a theological reflection on the crisis of kingship embodied in the figure of King Jeconiah, deported to Babylon in 597 BCE. The prophetic imagination of the Jerusalem tradition—already deeply invested in the meaning of royal office in Isaiah 9 and 11—continued its work in exile, rethinking kingship under conditions where political power was impossible. The result was a profound transformation: the emergence of the servant king, and through him, the vision of a servant people.

1. The Crisis of Royal Agency in 597 BCE

Jeconiah’s exile created a theological emergency. In the Davidic tradition, the king was not merely a political figure; he was the bearer of divine judgment, the guarantor of justice, and the visible sign of God’s covenantal commitment. When the king was removed from the throne and placed under imperial control, the question was not simply political—Who rules Judah?—but theological—What is a king when he cannot rule?

The prophetic school that shaped Isaiah 9 and 11 had already articulated a vision of kingship grounded in divine agency rather than military might. In exile, this tradition confronted its most severe test. The king could no longer act as king. Yet the office could not simply disappear. It had to be reimagined.

2. Political Strategies of Exiled Kings—and Their Limits

Historically, exiled monarchs have adopted one of two strategies:

• Machiavellian strategy: intrigue, manipulation, alliance‑building, and attempts to reclaim power through political maneuvering.

• Soft‑power strategy: cultivating nostalgia, symbolic presence, or international sympathy.

Examples such as Haile Selassie and King Farouk illustrate these approaches. But neither strategy was available—or theologically appropriate—for Jeconiah. Babylonian control was absolute. Political scheming was futile. Nostalgic symbolism was insufficient.

The prophetic imagination therefore turned to a third possibility: a theological strategy.

3. The Servant as the Reimagined King

Isaiah 42:1–9 introduces a figure who bears unmistakable royal features—chosen by God, endowed with God’s spirit, commissioned to bring justice to the nations. Yet this figure does not rule. He serves. He suffers. He embodies divine judgment not through coercion but through obedience.

This is the theological answer to the crisis of Jeconiah’s exile:

When a king cannot rule, he can still serve.

When royal power is stripped away, royal vocation remains.

The Servant Songs develop this theme progressively in Isaiah 49–55, a section responding to the Persian victory in 540 BCE. Suddenly the exiled community faced the real possibility of returning to Jerusalem. Yet the physical and economic challenges of such a return were immense, and the emotional difficulty of detaching from seventy years of Babylonian life was no less daunting.

The prophetic school in exile addressed these challenges through three further Servant Songs, in which the royal servant is no longer Jeconiah himself but his theological successors:

• Isaiah 49:1–6 expands the Servant’s mission to Israel and the nations, echoing the universal scope of royal responsibility.

• Isaiah 50:4–11 presents the Servant as teacher and witness, steadfast in suffering.

• Isaiah 52:13–53:12 culminates in a vision of redemptive suffering that transforms the community.

These texts are not about a generic righteous sufferer. They are a theological re‑articulation of royal agency under the conditions of return from exile.

4. From Servant King to Servant People

Once kingship is reframed as service, the people themselves are drawn into this vocation. The king becomes the prototype of a community whose identity is no longer anchored in land, temple, or political sovereignty but in obedience to God’s word.

This shift explains a historical puzzle:

Why did Judah survive exile with its identity intact, while other conquered nations—including the northern kingdom—did not?

The answer lies in this theological transformation:

• The king became a servant.

• The people became a servant people.

• Memory became vocation rather than nostalgia.

• Identity was preserved not by power but by purpose.

The Servant Songs thus encode the spiritual logic that sustained Judah through seventy years of displacement.

5. Later Appropriations and the Clouding of Origins

Subsequent interpretations—whether messianic, national, or christological—are not wrong, but they must renounce claims of exclusivity if they are to honor the originality of the tradition and the many collateral appropriations that followed. In a sense, Isaiah 42:1—composed some twenty years after Jeconiah’s death and in very different circumstances—is itself the first appropriation.

These later readings build upon a tradition whose original function was to address a concrete historical and theological crisis, yet the Servant figure proved capable of imaging divine agency in new historical contexts.

By recovering Jeconiah’s exile as the generative context, the Servant Songs can be read not as mysterious predictions but as a profound reimagining of kingship—one that reshaped Israel’s self‑understanding, enabled its return in the fifth century, and continued to live on through successive historical transformations, including our own, in a rich variety of ways.