The Merrie Theologiane loves the odd bit of art.  In this Christmas card for the Skinny Magazine, artist Nick Cocozza imagines the greatest head to head “in all history” – the patron saint of Xmas, who leads his devotees in a pilgrimage of Coca Cola consumerism each ‘winter holiday’, against baby Jesus (now grown up), the one who bangs on about the real meaning of Christmas (virgins, mangers, angels, wise men, asses, etc.).  Just do a bit of letter jiggling, and it’s clear that Santa is Jesus’ sworn enemy! Right? Wrong! 

If Santa and Jesus met (and most surely they already have!), Santa would be very much on Jesus’ side!  The real Santa, is a great Hebrews 11 style witness to help us celebrate the coming of the Saviour of the world at Christmas time.  Santa Claus/Sinterklaas/Saint Nicholas was a bishop in south eastern Turkey in the fourth century.  Gift-giving, stockings, generosity, chimneys, being nice to children, bags of chocolate coins, all have their origins in the life and legends of old St. Nick. 

The stories surrounding St. Nicholas – of selfless generosity and care for the poor (and the odd miracle!) – give us a glimpse of a man who was a great example of love for Jesus producing love for neighbour.  So Claus and Christ are no enemies. But there was another occasion on which Santa Nicholas gave evidence of his great love for Jesus – and this one did involve some boxing… 

Bishop Nicholas was one of the 318 in attendance at the famous Council of Nicaea in 325AD, from which we get our Nicene Creed.  There was great controversy because Arius, a priest from Alexandria, was arguing that, though Jesus was fully human, he was not fully divine.  On hearing Arius’ denigrating of Christ, ‘jolly old St. Nick’ got up and gave him a good slap round the chops!  The rest of the council agreed with Nicholas, and Arius was condemned a heretic, but Father Christmas found himself behind bars for the night!

So you see Christ vs. Claus is really very far from reality – and we should reclaim this great prize fighter of the faith for the Lord he loved!  Gene Edward Veith suggests we need to tweak the Lapland mythology to suit this end: “Santa and his elves live at the North Pole where they compile a list of who is naughty, who is nice, and who is Nicean.”  And maybe we need some new songs and TV shows too:  "'Santa Claus Is Coming to Slap,' 'Deck the Apollinarian with Bats of Holly,' 'Frosty the Gnostic,' 'How the Arian Stole Christmas,' 'Rudolph the Red Knows Jesus.'"

So when you’re writing your letters to Santa this year, remember that a very very long time ago, he wrote one to you:

We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of all things visible and invisible.

And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, begotten of the Father the only-begotten; that is, of the essence of the Father, God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God, begotten, not made, being of one substance with the Father;

By whom all things were made both in heaven and on earth;

Who for us men, and for our salvation, came down and was incarnate and was made man;

He suffered, and the third day he rose again, ascended into heaven;

From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

And in the Holy Ghost.

But those who say: 'There was a time when he was not;' and 'He was not before he was made;' and 'He was made out of nothing,' or 'He is of another substance' or 'essence,' or 'The Son of God is created,' or 'changeable,' or 'alterable'—they are condemned by the holy catholic and apostolic Church.

  [Translation of the original text of the 325AD Nicene Creed from Schaff's Creeds of Christendom]

For most of us, the classic image of the theologian is the delightfully backward ageing gent.  He's obviously a very clever chap, but he's socially rather awkward and needs more than a little personal grooming advice.  Clothed in tweed, his socks are odd, and his hair is a mess.  His shirt buttons are in the wrong holes, and his v-neck is inside out.  

Well the Merrie Theologiane would like to present to you a lineup of theologians with their heads so much in the game, that even their threads prophetically anticipated the popular culture of many years to come.

Take the Cappodocian Fathers whose attire quite obviously inspired urban streetwear brand Bape, modelled here by Lil Wayne.

Or imagine the Puritan great John Owen prancing around Oxford, 'hair powdered, cambric band with large costly band strings, velvet jacket, breeches set round at knees with ribbons pointed, and Spanish leather boots with cambric tops.'  He wore enough powder his hair, some said, to discharge eight cannons.  Indeed, perhaps enough to nominate him father of the metrosexual movement.

A more modern approach to ‘theological’ clothing is yet to catch on in the divinity schools of the world, but there’s potential…

Okay, there’s no potential.  For a much better approach to clothing have a read of Zechariah’s vision:  

Then he showed me Joshua the high priest standing before the angel of the LORD, and Satan standing at his right side to accuse him. The LORD said to Satan, “The LORD rebuke you, Satan! The LORD, who has chosen Jerusalem, rebuke you! Is not this man a burning stick snatched from the fire?”

  Now Joshua was dressed in filthy clothes as he stood before the angel. The angel said to those who were standing before him, “Take off his filthy clothes.”

   Then he said to Joshua, “See, I have taken away your sin, and I will put fine garments on you.”

 Then I said, “Put a clean turban on his head.” So they put a clean turban on his head and clothed him, while the angel of the LORD stood by. (Zech. 3:1-5)

Everybody knows that toilet humour is a no no. Even in the least polite company it's a bad business to joke about flatulence or to sound off about the delicate details of one's 'personal life'. Oddly enough, the Bible writers generally did not share our embarrassment about these things. One of the most famous examples is undoubtedly Elijah's potty-mouthed attack on the god Baal in 1 Kings 18. Having set-up a showdown between Baal and the LORD, he invites the prophets of Baal to call down fire from their god on a sacrifice. When Ball does nothing, Elijah suggests with more than a hint of sarcasm that perhaps Baal is 'relieving himself' and so unable to answer.

Molech: name-calling is positively encouraged

Elijah's cheeky low blow is far from just a politically incorrect gaff at an interfaith prayer meeting. He's getting at something quite deep in a biblical understanding of false gods, and it's something that is covered-up with blushes and swoons in our English translations. Whenever we read about 'the detestable god Molech' or 'the detestable god Chemosh', the Hebrew is literally referring to these gods as 'turds'. Look them up and you will see why they are singled out for such name-calling. They're foul, filthy, useless, and fit only to be expelled and flushed away. In the face of the Living God, so are all our idols.

The greatest false god is of course the one who set himself up against the LORD at the very beginning, and for him is reserved the title 'Beelzebub' (2 Kings 1; Mark 3:22). It means 'lord of the flies', and the implication is fairly obvious. Beezebub, the prince of demons, is the most 'detestable' of all and therefore attracts the most flies! Next time you are 'driving out a demon', you may want to meditate on the wastefulness and shame of all that steals our love from the LORD God of heaven, and on the glory and goodness we find in Jesus.  

Merriment is always at its best when shared.  A good joke usually benefits from an audience, and unfortunate (but amusing) accidents beg to be spied upon unintentionally.  Chuckling with a friend is indeed good medicine.  So this month we are inviting readers to share in the mirth by taking part in our first ever caption competition.  Three pictures below await the wit and wordplay of Theology Network readers.

To submit your captions, click on 'comments' below and give us a caption for 'Whitefield', 'Aquinas' and 'Piper'.

The best entry will receive a copy of that book of most merrie theologie, The Unquenchable Flame by Michael Reeves. 

Let the banter begin!

Whitefield

Aquinas

Piper

Some of the best theology, praying, and writing has been the result of writers of on the run.  The pressures of foes giving chase, persecutions on the horizon, or even the provocations of the devil himself have, more often than not, brought-forth gold from the furnace so that the Church of Christ is built up and encouraged.

Athanasius was bishop of Alexandria in the fourth century, and though he was wildly popular with his people, influential enemies were often on his case.  Athanasius fled Alexandria no less than five times and often for his life.  Yet it was during these times, laying low in deserts and even as far afield as France, that he produced some of the most wonderful literature that the early post-apostolic Church has to offer.  He famously escaped a group of imperial guards on the river by turning his boat around to face his pursuers and telling them he had just passed 'Athanasius' and suggesting that he was 'not far off'.  Sometimes it takes a moment of pressure to trigger a stroke of genius.

Another fugitive theologian, Charles Wesley, being run out of an Irish village by an angry mob, was led to escape through a farm house, and to hide under a hedge by a brook.  Breathless, and with the shouts of his attackers around him, he penned the words,

Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the nearer waters roll, while the tempest still is high.
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide; O receive my soul at last.

Like her Saviour, the Church will be hated by the world for His sake.  But it is from the middle of the strife and violence that the beauty and grace of Jesus may be seen and enjoyed.  And His promise to be with us always will sustain us to the end.

All good theologians have strong opinions about music, for theology is very musical in itself.  Whether you're caught-up in Irenaeus' theology of 'recapitulation', transported by the poetry of Efrem the Syrian, or simply soaked in the Psalms.  You see, there are no two ways about it: meditating on the good news of the gospel should make us sing.  The melody line of the gospel of a harmonious Triune God strikes deep resonances in our hearts.  We're used to dumb and monochrome idols, but the living God awakes our hearts, turning the volume to eleven and shaking the walls.

Handel's Messiah is perhaps the most famous example of theological music.  It dances around the scriptures retelling their central story of the Messiah; from Isaiah's prophecy of the Son to be born to a virgin, to the nations raging against the Lord and his Christ in Psalm 2 , to Job's declaration that his own eyes will see his Redeemer standing on the earth at the last day.  It is stirring stuff and the music is far from incidental.

Handel's Messiah: Hallelujah, etc.

Karl Barth, whose style of writing is often described as being musical, once wrote, '...whether the angels play only Bach in praising God I am not quite sure; I am sure, however, that en famille they play Mozart and that then also God the Lord is especially delighted to listen to them.'

You may not be convinced by Barth's musical taste but, he has a point.  Martin Luther makes a similar one, though he is—as usual—rather more pointed.  Having written that music is a gift of God, he concludes,

A person who gives this some thought and yet does not regard music as a marvellous creation of God, must be a clodhopper indeed and does not deserve to be called a human being; he should be permitted to hear nothing but the braying of asses and the grunting of hogs.

So let your theology be musical.  While theology might normally be regarded as dry, dull and unrelational, those of us who have experienced the all-singing all-dancing love of the living God know that it is music to our ears.  In your evangelism, preaching, and sharing don't subject people to braying and grunting–  sing out the gospel of Christ in all its beauty, and see how hearts respond.

July 2009 marked the 500th anniversary of the birth of the Reformation theologian John Calvin.  At first glance, Calvin does not not appear to be the merriest of theologians.  He was a quiet and bookish, a workaholic, and almost always ill.  His imagine is definitely a bit stiff and starchy, and in certain crowds his name alone provokes a yawn.  Yet there is a much ignored side of Calvin which reveals a measure of merriment below his seemingly stern exterior.

Commentating on Deuteronomy 14:26, Calvin says we ought to enjoy our food and drink in the company of the great Vintner, who has presented us with heavenly gifts.  Elsewhere, speaking about food and drink he says,

If we study… why he has created the various kinds of food, we shall find that it was his intention not only to provide for our needs, but likewise for our pleasure and our delight… For, if this were not true, the Psalmist would not enumerate among the divine blessings, ‘the wine that makes glad the heart of man, and the oil that makes his face to shine.'

John Calvin: Rumoured to have had 250 gallons of wine included in his pastoral pay packet

Calvin famously described the creation as a theatre for the display of the glory of God, but he also wants to tell us that we are here 'not only to be spectators in this beautiful theatre but also to enjoy the vast bounty and variety of good things which are displayed to us in it'.  He would never have approved of drunkenness or gluttony (and rightly so), but for him it was no coincidence that fermented grapes, a juicy steak, or a hearty fry-up taste so good.  The scrawny, pale Frenchman may not exactly have been a party animal, but he definitely advocated serious enjoyment of the good and perfect gifts of our heavenly Father.  A very merrie 'bravo!' and 'amen' to that.

 

Irenaeus of Lyons (2nd century AD - c. 202) has taught us many things about how to do theology.  He also provides a great example of how we should do our apologetics (well, at least sometimes…maybe!).  In Against Heresies, when demolishing Valentinus’ Gnostic speculations, he gives this great technique: just laugh at them, and then call them a melon!  I’ll merrily quote in full for your amusement…

Iu, iu, and pheu, pheu! Truly we may utter these exclamations from tragedy at such bold invention of ridiculous nomenclature, and at the audacity that made up these names without blushing. For when he says, "There is a certain Proarche before all things, above all thought, which I call Monotes," … it is obvious that he admits that he is talking about his own inventions…and unless he had been on hand the Truth would have had no name. There is no reason why someone else shouldn't assign names like these on the same basis: There is a royal Proarche above all thought, a Power above all substance, indefinitely extended. Since this is the Power which I call the Pumpkin, there is with it the Power which I call Utter-Emptiness. This Pumpkin and Utter-Emptiness, being one, emitted, yet did not emit, the fruit, visible, edible, and delicious, which is known to language as the Cucumber. With this Cucumber there is a Power of like quality with it, which I term the Melon. These Powers, the Pumpkin, Utter-Emptiness, the Cucumber, and the Melon, sent forth the remaining crowd of the delirious Melons of Valentinus.

An actual photo of two Gnostics speculating

So let’s follow Irenaeus’ advice: don’t be a melon by trying to find truth through speculations, but instead seek the one true God who has revealed Himself to us in His Son!

The death of Judas has been the subject of many apologetic discussions about the reliability of the Bible, since it appears that Matthew 27v3-10 has Judas hanging himself, while Acts 1v15-20 has him falling headlong in his field and bursting open. Most people attempt to harmonise the two somehow, and others frankly have no idea what to make of it.

It wasn't money Judas wanted, but pies...well at least according to Papias!

One of the most entertaining (if not entirely reliable) contributions comes from Papias in the early part of the second century who tells us that Judas survived his hanging and died later because he became extraordinarily obese, thus splitting open. Papias was Bishop of Hierapolis and a disciple of John. His 'Interpretations of the Sayings of the Lord' is one of the Apostolic Fathers. He's not always taken terribly seriously (for example, Eusebius makes comments about his lack of intelligence) yet the man clearly had a special gift for prose. Here's his rather graphic description of the late Judas. 

"Judas was a terrible walking example of ungodliness in this world. His flesh so bloated he was not able to pass through a place where a wagon passes easily; not even his bloated head by itself. For his eyelids, they say, were so swollen that he could not see the light at all, and his eyes could not be seen even by a doctor using an optical instrument, so far had they sunk below the outer surface. His genitals appeared more loathsome and larger than anyone else's and when he relieved himself, there passed through it puss and worms from every part of his body, much to his shame.

After much agony and punishment, they say, he finally died in his own place and because of the stench the area is deserted and uninhabitable even now. In fact even to this day, no one can pass that place without holding one's nose- so great was the discharge from his body and so far did it spread over the ground."

Whether Papias' account is a trustworthy or just a big fat porkie is really impossible to say. Whatever we make of him, he's great proof that historical theology is far from boring, but often merrie and sometimes morbid.

Cyril of Alexandria (378-444) was Archbishop of Alexandria in Egypt.  He is known primarily having the heretical teaching of Nestorius condemned.  While one might assume this would endear Cyril to the Christendom, he has endured something of a mixed reception. 

You see, this Archbishop wasn’t merely a man of bushy eyebrows, waffling words, and impenetrable theology.  An early move once in office was to close down the churches of the Novationist sect.  Soon he had also expelled a large number of the Jewish population in response to their slaughter of Christians (lured onto the streets with the story that their church was on fire).  A feud between Christian factions resulted in the murder of Hypatia, a neo-Platonist philosopher.  She had been dragged from her carriage and slashed to death with pieces of broken pots.  Alexandria was apparently used to violence, street riots and murder mysteries, and in Cyril the city had what Edward Gibbon called an ‘episcopal warrior’ to lead the church.  Gibbon wasn’t paying a compliment.

‘the followers of [Cyril]… went about in the city girt and armed with clubs… with the yells of barbarians, snorting fiercely… carrying bells about the city and lighting fires… They blocked up the streets so that everyone was obliged to flee and hide, while they acted as masters of the situation, lying about, drunk and besotted and shouting obscenities.’

The evil Nestorius stayed away, fearing for his life- probably correctly, as he was unanimously excommunicated.  However Nestorius’ supporters arrived late and disputed the vote, so both Nestorius and Cyril were deposed.  Cyril apparently bribed his way back into office with fourteen oriental rugs, eight couches, six tablecloths, four tapestries, four ivory benches, six leather benches, and six ostriches.

While something of a loose canon, Saint Cyril demonstrates for us that saintliness and sainthood aren’t necessarily related- and that the Lord will choose to use even the most unlikely people to defend his gospel.  Cyril’s mission was to preserve the mind-expanding truth that ‘God walked the streets of Nazareth’, and we certainly owe him for making sure we never forget it.

St Francis of Assisi is famous for two things: preaching to birds, and the useless saying ‘Preach the gospel at all times and when necessary use words’.  Presumably his theology of preaching was dictated by his audience.  Francis earned himself the nickname ‘God’s Jester’ and the 14th Century Tuscan work, Fioretti di San Francesco, follows the escapades of his band of monks for our spiritual instruction and amusement.

The RSPCA have requested that you do not try this at home 

One of the best known is the story of St Juniper who joined Francis in 1210 and of whom Francis remarked, ‘Would to God, my brothers, I had a whole forest of such Junipers’.  Boom boom.  One of the friars was ill and Juniper asked if there was anything he could do for him.  The brother asked for a simple meal of a pig’s foot, so Juniper happily trotted off in search of a pig.  He spotted one wandering around in a neighbour’s farm and lopped-off a foot for his brother.

The owner of the pig was furious and hurled abuse at the Franciscans.  Francis demanded that Juniper apologise and make some reparation to the farmer.  Juniper was a simple soul, though, and failed to understand how the man could be so upset about such an act of kindness so he retold the story of the pig’s trotter as if he had done the farmer a favour.  When the farmer exploded at this, Junpier assumed he had misunderstood and gave him a hug, told the story again- this time hamming it up great deal- and asked that the whole pig could be given to the Franciscans.  The farmer was won over by Junpier’s pigheadedness and donated the animal to be slaughtered.

Perhaps Juniper would have looked back to the father of monasticism, St Anthony, who is also the patron saint of pigs.  While on a year of solitary retreat and prayer, Anthony was tempted by the devil appearing to him in the form of a fierce porker which viciously mauled him.  Anthony graciously resisted the temptation to fight back and serve-up bacon butties, was enveloped by a ‘wondrous light’ and the pig was transformed into a humble and docile porcine companion.  Since then, ‘Tantony’ (a contraction of ‘Saint Anthony’) is the nickname given to runt piglets in the litter.

C. S. Lewis was a lord of language. Sometimes he used his powers to explain the difference between Christianity and other faiths, but in The Horse and His Boy he gets readers to feel the difference as he takes them out of beautiful, Aslan-serving Narnia to Calormen, land of the demon-god Tash. There in Calormen readers enter a society that Tash has made as haughty, cruel and bigoted as himself. 

And what does that look like? It isn’t just all the whips that are revealing; it’s all the words. The Calormenes liked ‘talking to one another very slowly about things that sounded dull’, and all those words betray the real nature of Tashism. The stodginess, pomposity and intimidation involved in worshipping Tash all leak out into the language. For example, the Tisroc (‘May he live for ever’): ‘ My son, by all means desist from kicking the venerable and enlightened Vizier: for as a costly jewel retains its value even if hidden in a dung-hill, so old-age and discretion are to be respected even in the vile persons of our subjects’. Or try saying a Calormene proverb: ‘Application to the root of business is the root of prosperity, but those who ask questions that do not concern them are steering the ship of folly toward the rock of indigence’.

In contrast, the words of those who know Aslan are perky and bright. Their proverbs are pithy: ‘Nests before eggs’; ‘Come live with me and you’ll know me’. It seems that the living Lion makes his followers and their words lively. His joy makes them playful. And what Lewis shows so well is that the truth seems to be captured and presented better by lively speech.

In other words, we speak like our gods. One has to wonder what Lewis thought of stodgy and pompous theology. 

Romans 5 is very clear that within humanity, there are really two humanities; one headed by Adam and destined for death, and the other headed by Christ and promised eternal life. Orthodox Christians have always held that the way to transfer membership from the first humanity into the second is to be born again by the Holy Spirit.  Yet for some throughout Church history, the idea of charting new paths from one to the other has proved far more attractive.

The Adamites were a well known North African cult in the 2^nd, 3^rd, and 4^th Centuries, devoted to regaining the innocence of pre-Fall Adam.  Their main expression of (or motivation behind) this rediscovered ‘liberty’ was to practice ‘holy nudism’- both in every day life, and in public worship.  They tended to meet underground, and referred to their services as ‘Paradise’.  Their favourite Bible moment was, unsurprisingly, David’s undignified dancing in his pants at the return of the ark in 2 Samuel 6.

Adamites having a jolly in the street, disturbed by armed soldiers

Despite being condemned as heretics by the likes of Augustine, the Adamites saw something of a revival in 15^th Century Bohemia with a sect of Taborites who ‘indulged in predatory forays upon the neighborhood, and… committed wild excesses in nocturnal dances.’  A further revival in 17^th Century London saw Adamites rejecting most civil, moral and social restraints on their behaviour- including marriage, adherence to the law, and the ‘false modesty’ of society.  Perhaps due to the chillier location (London is hardly Algeria) this group tended to restrict their displays of the ‘divine state of grace’ to closed meetings in members’ homes.

Enjoying the comforts of one’s bed has long been a hobby associated with students.  Yet it seems that eminent theologians have also noted the great benefits of the discipline.

C. S. Lewis wisely noted,  ‘At the evening meal and after, comes the time for talk, or, failing that, for lighter reading; and unless you are making a night of it with your cronies, there is no reason why you should ever be in bed later than eleven.’ (From Surprised by Joy)  A sound piece of advice for the reader who wants to clock-up a decent lie in.

G. K. Chesterton was so enamoured with staying in bed that he wrote a short essay, On Lying in Bed.  In it he imagined that ‘Lying in bed would be an altogether perfect and supreme experience if only one had a coloured pencil long enough to draw on the ceiling.’ 

After some time ruminating on the merits of lying in bed for a good deal of time, Chesterton gets firm. ‘The tone now commonly taken toward the practice of lying in bed is hypocritical and unhealthy…  Instead of being regarded, as it ought to be, as a matter of personal convenience and adjustment, it has come to be regarded by many as if it were a part of essential morals to get up early in the morning... Misers get up early in the morning; and burglars, I am informed, get up the night before.’

Clearly, a breakfast (or lunch) in bed now and then is the mark of a man or woman of fine moral character.  Let’s not forget that Moses enjoyed lying in bed and thinking about theology often (Deuteronomy 6:7), Adam and Boaz both got their wives by enjoying a good sleep, and of course the promise of the new creation is finally to enjoy the Sabbath rest of God’s 7^th Day (Hebrews 8).  Until that great day, we are to rest- with theological appreciation- on the promise of Psalm 127:2, ‘the Lord gives sleep to those he loves.’

On this day, 491 years ago, Martin Luther nailed to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg 95 theses for debate over the matter of indulgences.

An actual photo of Luther nailing up his theses

Some of the theses were actually quite funny, like Thesis 82, which asked why the pope didn’t just release all souls from purgatory out of love, instead of charging for it. Later, though, Luther realised he’d missed a trick, and he circulated a pamphlet inviting people to see an even greater collection of relics than that in Wittenberg. This included:

·    Three flames from the burning bush on Mt Sinai
·    Two feathers and an egg from the Holy Spirit
·    Half a wing of the archangel Gabriel
·    A section of Moses’ left horn [Exod 34:29, in the Vulgate, Moses‘ face was ‘horned’ from the conversation with the Lord]
·    Two ells of sound from the trumpets on Mt Sinai
·    A remnant of the flag with which Christ opened hell
·    A large lock of Beelzebub’s beard, stuck on the flag

Who says you have to be always serious to reform the Church?  The laughter of the Reformation was one its most powerful weapons, exposing and humiliating bankrupt theology.

Posted as part of the Challies.com Reformation Day 2008 Symposium.

‘What a bubbling fountain of humour Mr. Spurgeon had!  I laughed more, I verily believe, when in his company than during all the rest of my life besides.’  That’s what people said about Charles Spurgeon, the nineteenth century ‘prince of preachers’. 

Today in theological debate, mentioning Adam and Eve is likely to get you into discussion about the interpretation of Genesis 1, the age of the earth, or whether the Fall was a real historical event.

There was a time, however, when you’d have been pinned to the wall by your sparring partner and forced to declare your position on the thorny issue of whether or not Adam and Eve had navels.  While Monks spent time literally 'navel gazing' over the puzzle in the quiet of their monasteries, fierce rival factions warred outside over what they took to be a key theological battleground. When Michelangelo painted Adam with a navel on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, he was labelled a heretic by some theologians.  In 1646, Sir Thomas Browne an English philosopher published his Pseudodoxia Epidemica in which a whole chapter was dedicated to the evils of ‘Pictures of Adam and Eve with Navels’, describing it a ‘vulgar error’.

Michelangelo dares to paint Adam's navel on the roof of the Sistine Chapel. 

The opposite team argued hard for Adam and Eve’s belly buttons, laughing-off accusations that they must have pictured God with one since the our first parents were made in His image. Unfortunately, this group had to deal with some internal politics as three distinct camps emerged; the pre-umbilicists, mid-umbilicists, and post-umbilicists.  The first group assumed that Adam and Eve were created with navels (usually in order to give the appearance of prior history, solving the infamous chicken and egg connundrum); the second posited that surely Adam’s navel was created when the Lord removed his rib to create Eve, and Eve went without; the third places the umbilicus on the pair after the Fall as a reminder that they’d been severed from the Lord, just as a child would be severed from his mother at birth.

The debate over whether Adam and Eve’s navels were intrusions (innies) or protrusions (outies) is still simmering in theology faculties around the country.

Tertullian, the great North African theologian writing around 200 AD, was like a cross between Bruce Banner and Oscar Wilde: scary enough that you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, and very, very funny.


Tertullian, ready either to explode or write a 'Knock! Knock!' joke.

Tertullian chuckled so much it disturbed people.  First of all, he used to laugh at how simple – in fact, how absurdly simple – truth is, meaning it takes a humble mind to recognise it.  Once, he put it like this:

‘The Son of God was crucified: I am not ashamed, because it is shameful.
The Son of God died: it is immediately credible, because it is silly.
He was buried, and rose again: it is certain,  because it is impossible.’
 
Fighting talk for those who reasoned God couldn’t become man, nor three be one!

But he also used to laugh at the absurdity of false belief.  This was quite appropriate, he reckoned:

‘There are many things which deserve refutation in such a way as to have no gravity expended on them. Vain and silly topics are met with especial fitness by laughter. Even the truth may indulge in ridicule, because it is jubilant; it may play with its enemies, because it is fearless. Only we must take care that its laughter be not unseemly, and so itself be laughed at; but wherever its mirth is decent, there it is a duty to indulge it.’

Marcion was a heretic to be given exactly such treatment.  Marcion, reasoning that Jesus was God, felt he had to deny that Jesus was fully human.  Tertullian reckoned this merely proved that Marcion himself was not fully human, because he must be lacking a brain.  Tertullian thought he probably had a pumpkin instead, meaning Marcion was half-man, half-fruit.

He dished out such lines because he believed they were just the sort of jolt the pompous heretics, puffed up with all their pretentious ‘profundity’, needed.  And, especially for dealing with those who denied Jesus’ humanity (and so were a bit inhuman themselves), it was a very human way of arguing.  

Perhaps PC means we can’t be like Tertullian any more (or like Paul in Galatians 5:12).  Or is it that PC, bone-dry theology is itself a bit half-man, half-fruit?

Reading different versions of the bible can be a good thing. But sometimes it can be quite surprising. Read Psalm 91:5 in the Coverdale Bible of 1535 and you’ll find ‘Thou shall not nede to be afrayed for eny bugges by night’ (‘bug’ meant ‘something terrifying’). 

Bored or naughty typesetters, however, once forced bible readers to be much more wary:

In the 1562 edition of the Geneva Bible, Matthew 5:9 read ‘Blessed are the placemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.’ 
A 1716 edition of the King James Bible has Jesus say ‘sin on more’ in John 5:14, rather than ‘sin no more’. 
A 1795 edition had Jesus say in Mark 7:27 ‘Let the children first be killed’ instead of ‘Let the children first be filled’.

Probably the worst mistakes, however, were made in the 1631 and 1653 ‘Wicked Bibles’.  In the 1653 edition, 1 Corinthians 6:9 read ‘the unrighteous shall inherit the kingdom of God’ and the 1631 edition had the seventh commandment as ‘Thou shalt commit adultery.’  The bibles were ordered to be burned, and the sloppy (one hopes it was just sloppiness) printer fined a then-hefty £300.

In the Charing Cross Bible of 1651, the bored typesetter replaced Ezekiel 48:5 with the following rant: ‘I amme sick to mye Hart of typesettinge... I telle you, onne daye laike this Ennyone with half an oz. of Sense should bee oute in the Sunneshain, ane nott Stucke here alle the livelong daie inn this mowldey olde By-Our-Lady Workeshoppe.’ 

It also included the following three extra verses at the end of Genesis 3:

25. And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee?
26. And the Angel said, I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my own head next.
27. And the Lord did not ask him again.

Unlike the ‘Wicked Bibles’, however, the Charing Cross Bible was (after painstaking research) proved to be a forgery.  

The old Puritans aren’t generally known for their rollicking laughs; yet when it came to naming their children, they seemed to have the most roguish sense of humour.  Not satisfied with biblical names, some sought to give their children whole bible verses or edifying slogans for Christian names:

‘Job-Raked-Out-Of-The-Ashes,’ ‘Search-The-Scriptures,’ or ‘Fly-Fornication’ for example.  Surely no child could be so-named with a straight face.

Perhaps the best-known example was ‘Praise-God’ Barebone, a member of the Nominated Assembly in Cromwell’s day.

Praise-God Barebone

‘Praise-God’ got off lightly, though – his brother was called ‘Christ-Came-Into-The-World-To-Save’ Barebone.  Nevertheless, he decided to exact his revenge on his son, naming him ‘ Unless-Jesus-Christ-Had-Died-For-Thee-Thou-Hadst-Been-Damned’ Barebone.  Unsurprisingly, people found it easier to refer to the son simply as ‘Damned’ Barebone. Yet, for some reason, ‘Damned’ preferred to be known as Nicholas, and it is under that name that he founded London’s first fire insurance company and fire brigade

If you’d like some more Puritan advice in naming your child, maybe one of the following can inspire you:

No-Merit
Sorry-For-Sin
More-Trial
Small-Hope
Kill-Sin
Fight-The-Good-Fight-Of-Faith

Some of most rib-tickling theologians of all were the ‘holy fools’ of the 6th century, who behaved foolishly so as to defy the conventions of the sinful world.  Perhaps the most famous was Simeon the Fool.

Simeon the Fool (as he never looked)

He famously began his ministry of folly by entering the city of Emessa (dragging a dead dog behind him) and mimicking Jesus’ healing of the blind man.  Jesus had used saliva and clay on the man’s eyes; but when a man suffering from leucoma in both eyes approached Simeon, he anointed the man’s eyes with mustard, burning him and so aggravating his condition that he went completely blind. 

The rest of his ministry consisted of streaking in the circus, tripping people up, and consuming vast amounts of beans on solemn fast days – with predictable and hilarious results.  During church services, he would pelt the priests with nuts and blow out the candles; at other times he would drag himself around on his buttocks, punch adulterers, eat raw meat and defecate in public. 

Simeon was understandably revered by many (and was later canonised as a saint); yet when he ran naked into the crowded women’s section of the bath-house and jumped in to join them, he was promptly beaten and thrown out by the women, who suspected that perhaps he was not as foolish as he pretended. 

Simeon has inspired many people down through history, men such as Basil the Fool and John the Hairy, and is widely followed today.

The good theologian chuckles at how absurdly good the gospel of Jesus is. He laughs, because he doesn’t take himself too seriously. And he knows the power of a good giggle: tittering at what tempts him robs it of its power. So don’t be a pompous ass. Be a merrie theologiane!

Luther knew how to be merry: at home, Luther had his own bowling alley (he loved bowling – he’s said to be the guy who standardised the rules, fixing the number of pins at nine); he even had his own brewery.  Much of the Reformation in Germany stemmed from Luther having people over for dinner.  He had people over the whole time.  And over supper they’d talk theology: sometimes it was justification, sometimes the theology of farting.  For example:

“I resist the devil, and often it is with a fart that I chase him away.  When he tempts me with silly sins I say, ‘Devil, yesterday I broke wind too.  Have you written it down on your list?’”

Clearly the Devil’s taunts weren’t so bad after that! 

Fancy some more?  Laugh your way through this most rip-roaring read: