Why I'm Sometimes a Closet Gnostic (or Why the Incarnation Necessitates a Spirituality of Earth-Bound Realism)

Sometimes I’m a closet Gnostic. Put another way, sometimes, I must confess, I wish there was something to Gnosticism.

But before I go any further, let me first explain the term “Gnostic.” Without getting into a lot of scholarly detail, Gnosticism comes from the Greek term for knowledge, gnosis. It refers to a collection of religious groups that emerged in the first decades of Christianity. Here are a few details about Gnosticism. If any of you out there are NT scholars or experts on this subject matter, feel free to correct any errors or oversights. I’m not aspiring to academic perfection at the moment.

The first identifying characteristic of Gnosticism—as indicated by its name—is that it is a form of spirituality and religious practice that is based on secret knowledge into which its members have to be initiated. It’s about being in the know, and is elitist: “I know something that you don’t know!”

Another element that is characteristic of most forms of Gnosticism is its disdain of the material world. That is, this is a form of spirituality that says our bodies, our physical existence, all of our earthly entanglements, are bad. People practice Gnostic forms of religion in order to escape and achieve freedom from the physical and material.

This is the aspect of Gnostic religious practice that, in opposition to sound biblical theology, I unconsciously (and occasionally consciously) long for: a spirituality, a form of religious practice, a faith commitment, that frees me from all of the earth-bound considerations that face us every day by virtue of living in the world that God has made.

So in what specific sense do I sometimes long to be Gnostic?

Let me say, to begin, that life is messy. Life can be complicated. Life can be difficult. Each of us is implicated—unless we practice isolationism of some form!—in a multitude of relationships: families, neighbours, co-workers, fellow church members, friends. And the more people are involved in our lives, the more relationships we are in, the more likely we are to experience just how messy and complicated life can be.

Here’s an analogy that is close to home for me. Our house, especially right now with getting used to our new twin boys, is often messy and cluttered. There are kids’ toys in most rooms. Piles of clutter decorate various surface areas. There is always some house work to do.

Now if I lived on my own—if I were single—no doubt I could keep my house clean pretty easily. For example, if I were single, it would be considerably easier to keep my bathroom clean. But because I have a wife and a few kids (admittedly, the twins are less able to contribute directly to our mess!), it is considerably more difficult to keep the bathroom clean.

Here’s the thing: I would absolutely love it if my bathroom (not to mention the rest of my house) were mess-free and pretty much always clean. But only if I were on my own would this be remotely possible. As time progresses and my twin boys grow from infancy to toddler-hood to adolescence, it will be even harder to keep our house as I’d like.

So here’s the choice: a full, loving family or a clean house, a network of meaningful, intimate relationships or a home free of mess. You see, the former will not lead to the latter. Avoiding the former is the only way to (potentially) avoid the latter.

The quandary is as follows: most of us aren’t terribly fond of mess, either in our homes, our relationships, or in our churches. So we try and manipulate these various realms of life so that we can minimize the mess as much as possible; to do so most successfully means having to avoid relationships of consequence altogether.

Apply this to spirituality or faith practice. Because of life’s complications and entanglements, we often hope, whether we realize it or not, for some form of release or escape from these complications. Often this is why we pursue religious practice. We think that being religious may allow us to transcend or get away from all those things that cause mess in our lives.

I know that I can sometimes feel this way. I want to be able to pray away life’s messes. I want, as a closet Gnostic, to have a form of spirituality that separates me from all these messes rather than one which helps me in the midst of them. I want a relationship with God that helps me walk on clouds all day rather than one which keeps my feet planted on terra firma. I want my bathroom clean, in other words.

We can’t have God without other people. The greatest commandment is “Love the Lord God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and all your strength,” and the second is very much like it, “Love your neighbour as yourself.” You can’t have one without the other. The letter of 1 John makes this crystal clear: “Those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen” (4:20).

But to love other people means having to accept the likelihood of messes.

In fact, God himself accepted the likelihood of such mess too. The opening of 1 John testifies to the fact that Jesus Christ was God in the flesh: “We declare to you what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life—this life was revealed, and we have seen it and testify to it.”

When John speaks about what was from the beginning, what was heard, seen, and touched, the life that was revealed, he is talking about Jesus Christ, the Son of God made flesh. He is talking about the fact that the Second Person of the Trinity—the Godhead—took on flesh, bone, and blood, and did so as the ultimate expression of divine love and grace, and in so doing, revealed the heart of God.

At the start of his Gospel, John puts it this way: “And the Word became flesh and lived among us.” Peterson, in his paraphrase The Message, says, “The Word became flesh and moved in to the neighbourhood.” I like that. God moved in next door, across the hall, across the street. God, in Jesus, is in the neighbourhood. Theologians call this the doctrine of the incarnation: God made man.

That this is so means that God takes with ultimate seriousness our physical, material existence and that our relationship with him is not about escaping this reality but living in relationship with God in the midst of this reality.

Gnosticism doesn’t sit comfortably with the incarnation. Incarnational theology, in contrast with a Gnostic theology, practices a faith of involvement and engagement rather than escape and avoidance. It is more apt to dive into the mess than run away from it. For some of us human beings, this takes getting some used to.

Incarnational theology brings us back to the Genesis-affirmation, when God said: “It is good,” speaking of the world he made. Bringing our world into existence was not an accidental by-product of some other divine act but an act of divine will and purpose, an expression not of God’s need for human beings and a universe but rather of his desire to have a creation to share in the love that he enjoys in himself from all eternity.

So God made this world and said, “It is good.” He also entered this world. The Word became flesh and moved into the neighbourhood. And to love God—to live truthfully—we also have to love one another, and there’s no way to do this and avoid life’s messes at the same time. There’s just no way, no matter how much I may sometimes wish there were, to be a follower of Jesus—the Word made flesh—and indulge my closet Gnosticism at the same time.