Faith, History, and Eschatology

Just finished reading The Myth of the Eternal Return by Mircea Eliade, thought I would share some sections of the book here.  This is not meant to be a summary of the book’s main argument, I’m intentionally focusing in on a few things that I found particularly interesting.

The book is dealing with ancient/ “primitive”/ “archaic” understandings of humanity’s relationship with metaphysical concepts like “reality” or “being” or “time.”  To give you a little background:

The metaphysical concepts of the archaic world were not always formulated in theoretical language; but the symbol, the myth, the rite, express, on different planes and through the means proper to them, a complex system of coherent affirmations about the ultimate reality of things, a system that can be regarded as constituting a metaphysics.  - 3

In other words, religious myths and religious actions were a major locus of how such concepts were understood in the ancient world.  

[On the] “primitive” ontological conception: an object or an act becomes real only insofar as it imitates or repeats an archetype.  Thus, reality is acquired solely through repetition or participation; everything which lacks an exemplary model is “meaningless,” i.e., it lacks reality...  Hence it could be said that this “primitive” ontology has a Platonic structure. - 34

Insofar as an act (or an object) acquires a certain reality through the repetition of certain paradigmatic gestures, and acquires it through that alone, there is an implicit abolition of profane time, of duration, of “history”; and he who reproduces the exemplary gesture thus finds himself transported into the mythical epoch in which its revelation took place. - 35

Essentially, Eliade argues that for the ancient world a kind of dualism pervaded their philosophy in which that which was truly real was that which could escape the changing flow of time.  This was enacted through the retelling of religious myths, which were timeless, and the participation in religious rituals, through which Eliade writes “[ancient man] repeats the gestures of another and, through this repetition, lives always in an atemporal present.” - 86

For contrast, take a modern view of time and history as exemplified by Hegel:

For Hegel, history is “free” and always “new,” it does not repeat itself; nevertheless, it conforms to the plans of providence; hence it has a model (ideal, but none the less a model) in the dialectic of spirit itself.  To this history which does not repeat itself, Hegel opposes nature, in which things are reproduced ad infinitum. - 90

And now for the really interesting bit, contrast both these models with Eliade’s interpretation of the relationship with time and reality in ancient Hebrew thought:

For the first time, we find affirmed, and increasingly accepted, the idea that historical events have a value in themselves, insofar as they are determined by the will of God.  This God of the Jewish people is no longer an Oriental divinity, creator of archetypal gestures, but a personality who ceaselessly intervenes in history, who reveals his will through events (invasions, sieges, battles, and so on)... It may, then, be said with truth that the Hebrews were the first to discover the meaning of history as the epiphany of God, and this conception, as we should expect, was taken up and amplified by Christianity.  We may even ask ourselves if monotheism, based upon the direct and personal revelation of the divinity, does not necessarily entail the “salvation” of time, its value within the frame of history. - 104

What makes this even more interesting is the way in which this conception of history takes on an eschatological dimension:

Under the “pressure of history” and supported by the prophetic and Messianic experience, a new interpretation of historical events dawns among the children of Israel.  Without finally renouncing the traditional concept of archetypes and repetitions, Israel attempts to “save” historical events by regarding them as active presences of Yahweh.  Whereas, for example, among Mesopotamian peoples individual or collective sufferings were tolerated insofar as they were caused by the conflict between divine and demonic forces, that is, formed a part of the cosmic drama, in the Israel of the Messianic prophets, historical events could be tolerated because, on the one hand, they were willed by Yahweh, and, on the other hand, because they were necessary to the final salvation of the chosen people.  - 106-07

Out of this eschatological dimension develops a new perception of God which makes possible faith (interesting to note that Eliade’s understanding of faith here is being influenced by Kierkegaard):

Abraham’s religious act [the sacrifice of Isaac] inaugurates a new religious dimension: God reveals himself as personal, as a “totally distinct” existence that ordains, bestows, demands, without any rational (i.e., general and foreseeable) justification, and for which all is possible.  This new religious dimension renders “faith” possible in the Judaeo-Christian sense.  - 110

In another gesture to Kierkegaard, Eliade then describes how this kind of faith, made possible in Judaism and Christianity, has struggled to catch on:

Neither in Christianity nor in Judaism does the discovery of this new dimension in religious experience, faith, produce a basic modification of traditional conceptions.  Faith is merely made possible for each individual Christian.  The great majority of so-called Christian populations continue, down to our day, to preserve themselves from history by ignoring it and by tolerating it rather than by giving it the meaning of a negative or positive theophany.  - 111

In other words, Eliade seems to be suggesting, for the majority of the Christian tradition the locus of religion is still found in ritual (which recalls the idea of participating in an eternal present) and not in “faith.”  I find this whole comparison very interesting for a few reasons.  First, it definitely seems to be a jab at Catholicism in the name of promoting a kind of Kierkegaardian, perhaps even evangelical, conception of “faith.”  It is also interesting because of the way in which “faith” in this sense is intertwined very closely with eschatology.  Any thoughts?

A Critique of Universalism

This thought occurred to me one day last summer when I was working at camp, strolling through the woods carrying my guitar.  I jotted it down then but never came back to finish writing it.  Finally setting about that task...

The logic of this post is assuming a traditional “heaven-hell” schema of an afterlife (in which I would also include, for my Catholic brethren, a schema which included “purgatory”).  I take it as part of most such theologies that the afterlife is (at least theologically) considered more significant than this life because of its eternal nature (as opposed to the changing, temporal nature of this life).  Such assumptions may not hold in every version of universalism, so this critique is not meant to be definitive by any means.

The critique can be phrased in a question playing on an old saying:  If all roads lead to Rome, then what does it matter which road you take?  Now, to some extent this is exactly the point of universalism- it doesn’t matter which road we take!  But I want to press the logic of that a bit farther.  If it truly doesn’t matter which road we take, then we can attach no objective value to any particular road.  Which then leads to some particularly startling conclusions:  it is no better to be a child abuser than a devout monk, for instance, given this understanding of universalism.  At the end of the day, both will end up in the same place, sharing the same heavenly experience despite having lived radically different lives.

In one sense, this implies significant equality.  Death, which we must all experience, becomes the great equalizer, after which all of our experiences will become the same.  On the other hand, such great equality in effect negates the value of this life.  It turns into a weirdly fatalistic and potentially hedonistic kind of gnosticism which holds the “eternal” life as the most significant and this life as a mere stopping point whose meaning and significance is little to none (so we might as well get as much enjoyment out of it as we can in whatever way we see fit).

The resource to defend against this critique is to limit the scope of universalism, saying something like “all those who make an effort at moral living” or, slightly more narrowly, “all those who make an effort at religious faith” will end up in heaven.  This quasi-universalism (not truly universalism anymore, but something that might be considered an “inclusivism”) is no longer subject to the critique that I have raised, but it might be subject to other critiques.  In particular, it might be plagued by the problem of defining a “threshold”- what qualifies as a worthwhile effort at moral living?  What qualifies as an effort at religious faith?  Once we begin asking those questions we begin very quickly to end up back in the same kinds of arguments which motivated the movement to universalism to begin with- the desire to avoid seemingly arbitrary excluding boundaries.

All this to say, the issue of determining the bounds of salvation is a sticky one no matter what approach you take or position you hold.  

Nietzsche, God, and the Cross

Of all the challenges posed to Christianity in the modern age, I think the ones raised by German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche are among the most serious.  While many debates center around the notion of the existence of God or of the historical Jesus, Nietzsche cuts to the very core of Christianity, to the very logic of the story itself, and attempts to show why the logic not only doesn’t work but is in fact, on his view, evil.  Now Nietzsche is a double-edged sword.  He makes very similar attacks on the philosophy and science of his day, and probably for that reason he has been relegated to the sidelines of philosophy, someone you talk about in the context of the existentialist movement but not someone you take seriously if you are doing philosophy or theology (especially not in an “analytic” context).

Yet, for all of this, I think Nietzsche deserves to have a more active place in our theological discussions.  Nietzsche’s attacks on both religion and philosophy are motivated in part by his concerns about objectivity, which is a popular theme in my own thinking.  Nietzsche is also concerned with what he sees as a hostile taking over of ethics by those who wish to confine humanity to live within certain docile “norms.”  Nietzsche in some respects might be said to want to “unleash the beast within,” and this is partly what happened with his thought when it was co-opted by Nazi Germany as philosophical justification for the atrocities of the holocaust.  While we must be careful to avoid such errors ourselves, perhaps a more favorable interpretation of Nietzsche might be this: Nietzsche believes that we are most human when we are most free to express ourselves in our unique, individuality.  Nietzsche wants us to be pure individuals not constrained by any other.  In this sense he actually has great respect for Jesus, it is more Jesus’ followers Nietzsche is upset with because he feels they have hoisted constraints onto humanity which have prevented true individuals from coming into existence.

Now with this overarching interpretation in mind, we can consider Nietzsche’s distinction between the Nobles and the Plebes in society.  The Nobles are those who are strong, successful, powerful and therefore free from constraints which might make them incapable of being a true individual.  They can shape their identity in whatever way they would like, they are not dominated by someone else.  The Plebes, on the other hand, are forced to see themselves in relation to the Nobles.  They can only exist at the pleasure of those higher up the food chain than they are.  They depend on them for their support, and they therefore resent them.  This distinction gives rise to two types of morality, in Nietzsche’s estimation.  The first type, associated with the Nobles, celebrates all that is strong and inherently good in itself.  It finds virtuous those who are able to enact their will without relying on others.  The second type, associated with the Plebes, is rooted in the notion of “revenge.”  Dominated as they are by others, the Plebes dream up an eschatological system of morality, one based on a “final judgment” which will bring down the “evil” Nobles (from the Plebes’ point of view) and exalt the humble Plebes.  It is easy to see from this description how Nietzsche goes about critiquing Christian morality and theology.

One other detail of Nietzsche’s thought will be useful to note here before launching into my own response to Nietzsche.  That is Nietzsche’s conception of how the two systems of morality he has sketched would make sense of an “enemy.”  On the common, Plebian notion of morality the enemy is one to be detested and hated and most importantly viewed as “evil.”  Not so with the Nobles.  When two Nobles view one another as enemies, they have a core of deep respect for the other’s individuality and strength.  Whatever rivalry they feel towards one other, whatever opposition, they still acknowledge one another as equals (at least in worth and dignity).  To use Nietzsche’s own words, “He tolerates no other enemy than one in whom nothing is to be despised and a great deal is worthy of respect!”  (First Essay, On the Genealogy of Morals).

There are several different ways of responding to Nietzsche, many of which I think miss the point of his arguments.  My own response to Nietzsche is not an attempt to rebuff his critiques of Christian ethics or theology (even if I do not agree with all of his characterizations of either) but instead to note a problem with his notion of individuality as it might exist in the real world.  Something later existentialist writers (such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Simon de Beauvoir) will emphasize which Nietzsche does not is that we are always existing in relation with other people.  As such, we are always subject to the influence of others, always defining ourselves at least to a certain extent in respect to others, etc.  Given the expansiveness of human relationships it seems as though it is impossible for “true individuals” in the sense meant by Nietzsche to exist in this world.  It is important to note that this move does not negate the force of Nietzsche’s arguments, but it may have the effect of saying that in some respect all of us are Plebes and there are no true Nobles.

This analysis opens up a very interesting possibility to me.  The truly unique individual is one who is entirely free of the constraints of other people, not in any way dependent on them for its own life and self-understanding.  We have suggested that such an individual cannot exist in this world because of the expansive and inter-connected nature of human relationships.  I want to go a step farther and suggest that such a description of “Nobility” could be applied to the notion of God.  Now I recognize that Nietzsche just turned over in his grave at my writing this, but I also think that such a notion of God would be radically different from the traditional conceptions of God that Nietzsche was reacting against.  God as the wholly unique, self-defining individual is not the eschatological God of much traditional Christian rhetoric. This is not the God who can be coaxed by human ritual and action into bringing about the kingdom of bliss for the underdogs.  This is not the God who can be made in our image to justify our own endeavors.  This is a fiercely unpredictable God, the God of Job who brings calamity on the faithful without explanation, the God of Noah who can destroy humanity if it is so pleases him.

As frightening as this image of God is, I think Nietzsche also provides a very intriguing way of conceptualizing what happens at the cross.  Remember that in Nietzsche’s conception of the Noble morality, an “enemy” is one who must command complete respect.  A true Noble will not look on the Plebes as his enemy because they are unworthy of the same respect as he has for himself or another Noble.  Seemingly this means that Nietzsche cannot conceive of the Christian notion of redemption because it implies a higher being condescending to care about lower beings.  Yet I think that endowed with the notion of “incarnation” the cross can take on a new and profound meaning in Nietzsche’s system.  The cross can be seen as a moment exemplifying the concept of an “enemy” in the Noble system of morality.  At the cross God the Father is put in opposition with God the Son, who because of his own divine nature can embody a being whom the Father must fully respect and see as a worthy equal, something which could never be accomplished by a human “plebe.”  In other words, at the heart of the Christian story is a moment in which God has become God’s own enemy on behalf of humanity.

Now I fully recognize that Nietzsche would be intensely dissatisfied with this interpretation of his own philosophy.  I’m also going to openly admit that I’m not certain I believe the theological interpretation I have just given (though I think this “Nietzschean theology” is a perspective that could be valuable to theological discussions).  I do think, however, that this is a very interesting way of thinking about both God and the cross drawn from within Nietzsche’s thought (even as he attempted to derail both the notion of God and the cross).  It is food for thought if nothing else, a way of conceptualizing Christian theology which also wrestles with some of the greatest challenges to Christian theology.

An Existentialist Reading of Genesis 1-3

In two previous posts we have surveyed some key components of existentialist thought, laying out a starting point for further discussion.  As a brief survey, existentialism begins with noting the epistemological limitations of our subjective perspectives which call objective, metaphysical knowledge claims into question.  Recognizing the inadequacy of such claims, existentialism then looks at how we might live with our subjectivity.  With this starting point in mind, I want to turn now toward applying existentialism to some theological questions.  To begin with, I want to look at the first three chapters of Genesis, an extremely important section of scripture theologically, and offer what might be an “existentialist reading” of this passage.

It of course needs to be noted that there can be no such thing as a single “existentialist reading” of this or any passage.  I am merely offering some suggestions about how some significant pieces of the first three chapters of Genesis might intersect with existentialist ideas.  So for instance, God’s creation of the world through speech and following particular patterns shows us something of the desire for order and meaning which drives much of humanity’s endeavors.  Much more interesting to me is the endowment of humanity with the “image of God” in 1:26.  The most prominent interpretation of this in the tradition that I am aware of has been that this refers to human rationality.  However, it seems to me that a more existentialist understanding of this might be the capacity for “willing” or having a will.  Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a theologian who was clearly influenced by existentialist thinkers such as Kierkegaard and Nietzsche describes God as “absolute will,” the completely free and self-determining being.  Could it be, then, that the image of God is the human capacity to choose itself, to will itself and thereby direct its course of action?

To will oneself one must possess some sort of understanding.  Thus, coupled with the ability to will, but perhaps secondary to it, is the desire to understand and find meaning in the world.  When God brings the animals to Adam we see this happening.  Adam “names” them, in effect giving their existence some meaning in his own mind.  He is developing his own understanding of the world.  Into this understanding is placed the woman, who is “bone of [his] bones and flesh of [his] flesh.”  The statement has always seemed to me to imply fundamental equality of personhood between the two, supported by the fact that both have already been said to bear the image of God and that in the remainder of the story the woman will act (express her will) without the knowledge or consent of the man.  They both have a will and they both act out of an understanding of the world which they themselves are formulating.  We can see this formulation at work in the woman’s addition of “or even touch it” to God’s prohibition against eating from the tree.

The tree itself, and in particular the serpent’s statements about it, have some interesting intersections with existentialist thought, perhaps putting a particularly theological twist on such thinking.  As we have noted, existentialism is extremely skeptical of objective metaphysical claims.  Historically, such metaphysical systems have been the basis of systems of universal ethics-- universal ways of thinking about what constitutes right and wrong, good and evil.  When the serpent tells the woman that humans will become “like gods” when they eat of the fruit because they will know “good from evil” he is suggesting that human understanding will become the “objective” arbiter of good and evil, right and wrong.  In other words, individuals will exalt their own subjective understanding to the position of “objective truth.”  Once that has been done, disagreement is no longer a matter of two perspectives being different, something Bonhoeffer claims has always existed and always will exist, it is a matter of determining who is “right” and who is “wrong”-- a conflict which becomes divisive and often turns violent.  We see the effects of just such a conflict in the very next chapter when Cain and Abel’s disagreement regarding what constitutes proper sacrifice turns into the first homicide.

A final intersection occurs at the end of chapter three when Adam names the woman “Eve.”  The meaning Adam had given to the animals he is now applying to his wife.  Signaled here is the beginning of the dividing of human understanding between “I’s” and “Thou’s,” between “us” and “them.”  This kind of divide forms the basis both for social identity and for social conflict, a conflict especially pronounced in human history in the relationship between the sexes.

A Tension to Be Worked Out

In the midst of reading and writing for my summer reading project at the Restless, Young, and Reforming blog a tension within my own theology has become apparent to me.  I’m not proposing a solution to that tension here, I’m just identifying it and there will probably be more posts to come which wrestle with it.

Here is the tension:

On the one hand, I want to affirm that Jesus is the Word of God incarnate and that as such he teaches us to be compassionate and to care for the marginalized (in many ways echoing the message of the prophets).  He calls us to a ministry which represents God’s kingdom on earth, and God’s kingdom is meant to bring good news to the poor and oppressed seeking hope.

On the other hand, I think that the narratives of the Old Testament (and to some extent the New, but there is certainly much more of this in the Old) portray God as uncontrollable.  God cannot be put in a box.  In many ways God is unpredictable.  God brings blessing and curse upon people and there is no way to manipulate God and ensure that we only receive the good.  Even the righteous are tested, and the tests are often like tossing a ring of gold into the fire to burn off impurities: they are intense and painful.

How do we make sense of these two images of God?  Some have proposed that this contrast actually points to two deities: YHWH vs. Jesus with Jesus ultimately winning.  The orthodox tradition of Christianity has consistently rejected anything that seems to suggest this, and I think for good reasons.  The solution to this tension is not to divide the deity into two beings.  With that said, I don’t quite know what the solution to the tension is yet...  So this may become a major interest in future writings here and elsewhere.  Be prepared.

For the moment, I have a possible metaphor that has occurred to me in the midst of my time here at camp.  My house here is overlooking a beautiful little lake and we often get a fantastic breeze blowing in off the water.  Both water and the wind are wonderful and nourishing and refreshing things to experience.  But they can also both be extremely dangerous and unpredictable.  A strong storm can be very destructive.  A hidden current can pull you far away from shore before you realize what’s happening.  Both of these natural phenomenon are as powerful and uncontrollable as they are beautiful and life-giving.  Somehow that tension must be worked into our theology as well.

Defending the Orthodoxy of Open Theism

This is an idea that occurred to me recently in the context of discussion about human freedom.  The idea might not be worth much of anything, but I think its at least worth floating here.  Open Theism is the theological claim that God does not know with certainty every even that will happen in the future because the future is “open” and might “change.”  Frequently this is lambasted by evangelical theologians as being an unorthodox view of God.  For instance, the polar opposite of Open Theism, the Reformed theological tradition, makes the claim that God knows with certainty every future event.  What is worth asking, however, is how God has this knowledge in Reformed theology, and the answer is that it is because Reformed theology is deterministic- in Reformed theology God knows every future event because God will personally bring about or orchestrate every future event.  With that in mind, I think we can construct two arguments for comparison:

Reformed Argument:

1. God knows with certainty every event in the future that God will personally bring about or orchestrate.
2. God will personally bring about or orchestrate all future events.
3. Therefore, God knows with certainty all future events.

Open Theist Argument:

1. God knows with certainty every event in the future that God will personally bring about or orchestrate.
2. [Human freedom entails that] God will not personally bring about or orchestrate at least some future events.
3. Therefore, at least some future events are not known by God with certainty.

The first thing we can notice is that both arguments have the same first premise.  The second thing we can notice is that the second premise forms the basis for the difference between the two arguments, with both conclusions following from the two premises.  So in evaluating these arguments, the real question is about the second premise of each.  Will God personally bring about or orchestrate all future events?  What I think this means is that the argument over Open Theism is not an argument about God’s omniscience but one about human freedom.  In other words, since both arguments have the same first premise, the question about the orthodoxy of Open Theism is actually a question about the orthodoxy of the second premise of the Open Theist argument- if “free-will” is considered an “orthodox” doctrine, then Open Theism is within the orthodox tradition, as “non-traditional” as its conclusion may seem.  Historically, it seems very apparent to me that free will is within the traditions of orthodoxy.  So it seems to me Open Theism can be considered an orthodox theological view.  What do others think?

NB:  This post is not a declaration that I am an open theist.  It is merely a thought experiment about whether or not open theism should be considered an orthodox "option" in theology.

Aristotle and Cosmological Arguments

This is the condensed and slightly modified version of a paper I wrote last semester.  Longstanding in the great monotheistic traditions of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam has been a popular argument for the existence of God known today as the "cosmological argument."  Its current expounder-in-chief among Christians, William Lane Craig, has adapted a version of the argument derived from the Kalam tradition of Muslim scholarship.  Similar arguments were advanced by Thomas Aquinas in the Middle Ages and can even be seen in some Hellenistic Jewish literature among a variety of other sources from ancient times to present day.  The arguments for the most part take their starting point in the writings of Aristotle and in particular the argument laid out in Metaphysics XII concerning an "unmoved mover."  Yet there are some significant differences between Aristotle’s original argument and contemporary manifestations of the cosmological argument.

Aristotle’s cosmological argument occurs amidst discussions of substance and causation, and that context is extremely important to understanding the argument.  Substance for Aristotle is what “certain thinkers assert to be capable of existing apart” (1069ab).  Aristotle's argument can be understood as a critique of the Platonic notion of the Forms.  Essentially, Aristotle's argument is that the principles which cause change in individual substances- by which he seems to mean “formal change,” i.e., the things which demarcate individual substances as being a particular thing, whether they be shape or color or size or texture or movement or any other such factor- only exist as they are actualized in the particular things.  Thus, Aristotle seems to say, we can note ways in which these causes are analogous between one another, but we cannot make the conclusion, as Plato attempts to do, that such causes exist as universal Forms that stand apart.

Aristotle begins his argument by asserting that movement must have always existed, and if this is the case then time must have always existed and likewise space (1071b).  From this starting point he argues that substances must have always existed because without them this movement could not have existed (1071b).  Further, he argues as another critique of the Platonic notion of the eternal Forms, these eternal substances cannot exist in a state of potentiality but must be actualized for motion to exist.  The most significant point of this argument is that substances must be eternal.

In an interesting turn, then, Aristotle next adopts one of the key components of his teacher Plato's ideology, namely that the moving, changing, actualized world is somehow less real than the stable, unmoving, eternal world.  Based on this idea he will conclude that while moving objects exist eternally, they exist only in an intermediate state.  What is really needed is an unmoving object to ground everything, and what this object must be is eternal, actual, and most importantly a substance (1072a).  This Platonic idea that the ultimate cause needs to be free from the vagaries of motion or change is important for understanding the conclusion of this argument, a conclusion which has had profound implications on much of later theology.  This leads to the final conclusion of Aristotle:

It is clear then from what has been said that there is a substance which is eternal and unmovable and separate from sensible things.  It has been shown also that this substance cannot have any magnitude, but is without parts and indivisible.  But it has also been shown that it is impassive and unalterable; for all the other changes are posterior to change of place.  1073a

This substance is the famous "unmoved mover" who is eternal and separate.  From this will be derived many of the classical ideas about God in the monotheistic traditions: that God is eternal, transcendent and distinct from the world, indivisible, unchanging, etc.  This cosmological argument, we might claim, is not simply significant for its apologetic value but also because of the way it shapes the theological tradition.

In stark contrast to some more contemporary cosmological arguments, such as that advanced by William Lane Craig, which hold that the universe has a definite temporal starting point of which the "unmoved mover" is the first cause, Aristotle maintains that motion has eternally existed as we have discussed above.  How, then, is the "unmoved mover" a "first cause"?  The answer, I believe, lies in this discussion of substance.  For Aristotle substance is what underlies matter to allow it to take its form.  What I believe this argument establishes is essentially a hierarchy of substances.  This is Aristotle's twist on Plato's notion of the Forms existing as a hierarchy.  Since Aristotle denies that merely potential Forms can exist, he insists on the actuality of all substances.  The substances underlie matter and allow motion to exist.  What underlies the individual substances, however, and allows them to exist?  Other substances, in a kind of genetic tree or in a kind of motion of their own.  Aristotle thus thinks he has solved the problem of the universe's existence (NB: not its origin, because it has always existed) by the idea of underlying substances tracing back to a “first,” or perhaps better put “primary” or “foundational” substance, the first cause or “unmoved mover,” which exists eternally and apart from other substances but whose existence gives rise to the existence of the other substances.

Whether or not Aristotle’s argument ultimately works or convinces us that there is such an “unmoved mover,” what I think Aristotle does establish is an alternative type of causation to what we typically think of today.  We can call this more familiar type of causation, which underlies the Kalam argument, “temporal causation.”  It has to do with the sequence of cause-and-effect stretching back through time.  The Kalam argument maintains that there must be a definitive starting point to this sequence of “temporal causation.”  The alternative type of causation that Aristotle has presented we can call “ontological causation,” having to do with a hierarchy of substances from which others are derived ontologically but not necessarily temporally.  Interestingly, while I think Aquinas followed Aristotle’s notions of causation here fairly closely, for the most part the Christian tradition of philosophical theology has not employed this notion to particularly great affect (at least not the Protestant tradition).  I think the potential implications of this distinction, though, are fairly significant, especially as regards discussions about human agency/free-will and divine causation.

Evangelicals and the Academy: A Continuing Story

Some thoughts prompted by preparations for the summer reading project at Restless, Young, and Reforming and by a conversation with my roommate which has caused me to focus in on this issue a bit more.

Evangelicalism and the academy have often had a very tenuous relationship.  In my own experience of contemporary evangelicalism, there has seemed to be an inherent distrust of all things academic (at least related to theology, philosophy, or the Bible).  My experience is not unique, this kind of systemic suspicion of the academy was I think echoed in the warnings of one of my favorite professors at my (evangelical) undergraduate institution: “the more you study the Bible or theology academically, the more uncomfortable you will be listening to most sermons and sitting through most church services.”  The feeling of distrust between academy and church in evangelical circles is mutual, in other words (and take especial note, this is a statement coming from the evangelical academy, not the mainline academy).  Where does this deep-seated suspicion come from?

In a chapter I just read in (my old pastor) Andy Byers’ new book Faith Without Illusions, an answer having to do with sociology is given, a connection being made  between the frontier movement on which evangelicalism in this country was based and a distrust of all things “established,” including established, institutional higher learning.  Two other blogs that I have read recently are worth mentioning, as they offer somewhat different perspectives than I will offer here.  The first is from David Fitch, author of The End of Evangelicalism? among other things.  He discusses in this post the difference between the context of the Reformation and the context of contemporary American evangelicalism.  The second is from Baptist theologian Roger Olson, who discusses in this post what he sees as a shift back toward fundamentalism that has happened in evangelicalism in the last few decades.  The approach I am taking here is closer to what Fitch does, but I am going to focus a bit on the history of the term “evangelical” in discussing the relationship of evangelicalism to the academy.  Interestingly, as I was finishing up this post I was also beginning to read The Younger Evangelicals by Robert E. Webber for our summer reading project at Restless, Young, and Reforming and noticed that he does something very similar in his introduction.

As far as I understand it, “evangelical” was originally a much more generic term for Protestantism as understood by the Reformers.  Following the path of their renaissance humanist teachers, the Reformers solution to the problems they saw in the Catholic Church was to go “back to the text,” and in particular the text of the “evangelists”- the New Testament.  Thus, the term “Evangelical,” which if it had kept its original meaning might be (in my opinion) a better title than Protestant for the branch of Christianity it represents.  Interestingly, this renewed emphasis on the text led to the need for in depth study of the text, which led for the need for a strong system of hermeneutics. This got its running start with Friedrich Schleiermacher, who is also considered in many ways the origin point of the historical-critical method from which came the “liberal” study of the Bible.  In other words, to a very large degree modern “liberal”/critical study of the Bible was actually a product of the Evangelical movement.

Like everything else, this story is complicated.  So what we are doing here is “squinting,” which I’m quite willing to admit.  Whole books have been written about this and will continue to be written.  We are not going to cover all the details in one short blog post.

In very general terms, though, we can say that there was a discomfort among some in the Evangelical community about the direction of this critical study of scripture.  In my opinion, that discomfort may have had more to do with disagreements in the realm of philosophical presuppositions which impacted the academic study of the Bible than anything else.  Regardless, these disagreements became more and more pronounced, at first along largely national lines (Anglo-Americans vs. Germans) but eventually transcending those boundaries and creating a theological division within American Evangelicalism especially.  This resulted in the rise during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century of a movement we refer to as fundamentalism.  Fundamentalism makes a very interesting move, logically, which is to embrace circularity and declare that certain presuppositions must be held from the start for a theological system to have validity- namely, the doctrines they identified as “fundamental.”  Then, in the course of doing theology, these “fundamentals” would appear again as the conclusions of our research.  In other words the “doctrines” of the faith were unquestionable.  This philosophical system is sometimes referred to as Presuppositionalism and was defended by longtime professor of philosophy at Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia Cornelius van Til (whom I have had a slight fascination with in the past).

Two problems plagued fundamentalism, however.  One was that there was little to no internal agreement about what the “fundamentals” were, so there was constant internal bickering and division.  The second was that when you embrace circularity and use it to declare your system infallible from the beginning, its extremely hard to get anyone to take you seriously, and so the community became more and more isolated.  This is extremely problematic for a group that maintains as one of their key purposes the continued spread of the gospel.  When no one takes you seriously, its hard to spread your message.  Eventually, the need to engage the outside world became more and more apparent to fundamentalists.

The next step in the story involves two movements towards the center of this debate, one from each side of the aisle, which both went by the name of “Evangelicalism.”  The first was the movement of Karl Barth, often known as Neo-Orthodoxy, but its interesting to me that his summary of his own theology goes by the title “Evangelical.”  While Barth in many ways accepts the historical-critical study of scripture, he does so from the stance of someone who is also securely committed to Christian Orthodoxy.  In this sense, in my assessment, he challenges many of the philosophical presuppositions which had likely led to the discomfort of many more “conservative” Christians with the direction of academia prior to his time and this in turn led to a movement toward a “middle-ground” between Fundamentalism and the “Classical Liberalism” it had reacted to.

From the other side, there was a movement in “conservative” circles in the United States to become much more engaged with the broader culture once again.  This movement has become known as contemporary “evangelicalism.”  It is not monolithic and its efforts to engage its culture have sometimes been less than successful- the parallel Christian music industry is in my mind one such example.  However, the general aim of the movement seems to be in the direction of being an active part of the culture and not a self-isolating voice.  The suspicion of the academy that still runs deep in evangelical circles, then, is something that I view as part of the growing pains of this processes, and I think at least from the standpoint of evangelicals engaged in academics that I am not alone in this view.

To put the two recent trends in evangelicalism that we are focusing in on at Restless, Young, and Reforming this summer in perspective:  

As a cultural shift towards “postmodernism” takes place in the West, many American evangelicals have embraced what is known as the “Emerging” movement.  From the perspective of our discussion of engagement with the academy, this movement, often taking its cues from “mainline” critical scholarship, is characterized by a willingness to ask questions about what were once considered key doctrines in the evangelical community- Brian McLaren and Rob Bell have both earned quite a reputation in evangelical circles for their questioning of doctrines about hell and the particularity of salvation, for instance.  In the minds of many more conservative evangelicals this is going too far, and the “Neo-Reformed” movement is sometimes seen as a reaction to the “Emerging” movement (though this is definitely a caricature, it is much more complex than a reactionary movement).  The fear of many less conservative evangelicals is that the “Neo-Reformed” movement is dragging evangelicalism back into a kind of self-isolating fundamentalism.  What we are doing this summer at Restless, Young, and Reforming is considering both of these movements in depth, considering their relationship to the wider culture, the academy, and evangelical orthodoxy.

The Center of Christianity? A Response to Kevin DeYoung

Kevin DeYoung, pastor of University Reformed Church in East Lansing, Michigan recently posted a review of the new book by Rob Bell, Love Wins, on The Gospel Coalition's website.

The review is, as might be expected, a stinging critique of Bell and his theology.  Before I launch into my response, I want to draw an important distinction.  I think critique and discourse are extremely important to the development of the Christian faith.  Through conversation we grow in our understanding of God, one another, and the world we are called to live in and minister to.  In that sense, I have always appreciated free thinkers like Bell who challenge previously held presuppositions and force us to reconsider beliefs we might have taken for granted.  That process of questioning and reconsidering, of reformulating and rediscovering our faith, is vital to the continued relevance of the Church and its mission.  Reformed, and Always Reforming should be a maxim for Christians today, and to that extent those like Bell who force the continued reformation, or perhaps reformulation, of the Christian faith are of great service to the contemporary church.  With that said, I am also quite happy to see such thinkers critiqued and the inconsistencies of some of their experimentation pointed out.  Our faith is made stronger by those who ask difficult questions.  It is also made stronger by those who point out that not all the answers to those difficult questions work.

So all of that is to say that what I am not doing in this response is defending Rob Bell.  Nor am I going to argue for anything like his position.  I leave that to others to argue over.  What I do wish to address, however, is a grave error that I think has cropped up in the Evangelical, Neo-Reformed response to Bell.  This is the claim that "traditional Evangelicalism" represents "traditional Christianity."  Such a claim is patently false.  Many of the responses given by DeYoung and others to Bell's proposal have rested on the idea that they represent "the center of Christianity," and therefore they can make the judgment that Bell is heterodox or perhaps heretical.  This kind of arrogant isolationism by Evangelical leaders is extremely detrimental to the development of sound theology and to the spiritual nourishment of their followers.  Evangelicals need to remember that they represent a tiny minority of the global Christian community, and a minority that has only really existed for the last hundred and fifty years or so.  This means that while you can disagree with much of Bell's theology, the case for your disagreement needs to be more than "this isn't Evangelical."

To illustrate using the most glaring example (to me) in DeYoung's review, lets look at the issue of the atonement.  DeYoung sarcastically comments on Bell's views about the atonement:

So what does Bell believe about the atonement? He starts with the familiar refrain that there are many images for what the death of Jesus accomplished and none of them should be prized more than another (though he claims Christus Victor was the dominant understanding for the first thousand years of church history). The point is not to argue about the images. “The point then, as it is now, is Jesus. The divine in flesh and blood. He’s where the life is” (129).

DeYoung goes on from here to question how it would be possible for Bell not to take a penal substitutionary view of the atonement and in effect dismisses Bell's views.  What is disturbing about this is that Bell is exactly right here.  DeYoung needs to go back and read his historical theology:  The Christus Victor motif was the almost completely unquestioned understanding of the atonement in Christian theology for the first 1200 years of Church history.  Later scholastics in the Middle Ages would begin to tinker with more legal ideas- such as penal substitution- but those would not become popular in Christian theology until after the Reformation, and then only in Reformed circles.  In most Orthodox traditions, by which I mean Eastern Orthodoxy, Roman Catholicism, much of the Anglican Tradition, and even some Lutheran and Methodist theology, Christus Victor is still the dominant motif for understanding the atonement.  Bell is, in all likelihood, expressing the view of the atonement held by two-thirds of contemporary Christians!  DeYoung is welcome to disagree with this view, and I am sure very good arguments could be made for his own position.  However, to substantiate such disagreement he is going to need more than dismissive sarcasm and some vague allusions to Leviticus (which, for what its worth, I think he has utterly misunderstood in his comments) and some proof-texts from Paul.  As a student of Biblical studies, I would go so far as to say that every passage DeYoung alludes to can be interpreted to fit with Bell's theory without much difficulty.  DeYoung's blind assertions do nothing but demonstrate that he is unaware of a world beyond his Evangelical bubble.

Another glaring example of DeYoung twisting the meaning of "traditional Christianity" has to do with his own exegetical stance.  DeYoung critiques Bell's use of prophetic imagery about the future restoration of the earth, imagery that very frequently features the entire world worshipping God at Zion, by using a dispensationalist rubric and dismissing them as only applying to national Israel in the Old Testament.  While I vehemently disagree with dispensationalism, I am very willing to accept that this is a legitimate rubric of interpretation.  What I object to here is not that DeYoung is a dispensationalist.  What I object to is that DeYoung implies that his rubric is the traditional, Orthodox rubric for understanding these texts and therefore Bell is doing something radically new and suspicious.  Again, DeYoung needs to read up on his historical theology.  Dispensationalism as a system of interpretation has barely existed for two centuries.  Ironically, then, DeYoung is critiquing Bell for doing something new with these texts by himself reading them in a very new way!  Again let me stress, DeYoung is perfectly free to read the text this way.  However, he needs to be honest about his own assumptions and not present them as representing the "center of Christian Orthodoxy."  Such a claim is false, and such deception in the process of critiquing another Christian thinker is detrimental the spiritual well-being of the Church.

Of course, ultimately DeYoung will likely dismiss my comments for two reasons: first, he will claim that I, or anyone representing any of the other Christian viewpoints I have mentioned in this post, do not adequately deal with the Biblical evidence.  Second, he will claim, as he does in arguing against Bell, that such viewpoints have ultimately fabricated a "different God."  Both claims, I think, are circular and amount to DeYoung making the following statement:  "I know my beliefs to be true because I know my beliefs are true and anyone who disagrees with my beliefs must be wrong because they disagree with my beliefs."  I am very sympathetic to the idea that we believe what we believe because we are convinced our beliefs are true.   I am not at all sympathetic to the kind of circular reasoning DeYoung is exhibiting here.

So for instance, I can anticipate that DeYoung will dismiss the Christus Victor understanding of the atonement as found in Roman Catholicism or Eastern Orthodoxy by saying these are not true Christians because they do not share his view of the authority of scripture.  Such a statement again betrays a lack of understanding of his own position within Christianity.  The authority of scripture which Evangelicalism cherishes is a product of Reformation era theology.  In other places I have discussed why I find a strong sense of sola scriptura to be problematic, but the short version is that we only know scripture because of traditions that tell us what scripture is (i.e., the canon is a tradition and not itself Biblical), and further we only read scripture through the lens of a particular set of presuppositions.  Even if we accept the Evangelical notion of scripture, to take the further step of claiming that all who disagree with this notion are outside of Christian Orthodoxy is not only a misreading of Christian history, it is also begging the question.  The Eastern Orthodox respondent can simply ask "why should scripture be our sole theological authority?"  To which the Evangelical answer will have to be that it is because our Evangelical tradition tells us it is.

DeYoung's final chess-move is to claim that those who disagree with him, such as Bell, have fabricated a "different God" and therefore are unorthodox.  I believe just a little pushing and tugging at the meaning of this statement will reveal the unbelievable arrogance it represents.  Throughout Christian history, as DeYoung himself notes, there have been adamant disagreements about many, many theological issues.  DeYoung is especially fond of pointing out disagreements where one side was labeled heretical- such as the Arian controversy.  However, within the boundaries of Orthodoxy there have been many disputes as well.  As I have pointed out, there are many Orthodox understandings of the atonement.  To pick a very minor issue, there are many different interpretations of various Biblical passages- such as Jacob wrestling before crossing the river- which are considered Orthodox.  The debate about dispensationalism is another example of disagreement within Orthodoxy.  Even within dispensational theology there are disputes about details.  My point here is ask at what point DeYoung determines that a different God is on the table?  Do the pre-tribulation and post-tribulation dispensationalists both worship the same God?  Do Calvinists and Arminians worship the same God (gasp!)?  Do Lutherans and Presbyterians worship the same God?  What about Evangelicals and Roman Catholics?  In claiming that Bell has created a different God, DeYoung is attempting to cast Bell out of Christianity.  Yet, such noted, and clearly Orthodox, teachers as CS Lewis, Karl Barth, and Karl Rahner have all expressed views extremely similar to that of Bell.  Did they all follow a different God than DeYoung?  And who gets to decide that?  Is it DeYoung who decides what God is like and what we can disagree on and not disagree on?  How did he get such sweeping authority to determine Christian Orthodoxy?  In the end, this claim by DeYoung amounts to a claim to absolute theological knowledge.  Such arrogance from a prominent Christian teacher, especially when employed to critique another prominent Christian teacher, cannot be beneficial to the Church.