A Thinking Reed

Category: Theology & Faith

  • Physicalism, reductionism, and the soul

    This off-the-cuff post on atheism generated some interesting discussion with Gaius about physicalism, reductionism, and humanism, among other things. I don’t know that I can express my views on the matter better than I tried to do in this post from a few years ago discussing Keith Ward’s Pascal’s Fire. In short, we often abstract from the phenomena of experience in order to provide a more precise mapping or modeling of certain aspects of reality for various purposes; the error of reductionism is to mistake those abstract models for the whole of reality itself. (Huston Smith once compared it to thinking that an increasingly detailed map of Illinois will–eventually–result in a map of the entire United States.)

    Physicalism and reductionism are frequently seen as threats to religious belief. This can be for a variety of reasons, such as that they seem to undermine belief in an immaterial (and possibly immortal) soul, or that they deny the “specialness” of human beings. However, I do think it’s possible for a Christian to affirm a non-reductive version of physicalism. This would mean that human beings are physical beings with consciousness, feeling, and rationality. These are genuinely “emergent” features of the world–features that appeared over the course of evolutionary history and which we share with other animals, but they are not reducible to the physico-chemical aspect of reality. They are not simply the outworking of their underlying material substrate but exert a genuine causal influence on the world. Philosophers and theologians have characterized how this might work in a variety of ways, such as “whole-part” or “top-down” causation. But the point is that the mental introduces genuine novelty into the world and is capable of affecting the course of events. Moreover, if something like this is right, it seems possible that God could, at death, preserve whatever it is that constitutes each person’s unique selfhood (e.g., memories, character traits) and “translate” them into some other medium, whether embodied or not.

  • Aldous Huxley, Huston Smith, and the perennial philosophy

    In the previous post I mentioned Aldous Huxley’s embrace of the “perennial philosophy” and his influence on the scholar of religion Huston Smith. Smith’s work had a big influence on me during my undergraduate years. When I was a callow 20-year-old atheist, Smith’s writings, as well as a series of interviews he did with Bill Moyers for PBS, helped show me that my understanding of religion–including the Christianity that I had so confidently rejected–was extremely shallow.

    Moreover, Smith’s argument that the religions of the world were culturally mediated expressions of a “primordial tradition” (what Huxley referred to as the “perennial philosophy”) was very appealing to me. He combined a robust ontology with an ecumenical spirit that seemed superior–intellectually, morally, and spiritually–to both conservative “orthodoxy” and watered-down liberalism or materialistic atheism.

    Huxley defined the philosophia perennis like this:

    the metaphysic that recognizes a divine Reality substantial to the world of things and lives and minds; the psychology that finds in the soul something similar to, or even identical with, divine Reality; the ethic that places man’s final end in the knowledge of the immanent and transcendent Ground of all being (Huxley, “The Philosophy of the Saints,” Huxley and God, p. 61)

    Huxley characterizes the perennial philosophy as a “working hypothesis” about the nature of reality that goes beyond “humanism and nature-worship” but is wary of the over-developed dogmas of organized religion. This working hypothesis can provide the basis, Huxley thinks, for experiential “research” into spiritual Reality.

    Smith, being a scholar of religion, takes a more positive view of the developed traditions of the world’s religions. Like the Swiss philosopher Frithjof Schuon, who Smith has also been influenced by, he sees each tradition as an expression or revelation of the divine Mind that is complete in itself as a vehicle for salvation. Unlike some forms of pluralism, which see the various religions as gropings toward an ultimately unknowable Reality (e.g., John Hick’s), Smith’s view is that the divine Reality makes him/her/itself known by means of the various religions.

    Embracing a perennial-philosophy perspective is pretty unfashionable these days. Both the scholarly study of religion and Christian theology tend now to emphasize the differences among traditions. Some Christians attack perennialism as an import of pagan metaphysics into the biblical tradition. However, others–like the Anglican theologian Owen Thomas–argue that Christianity is a synthesis of “biblical religion” and a Neoplatonist-influenced version of the perennial philosophy.

    Despite its problems, I think the perennial philosophy continues to have appeal because it seems to address the problem of religious pluralism without falling into either exclusivism or relativism.

    You can see at least some of the Moyers interviews with Smith on YouTube here.

    The works of Huston Smith that had the biggest impact on me:

    The World’s Religions

    Forgotten Truth: The Common Vision of the World’s Religions

    Beyond the Post-Modern Mind

    See also his Soul of Christianity for an interpretation of the Christian tradition that is heavily influenced by his perennialist outlook.

    Huxley edited an anthology of mystical writings, interspersed with his own commentary, called–appropriately–The Perennial Philosophy.

    Frithjof Schuon makes the case for perennialism in religion in his book The Transcendent Unity of Religions.

  • “Graceful simplicity” in worship

    Interesting post on Justin Martyr’s account of an early Eucharist (via Connexions). I’m not completely sold on the principle that whatever the early church did was better, but I do think there’s a case to be made for occasionally pruning the liturgy to let the gospel show forth more clearly (a sound Reformational principle). I’d be interested to know what Derek or Christopher thinks of this.

  • Lectionary irony

    In an earlier post I mentioned that our church was hosting a gathering of the “Network of Spiritual Progressives” this past weekend. As part of that event, Rabbi Michael Lerner–one of the chief movers of the network and the publisher of Tikkun magazine–preached at our church this Sunday.

    Ironically, perhaps, this passage from Galatians was one of the lectionary readings:

    We ourselves are Jews by birth and not Gentile sinners; yet we know that a person is justifiednot by the works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ. And we have come to believe in Christ Jesus, so that we might be justified by faith in Christ, and not by doing the works of the law, because no one will be justified by the works of the law. But if, in our effort to be justified in Christ, we ourselves have been found to be sinners, is Christ then a servant of sin? Certainly not! But if I build up again the very things that I once tore down, then I demonstrate that I am a transgressor. For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God. I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. I do not nullify the grace of God; for if justification comes through the law, then Christ died for nothing. (Gal. 2:15-21)

    The good rabbi didn’t comment directly on the reading, but instead gave a stirring talk on the need for believers in the Bible/Gospel (by which he meant, I take it, both Jews and Christians) to commit to a vision of caring for the world that isn’t hemmed in by the supposed “realism” of the political status quo. It would’ve been interesting to hear his take on the Galatians passage, though.

  • Christ, Bible, Church: Some thoughts on in/fallibility

    As I noted on Friday, Derek recently wrote a post setting forth some provisional thoughts on the church and infallibility. While I generally agree with his conclusions, I did raise, in a comment over there, some questions about using the hypostatic union as an analogy or model for thinking about the relation between the human and divine aspects of the church. So I thought it might be worth trying–in a tentative way–to flesh that worry out a bit more here.

    The hypostatic union, of course, refers to the Christian confession that the human and divine natures subsist in one person in Jesus Christ. By analogy, then, we might say (and Derek says he considers it an open question to what extent we can say this) that there is something similar going on with the Bible, the Church, and the Eucharist:

    Now—the Incarnation is about the conjunction of these natures: the Word taking flesh. Theologically there are three other loci where I believe that something similar is happening. That is, in the Holy Scriptures, the Word becomes joined to human language and words as a means of God’s self-revelation. Similarly in the Holy Eucharist, Christ becomes joined to the physical elements of bread and wine as a means of God’s self-revelation and a means of grace. Finally, in the Holy Church, Christ incorporates us into his mystical body which becomes a single organism, a living church built of living stones to use the imagery of Paul, Peter, and John.

    I’m going to leave aside the Eucharist and focus on the Church, and to some extent the Bible. As I see it, there are significant risks in using such a model to describe the Bible and/or Church. (I’m bracketing the question of to what extent this analogy has in fact been used in the history of Christian thought since I’m not well-versed enough in that history to comment.)

    My main concern is that such a move may threaten to collapse the distinction between Christ and the Bible/Church. This is because, what we confess in the doctrine of the Incarnation is that Christ was wholly transparent to the divine will. By this I just mean that nothing in him hindered the expression of God’s character or saving will. To put it another way, Jesus is the divine life lived out under the conditions of human, creaturely existence. But–the same can’t be said–or so I would maintain–of either the Bible or the Church.

    Take the Bible first. There are certainly parts of the Bible that seem to obscure the character of God as revealed in Jesus. Just to take an example at hand, in today’s lectionary reading from 2 Samuel, we are told that God, to punish David for his transgression of committing adultery with Uriah the Hittite’s wife and arranging for Uriah to be killed, “struck the child that Uriah’s wife bore to David, and it became very ill” (2 Sam. 11:15). Now, whatever we may want to say about the Bible as a medium of revelation–and I do want to affirm it–a God who strikes down innocent children because of their parents’ sins seems hard to square with the God revealed by Jesus. It’s the revelation of God in Jesus that provides our norm for interpreting–and if necessary critiquing–the portrayals of God in the Bible.

    The same can be said of the Church. We might define the Church as the fellowship of those people who are united to Christ by faith and Baptism and who consciously seek to subject themselves to Christ’s lordship. The Church attempts, in principle, to follow Christ–but clearly does not always succeed. It is a mixture of elements–some that reflect and some that obscure the divine goodness.

    Granted the New Testament refers to the Church as the Body of Christ, and that this language has been very important in Christian reflection on the nature of the church. But I would argue that “body” language can be misleading if we take it to imply that the Church is a wholly adequate expression of the divine will. The Church is a creature, and maintaining the creator/creature distinction is essential for avoiding the temptation to mistake the finite for the infinite, which is at the root of claims to infallibility. Or, as H. Richard Niebuhr wrote, to risk falling from a “radical” monotheism into a churchly henotheism:

    In church-centered faith the community of those who hold common beliefs, practice common rites, and submit to a common rule becomes the immediate object of trust and the cause of loyalty. The church is so relied upon as source of truth that what the church teaches is believed and to be believed because it is the church’s teaching; it is trusted as the judge of right and wrong and as the guarantor of salvation from meaninglessness and death. To have faith in God and to believe the church become one and the same thing. To be turned toward God and to be converted to the church become almost identical; the way to God is through the church. So the subtle change occurs from radical monotheism to henotheism. The community that pointed to the faithfulness of the One now points to itself as his representative, but God and church have become so identified that often the word “God” seems to mean the collective representation of the church. God is almost defined as the one who is encountered in the church or the one in whom the church believes. (H. Richard Niebuhr, Radical Monotheism and Western Culture, p. 58)

    Radical monotheism, in Neibuhr’s thinking, relativizes the claim of even the most sacred of authorities. Maybe a useful way of characterizing the Church would be along the lines of Luther’s simul justus et peccator (at the same time just and sinful). The Church lives from its faith in the crucified and risen one and is just through his righteousness alone. At the same time, the Church remains empirically a mixed bag of good and evil, of truth and error, ever in need of reformation.

  • The rise of the more-Catholic-than-thou Protestant

    This was a character who was (blessedly) unknown to me prior to the advent of the theo-blogosphere: the guy (and it’s almost invariably a guy) who is constantly berating his fellow Protestants for not being “catholic” enough. That is, not being in touch with the larger Church and the Great Tradition, being antinomian, relativistic, individualistic, “liberal Protestant,” etc. etc. And yet these fellows never seem quite able to bring themselves to take the obvious step and become Catholiic. Could it be because if they did they’d be just one more humble Catholic and not someone with a mission to tell his fellow Christians everything they’re doing wrong?

    Now I personally have a great attraction to Catholicism, though it’s an attraction to Catholic piety and Catholicism’s intellectual and social tradition rather than any desire for an authoritative church. But I’m just not going to become Catholic for a variety of reasons, so I try not to go around insisting that Protestants be “more Catholic” (whatever that might mean) to suit me. I do think we might consider being better Protestants though.

  • Links for Friday

    – Derek on the church and (in)fallibility and communing the unbaptized

    – Animal advocacy and pragmatism

    – This is your brain on gadgets

    – BLS has been writing a fascinating series of posts on the church and A.A.

    – The thought of Paul Ramsey

    – The AV Club’s June round up of all things metal

    – The New York Times bans the word “tweet”

    – The Karate Kid remake: surprisingly good?

    – The A-Team movie: not that good

    UPDATE: Had to add this: Tyler Cowen points out that the Netherlands has a animal-rights-based political party, the Party for the Animals (website here, but it’s in Dutch).

  • Meat-eating and Benedict’s rule

    Here’s another tid-bit from that Christian Century article on food that I blogged about last week:

    Benedict saw lack of dietary discipline as a sign not of strength but of weakness. In particular, he restricted meat to children, the sick and the elderly. By eating meat unnecessarily, healthy adult members of his community would enjoy a level of luxury inappropriate to their calling. It must be remembered that Benedict expected monks to undertake manual labor as part of their daily routine, so he likely would not have been open to the idea that meat eating is essential to an active lifestyle.

    In our culture, meat-eating is vaguely associated with vigor, manliness, and so on. The picture of a “man’s man” piling meat onto his backyard grill is a staple of popular American imagery. It’s actually kind of ironic if you consider that there’s nothing particularly tough or macho about paying someone else to confine, kill, and “process” a helpless animal for you. But I suppose it’s associated with some real or imagined picture of “man the hunter” going out to kill his family’s food. In his book Meat: A Natural Symbol, Nick Fiddes goes even further, arguing that the prestige of meat-eating is due to its importance a symbol of our domination over nature. Our strength is shown in our ability to bend nature to our will.

    One might then see Benedict’s rule about meat-eating–and other “food disciplines” that Christians might choose to adopt–as symbolizing a new set of values. If Christ inaugurates a new era in human history, one that undoes the effects of the Fall, then reducing our consumption of meat is symbolic of a new relation to nature, one based on kinship and mutual benefit rather than domination. This is the kind of relationship foretold in the Isaianic prophecy:

    The wolf shall live with the lamb,
    the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
    the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
    and a little child shall lead them.
    The cow and the bear shall graze,
    their young shall lie down together;
    and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
    The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,
    and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den.
    They will not hurt or destroy
    on all my holy mountain;
    for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord
    as the waters cover the sea. (Isaiah 11:6-9)

    The forms of responsible cultivation of the land often associated with monastic houses would be another expression of this new relationship. Being “strong,” in Christian terms doesn’t mean exercising raw power and lording it over the rest of creation. The truly “strong” person follows the path of Christ in self-giving love and service.

  • Food rules for Christians

    I think it was Stanley Hauerwas who said, with typical pungency, that no religion can be interesting if it doesn’t tell you what to do with your pots and pans or your genitals. By at least part of that criteria, Exeter University theologian David Grumett seems to be trying to make Christianity interesting again. In an article in the Christian Century, he argues for a recovery of “food rules” among Christians.

    Young Augustine’s experience with the Manichees, Grumett argues, left a somewhat unfortunate legacy to Western Christianity of disdaining any religious limitations on how much and what kinds of food we consume. In reacting against the anti-materialism of the Manichees, Augustine delivered a blow to the valuable practice of regulating our diets according to religious ideals.

    Grummett suggests that recovering a more traditional ideal, like that associated with early Benedictine monasticism, can help Christians relate their eating practices to their faith:

    The desert fathers were famous for their meager diets, and early monastic rules were codifying this practice in moderated form. The major rule for monasteries in the West, St. Benedict’s Rule, prohibited healthy adults from eating the flesh of four-footed animals. It also limited the number of meals that could be taken in a day and the range of choices at a single meal.

    This ban on what we today call red meat points to a Christian tradition different from that of Augustine, one in which food choices express spiritual devotion and identify people as part of a faith community. It also shows how, through avoiding the food typically thought of as high-status food, Christians may resist the networks of oppression which such food symbolizes and on which it depends. To eat meat frequently requires significant quantities of land, feed and water—either your own or those belonging to someone else, who might, on a good day, be paid a fair price for them. Worldwide, animals farmed for meat generate more pollution than motor vehicles and consume vast quantities of food while elsewhere people are going hungry.

    “Modern Christians,” he writes, “are in danger of slipping into a fast-food mentality: speed, convenience and illusory abundance rule, regardless of the consequences for the planet.” Attending to the sources of our food–how it’s produced, where it comes from–can be ” a means of reconnecting to our spiritual heritage and traditions and marking the Christian calendar and the seasonal calendar—which is itself God-given.”

    Grummett doubts that agreement on a set of food rules is either likely or desirable, but observing cycles of fasting and feasting, restricting certain types of food, and reconnecting to the sources of our food are all ways of living out our faith in concrete, daily practice.

  • Sermon questions left hanging

    Today was our first attempt at church-going since the baby was born. We made it about half-way through before she started to fuss, and we’re still skittish enough about our baby-comforting skills that we decided to abscond.

    What I did manage to catch from the part of the sermon I heard–it was Trinity Sunday–was a reference to Meister Eckhart and one to Hildegard of Bingen. I wonder where the preacher (a guest preacher) was going with those? And did he ever explain the relevance of the passage from Proverbs we read to the idea of the Trinity? I’m guessing the average parishoner might not make the connection to Wisdom Christology.