Category: Theology & Faith

  • Political self ID – a Christian humanist?

    This is an exercise in bloggy narcissism (or is that a redundancy?) so feel free to skip this post.

    The other day a friend asked me to describe my political outlook and I couldn’t come up with a very satisfying answer. Having persued the blog he suggested religious conservative, but to me that sounds a bit too close to Jerry Falwell.

    I definitely thought of myself as a conservative at one point, though lately I’ve been toying with the idea of “Christian humanist” as the best descriptor of my overall outlook.

    Anyway, here are a handful of posts on my various statements of political principle and self-identification, if anyone’s interested.

    “Apologia pro vote sua” (On voting for the Green Party in 2004)

    “…on Sort of Going from Right to Left or How I Became a Quasi-Pacifist Conservative Vegetarian Pro-Lifer”

    “Am I a Conservative?”

    To me, what a “Christian humanist” position would emphasize is the dignity of the human person rooted in a transcendent moral order while at the same time recognizing human frailty and our limited apprehension of that order this side of the eschaton.

    This leads me to be in favor of strong limits on government power and to oppose, or at least be extremely wary of, the destruction of human life in the forms of abortion and euthanasia (traditional “conservative” views).

    On the other hand, economics was made for human beings not vice versa, so the idolatry of the free market has to go (see Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful, Roepke’s A Humane Economy). State killing in the form of war and capital punishment is at least equally as troubling and difficult to justify as other threats to life. And human beings can’t flourish while despoiling the environment.

    Throw in a general skepticism about bio-engineering (see Lewis’ Abolition of Man, Huxley’s Brave New World) and trepidation about unchecked technology more generally (Borgmann, Jardine, Ellul) and you’ve got an electric conservative-liberal-green-libertarian stew.

  • The penal state

    I finally got around to reading this Glenn Loury piece on our scandalous rates of punitive and discriminatory incarceration. Very powerful stuff.

    The theologian William Placher has written some very good stuff on this often-neglected topic. In his book Jesus the Savior he writes:

    Practices like visiting prisoners grew out of the core of Christian faith. After all, Jesus was a crucified criminal. He was not merely punished, one important strand of Christian theology has maintained–he was guilty, for he had taken on our guilt. “For our sake,” Paul wrote, God made Christ “to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21)

    […]

    Christ takes our sin, and frees us from it. Some of us may have a more immediate need of rehabilitation, or more need to be prevented from doing harm to others in the short run, but according to Christian faith it makes no sense to think of “distinguishing the innocent from the guilty.” Apart from Christ, we are all guilty. In Christ, we can all be found innocent. We may need to be helped, both by being protected from doing further wrong, and by being helped to be better, but there is no reason to punish anyone. (pp. 153-4)

    If God in Jesus assumes solidarity not only with victims, but also with perpetrators, Christians should be the last ones to adopt the attitude of “Lock ’em up, throw away the key, and forget about ’em!”

  • Pacifism and just war in The Mission

    Last night I re-watched The Mission, one of my all-time favorite movies (with screenplay written by Robert Bolt, who also wrote the screenplay of one of my other all-time faves, A Man For All Seasons). Like A Man for All Seasons, The Mission is about conscience and the way we respond to injustice.

    The Mission is the true story of Jesuit missionaries in 18th century South America trying to protect the Indians to whom they’re ministering from the unscrupulous machinations of the Spanish and Portuguese crowns, with the papacy stuck in the middle

    Father Gabriel (Jeremy Irons) is an idealistic young priest who founds a mission in the high country above an enormous waterfall in a remote part of the jungle. He’s joined by his brother priests including Rodrigo Mendoza (Robert DeNiro), a reformed mercenary and slave-trader who accompanied the Jesuits to the mission as a kind of self-imposed penance for killing his brother (Aidan Quinn) in a fit of jealous rage. Mendoza ultimately has a dramatic conversion experience and becomes a Jesuit, finding a new kind of happiness among the Guaraní Indians.

    The Indians are running self-sufficient communal plantations where the profits are shared and reinvested in the community, but have a somewhat precarious existence under the protection of the church. The Portuguese would like nothing better than to expropriate the Guarani’s lands and enslave them. As it happens, the missions exist in a dusputed territory recently ceded to the Portuguese by the Spanish, but this means the Guararni are at risk of being subject to Portuguese slavers unless the papal emissary,Altamirano, rules in their favor.

    Unfortunately, the precarious position of the church in Europe, which would only be exacerbated by the Jesuits interfering with the secular powers, leads Altamirano to reluctantly conclude that the missions should be closed down and that all the Jesuits should leave. This, of course, means dispossession and enslavement for the Guarani unless the manage to disappear back into the jungle whence they came.

    Fathers Gabriel and Mendoza both vow to stay with the Guarani, but diverge sharply over their responses to the imminent invasion of the mission by a combined Spanish-Portuguese force. While Gabriel insists that fidelty to their vocations requires Christ-like non-resistance, Mendoza reverts to his military ways, organizing the Guarani for an armed response against the invaders.

    When Mendoza comes to Gabriel to renounce his vows as a priest, Gabriel counters with the theological rationale for not fighting:

    Gabriel: What do you want, captain, an honorable death?

    Mendoza: They want to live, Father. They say that God has left them,
    he’s deserted them. Has he?

    Gabriel: You shouldn’t have become a priest.

    Mendoza: But I am, and they need me.

    Gabriel: Then help them as a priest! If you die with blood on your hands, you betray everything we’ve done. You promised your life to God. And God is love!

    Later, when Mendoza comes to Gabriel asking him to bless his fight, Gabriel responds:

    If might is right, then love has no place in the world. It may be so, it may be so. But I don’t have the strength to live in a world like that, Rodrigo.

    Ultimately (SPOILER) both Mendoza and Gabriel meet their deaths at the hands of the invaders, the former felled in battle, the latter killed while leading his flock in a Eucharistic Procession. Those Guarani who aren’t killed or captured disappear back into the jungle.

    It takes no great leap of insight to recognize that Gabriel and Rodrigo represent two divergent and contrasting Christian approaches to the problem of violence. Gabriel represents Christian pacifism: because God is love, as shown in the example of Christ, Christians can’t shed blood even in what may be a just cause. Rodrigo represents the “just war” ethos: force can be used to defend the innocent when their rights are being aggressed against. There’s no question that the Guarani are innocent and well within their rights, as far as natural justice is concerned, in defending themselves against the European invaders.

    Of course, neither one of these approaches prevails in any concrete historical sense. The armed uprising is crushed and the pacifist priest is slaughtered. Force doesn’t stop the invaders and love doesn’t change their hearts (though there is one scene where even the hardened conquistadors hesitate momentarily before setting fire to a church full of men, women, and children).

    You could say that Rodrigo ignores a cardinal tenet of just war theory: that war should only be waged when there is a reasonable likelihood of success. Unlike the pagan ideal of a noble death, the Christian just war tradition finds no virtue in fighting for a lost cause (Being martyred, of course, is another matter). The ragtag band of Indians, accompanied by three renegade priests, hardly seems likely to fend off a combined invasion by two of the world’s superpowers.

    And yet, at least as the movie portrays it, Rodrigo’s response is understandable, if not justifiable. He sees massive injustice about to be inflicted on the people he loves and wants to fight back and to defend them. And this ideal is hardly unknown in Christendom. Rodrigo could be seen as a kind of knight-errant who, after repenting of his evil ways as a mercenary, uses his skills to champion the cause of the poor and oppressed.

    But the movie’s heart seems to be with Gabriel and his Christ-like non-resistance. The image of him, dressed in white surplice, bearing the monstrance with the Host, leading his flock into the hail of gunfire has a special kind of power. It suggests, at least, that there is a power that love has when it refuses to hate, even if it is trampled underfoot by the world. Rodrigo gives in to the temptation to use violence, and fails anyway. Gabriel refuses to hate or strike back and that does seem to give him a kind of victory. It’s not some sentimental notion that you can love your enemy into loving you back, but that precisely by refusing to hate, love overcomes the powers of this world.

    Bonus trivia: The radical priest Daniel Berrigan has a cameo as Sebastian, one of the priests at the missoin.

  • “Our hearts are restless until they rest in You”: St. Augustine

    Today is St. Augustine’s feast day. He remains one of the most influential, as well as controversial, figures in the history of Christianity. Some blame him for all that’s wrong with “Western” Christianity: its alleged obsession with sin, legalism, hangups about sex, the frightful predestinarian picture of God, etc. Some of these charges are caricatures, others have (IMO) some truth to them.

    augustine11.jpg

    But, despite his mixed legacy, Augustine made more lasting contributions to the church than virtually any other single theologian. He formulated a truly Christian metaphysics that made the distinction between created and uncreated being (rather than, say, spirit and matter) the fundamental ontological distinction, while insisting that creation is fundamentally good. He struggled for the priority of grace over Donatist legalism and Pelagian moralism. He accepted some of the best insights of Platonism and other pagan learning, but more thoroughly Christianized them than many of his predecessors. He worked out a comprehensive (for its time) Christian vision of history. And he set the template for much “Latin” theorizing about the Trinity.

    Here’s the collect for the day:

    O Lord God, the light of the minds that know you, the Life of the souls that love you, and the strength of the hearts that serve you: Help us, following the example of your servant Augustine of Hippo, so to know you that we may truly love you, and so to love you that we may fully serve you, whom to serve is perfect freedom; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.

    I did a series on Augustine’s Enchiridion early this year.

  • Doubt and atheism aren’t the same thing

    Thomas has an excellent riposte to some of the truly insipid things being said about Mother Teresa in light of some recently publicized letters that make it clear that she (like many, many other saints) struggled with doubt and a feeling of God’s absence.

    Of course, this won’t be news to anyone who read Carol Zaleski’s “The Dark Night of Mother Teresa,” published in that notorious skeptic rag First Things over four years ago. What is surprising is that some atheists have such a shallow understanding of religious faith that they can’t fathom how it can coexist with doubt. Indeed, you might think that someone who could persist in the kind of ministry Mother Teresa was engaged in, even in the absence of the kind of experiential awareness of God she had experienced earlier, was displaying even greater faith.

  • Jesus as sacrament

    It’s not uncommon for theologians to try and explain, or at least illuminate, the Real Presence of Christ in the Sacrament of Communion by making an analogy with the hypostatic union of the divine and human natures in the Person of Jesus.

    Whether or not this is a case of trying to explain the obscure by the even more obscure, I’ve been wondering if it might be possible to shed some light on the meaning of the Incarnation by making an analogy with the Sacrament.

    For instance, we don’t think of a sacrament as a transaction whereby we receive a certain amount of something called “grace.” Or if we do, there’s a good chance we have an excessively mechanical, or perhaps magical, understanding of what a sacrament is.

    The Book of Common Prayer defines sacraments, of course, as “outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace” (BCP 857). Grace, in turn, is understood as “God’s favor towards, us, unearned and undeserved,” by which God “forgives our sins, enlightens our minds, stirs our hearts, and strengthens our wills” (858). The concrete, visible things – the bread and wine and water – are signs of God’s grace, but not in a merely symbolic way. They actually communicate it.

    So could the Incarnation and Atonement be understood in an analogous way? It’s no secret that theological explanations of the Person and Work of Christ have sometimes been excessively mechanical and transactional, and perhaps thinking in “sacramental” terms could help correct that.

    It is sometimes suggested, at least implicitly, that there has to be some transaction (between God and the Devil, or the Father and the Son) before human beings can be received back into God’s favor. And the way this takes place is sometimes couched in equally transactional terms (the paying of a ransom or debt; the receiving of punishment).

    This view seems to imply, much like the magical or mechanical view of the sacraments, that God must inject grace into the world where it was formerly lacking or absent. But what if we were to re-think the work of Christ along the lines suggested by the BCP‘s understanding of what a sacrament is?

    There is no indication, for instance, that God’s favor is absent from us prior to the sacrament. Rather the sacrament is the means by which God has chosen to make his already existing favor effectually present to us.

    Likewise, we could see the entire life, death, and resurrection of Jesus as a sacrament of God’s grace. It’s not as though that grace was absent from the world prior to the Incarnation; the Bible describes Jesus as the lamb that was slain from the foundation of the world. This would seem to suggest that God’s grace was “there” all along, but that Jesus is the “outward and visible sign” of this grace.

    At first sight this might seem to be a merely “exemplarist” view of the work of Christ – that Jesus is a “mere” symbol of some eternal truth about God’s love. But this is no more necessary than viewing the sacrament as a memorial or symbol of Christ’s presence.

    Most Christians historically have seen the sacrament as the means by which God’s love and favor is specially communicated to us and in which God “forgives our sins, enlightens our minds, stirs our hearts, and strengthens our wills.” And so, in Jesus God does the very same thing: communicates God’s gracious, forgiving, enlightening, and empowering love to us.

    Seeing Jesus as a sacrament may also give us some inkling as to why the Incarnation was in some sense “necessary.” One of the aspects of sacramental Christianity that I’ve always found especially appealing is that it recognizes our status as fleshly, embodied beings.

    The way we enter into fellowship with God is not by some spiritual “flight of the alone to the alone,” leaving behind the encumbrances of bodily existence. Rather, God graciously descends to be with us in a visible, tangible way, albeit in a way that confounds our expectations of what is proper for the Divine Majesty.

    It may be, as Gerhard Forde has said, that as an abstraction God is always a terror to us. Only when God becomes concrete, through God’s self-enfleshment in Jesus, can we receive grace. This doesn’t necessarily mean that God isn’t gracious “outside” of or “before” Jesus; we recognize that other earthly things can be channels of grace besides the dominical sacraments.

    But we believe by faith that God has promised to be present, to communicate grace to us in the bread, wine, and water. And similarly we believe that God has specially communicated the divine love to us in Jesus, even though it may well be possible that grace is available to those who have never heard of Jesus, or who, for whatever reason, have been unable to accept the Gospel.

    I assume some actual theologian may have already tried to explain things along these lines. If so, I hope a reader more theologically informed than I am will let me know (as well as if this is total b.s. ;-))

  • Liberation, human and animal

    (This post actually started out short. Honest!)

    Christopher (at his new blog) directs our attention to this article by Andrew Linzey on the connection between violence against animals and violence against humans.

    Clearly it’s not a matter of cruelty to animals causing violence against human beings in a straightforward way. Rather, as Linzey says, “cruelty to animals is one of a cluster of potential or actual characteristics held in common by those who commit violence or seriously anti-social acts.”

    This raises the question of how animal liberation and human liberation might be connected. Animal liberationists are often faced with the objection that human oppression is so severe and widespread that to divert efforts and resources to injustices against animals would be irresponsible at best and misanthropic at worst.

    In this article philosopher Stephen R.L. Clark suggests, however, that while some proponents of animal welfare and liberation have neglected issues of human oppression, the two causes are actually integrally connected. In his words, “[a]s long as we live, as human beings, in hierarchical, class and caste-divided societies, we must expect us to be cruel,” and a “genuinely humane endeavour on behalf of the non-human cannot be separated from a similarly humane endeavour on behalf of humans.” The idea being, I think, that as long as we have the mindset which takes domination and exploitation as natural and inevitable, neither animals nor weaker and more vulnerable humans are safe.

    At the level of our general view of the world, at least, there is a significant connection between our view of other human beings and our view of other animals. If God creates all this is out of love, then, to the extent that we share in or imitate the divine love, we will see other beings as having a value and integrity and mystery that is independent of whatever benefits we might get from them. As Clark says “[i]n love, we attend to things as being beautiful. Willing their good, we come to know what ‘good’ is in their case. False love imposes burdens, fantasizes, and grows angry when the ‘beloved’ is not as we wish. True love puts aside concupiscence.”

    Love isn’t just a sentiment; it’s the most truthful and accurate perception of reality there is. Our typical perception of reality is in terms of how things affect us. This is natural and probably inevitable to a great degree, but moral progress largely consists in moving beyond this egocentric perspective and recognizing the independent reality and value of beings other than ourselves. “Love is the recognition, the realization, of a creature chosen from eternity by God, who ‘hates nothing that He has made (why else would He have made it?)’…What God has chosen is not only what is, literally, human: every thing is a message of love, which we misread or miss entirely as long as we suppose that we are ourselves the only centre of the universe.”

    Consequently, when we perpetrate violence against others, or exploit them for our own gain, we are denying their independent reality and treating them as mere means to our ends. Humanism and most traditional forms of Christianity agree in holding that only human beings are genuinely ends-in-themselves. But unlike humanism, Christianity has a certain built in trajectory toward a wider apprehension of the value of all created being.

    The worry, of course, is that a greater appreciation of the value of non-human creatures will somehow downgrade the moral status of human beings. Though rarely is actual evidence offered to back this up, critics can point to thinkers like Peter Singer who simultaneously advocate for better treatment of animals and argue for the permissibility of killing “defective” or “unwanted” infants. Thus in the minds of the critics any blurring of the line between the value of human and non-human life seems inextricably tied to a diminished appreciation of the dignity of human beings.

    But I don’t see why this has to be the case. Singer is a bit of a unique case because, as an ultra-consistent consequentialist, he is willing to follow the premises of his arguments to the bitter end where someone else might balk at his conclusions, many of which are highly counterintuitive to say the least! But it by no means follows that someone arriving at similar conclusions about our treatment of animals by a different route needs to embrace the same conclusions as Singer regarding, e.g. abortion or infanticide. Andrew Linzey, for instance, not only argues for a paradigm shift in the way we look at animals, he has also argued against using human embryos as experimental subjects on the similar grounds that life is not simply ours to do with what we will as long as it seems to serve our interests.

    In other words, concern for animals isn’t properly understood as an attempt to downgrade the moral status of human beings but as an attempt to upgrade the status of other animals. No one (well not no one) thinks that feminism must necessarily result in downgrading the moral worth of men. As the somewhat sardonic bumper sticker puts it, “Feminism is the radical idea that women are people.” We might say, less pithily, that animal liberation is the radical idea that living, sentient creatures are more than mere objects or material to be used in whatever way we see fit. Human beings should feel threatened by that assertion only to the extent that our present lifestyles are premised upon its denial.

    This doesn’t mean that genuine human and animal interests won’t ever conflict (though I’d argue far less so than some anti-animal liberation polemicists would lead you to believe). But to the extent that the moral life is about learning to see others as independent realities having their own worth and goods proper to their nature, I don’t think we can, at least on religious grounds, set the limits of our moral concern at the boundary of the human kingdom.

    But even if that’s right it doesn’t resolve the question of priorities. Even if we agree in principle that animals are beings whose welfare and dignity ought, in an ideal world, to be safeguarded and that concern for animal well-being and human well-being is part of the same view of created being as intrinsically valuable, how can we justify attending to animals when there is so much human misery in the world? Shouldn’t we focus on the most important issues first?

    I think the response to this objection has at least three parts. First, much of our mistreatment of animals would be abated merely by ceasing to do certain things. This doesn’t require us to dedicate new resources to the well-being of animals, but merely to stop harming them. I’m not going to claim that, say, vegetarianism is morally obligatory, but the greatest source of human-inflicted animal suffering, both quantitatively and qualitatively, is almost certainly animal agriculture. Virtually all of us (meaning those of us in the industrialized West, the kind of people with reliable internet connections. ;-)) have it in our power to stop contributing to this by, at least, seeking alternatives to factory farmed meat.

    Secondly, in allocating our resources dedicated to alleviating suffering or improving the lot of others, very few of us adhere to a strict utilitarian ordering by focusing all our efforts on the single most serious problem currently facing the world. For instance, you could argue that nuclear disarmament is the most serious moral problem there is because it alone has the potential to result in the utter destruction of the human race (and most other life for that matter). By this standard, pretty much every other problem pales in comparison. And yet many people feel eminently justified in dedicating time and resources to causes other than nuclear disarmament.

    Why is this? I think it’s partly because we don’t order our priorities in quite that rationalistic a fashion. Different people feel drawn to different issues or causes for a variety of reasons that often have more to do with personal experience than a dispassionate ordering of priorities. And this applies to people who’ve dedicated part of their lives to working toward improving the lot of animals. Is someone who works on behalf of animals to be criticized for spending that much less time working to alleviate poverty or fight illiteracy if the person who has taken up those causes isn’t to be criticized for failing to dedicate all their efforts toward eradicating war or disease? There is properly a kind of division of labor, it seems, based on interest, personality, experience, and sympathy that doesn’t admit of a simple hirearchical ordering.

    Third, it can be argued that we have, by our assertion of dominion over other living creatures, incurred special obligations toward them. Our obligations, for instance, to animals in the wild may largely be to “do no harm,” but our obligations toward domesticated animals may well be stronger precisely in light of the fact that we have taken them into our service. Just as a man has obligations to his own children that he doesn’t have to the children of strangers, we may well have special duties of care to “our” animals as a consequence of the rights we have asserted over them and the use we make of them.

    We also often recognize special duties to the weak and vulnerable; contrary to some theories of morality, moral considerability isn’t directly dependent to one’s abilities as a free, independent agent capable of discharging duties and entering into agreements. In fact, our moral sentiments often point in quite the opposite direction: those who are weak and unable to fend for themselves call for greater care just because they are at our mercy.

    It’s also worth pointing out that some of the most important efforts on behalf of animals were undertaken by those with impressive humanitarian records. William Wilberforce, not exactly a slouch in the area of human rights, co-founded the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. It may be that widening the circle of moral concern, far from being some kind of zero-sum game where some can benefit only at the expense of others, actually reinforces benign attitudes, making people more sensitive to suffering and injustice wherever it’s found. And it may even be that proper attention to the rightful claims of humans and animals will only be acheived together.

    [Note: this post has been slightly edited for clarity.]

  • Asking the right questions

    “Eco-economist” Herman Daly tries to inject some clarity into the debate on climate change. Even if some of the details are up in the air, he says, the trajectory is clear and we need to ask if this is the direction we want to be going in.

    It seems to me that a lot of the climate change “skepticism” (which I put in scarequotes because much of it is an industry-funded attempt to muddy the waters, not a good faith pursuit of the truth; see the chapter on climate change skepticism/denial in George Monbiot’s Heat for some damning details) is about pouncing on uncertainty at the level of detail, whereas the big picture remains pretty clear. Take for instance the way that skeptics jumped on some recent minor revision by NASA of some temperature rankings for the US (see this post for some clarification, via Confessing Evangelical).

    As Daly says, if the big picture is clear, then by asking the right questions, like “can we systematically continue to emit increasing amounts of CO2 and other greenhouse gases into the atmosphere without eventually provoking unacceptable climate changes?” or “what is it that is causing us to systematically emit ever more CO2 into the atmosphere?” or “does growth in GDP at the current margin and scale in the U.S. really make us richer? Might it not be increasing environmental and social costs faster than it increases production benefits, thereby making us poorer?” can yield a fairly definitive answer to the question of what direction we should be going in.

    As he puts it:

    Setting policy in accord with first principles allows us to act now without getting mired in endless delays caused by the uncertainties of complex empirical measurements and predictions. Of course, the uncertainties do not disappear. We will experience them as surprising consequences, both agreeable and disagreeable, necessitating mid-course correction to the policies enacted on the basis of first principles. But at least we will have begun moving in the right direction.

    I discussed Daly and theologian John Cobb’s book For the Common Good a bit here and here.

    In a similar vein, D.W. Congdon is asking some questions for churches about consumerism, which is surely relevant to this topic.

  • Bad Protestant

    I’m late posting on this obviously but last night I went to a Mass in honor of Our Lady’s Glorious Assumption. It was heart-breakingly beautiful in parts, set as it was to music from Mozart’s Spatzen-Messe, KV 220 (Those words mean nothing to me; I copied them directly from the bulletin. All I know is that the music was amazing).

    Here I wrote that my theology had shifted away from Lutheranism over the last couple of years. One of the respects in which that’s the case is in my attitude toward devotion to the Blessed Virgin (and the Saints in general). I worked through the theological arguments to my own satisfaction some time ago, but more recently it’s become an increasingly important part of my own devotional life.

    I know that there are Lutherans who accept devotion to Mary and the other Saints, but the fact of the matter is that it’s simply not part of the practice of any Lutheran church I’ve ever been to. At some point it becomes exhausting to try and maintain such practices without the support of a church community. Not that this would necessarily be a “deal-breaker” for me, but I like being part of a congregation that can pray the Ave together or sing “Ye Who Own the Faith of Jesus.”

  • Re-thinking Hegel

    In the second half (or maybe last third) of Keith Ward’s Re-Thinking Christianity he discusses some of the post-Enlightenment developments of Christian thought and the prospects for a 21st century liberal-yet-orthodox Christianity.

    Interestingly, Ward attempts a partial rehabilitation of one of the currently most unfashionable theological thinkers of the post-Enlightenment era: Hegel. Since at least Kierkegaard Hegel has been the poster boy for hubristic metaphysical system-building and the attempt to reduce Christian particularity to philosophical generality. But Ward thinks that Hegel still has valuable contributions to make to Christian theology.

    Ward concedes that Hegel overreached in identifying the progress of history with the unfolding of Absolute Spirit, and in his confidence in speculative reason. However, he argues that Christianity necessarily involves doing metaphysics and the strictures against “Hellenism” by German liberal theologians like Harnack, et al. aren’t sustainable. On the positive side Hegel contributed a new understanding of God that departed from the static deity of classical Greek philosophy and is more congenial to the biblical picture of God as deeply involved in history. Thus a “chastened” Hegelianism that properly qualifies Hegel’s historical optimism and his inattention to the particularity and importance of Jesus, can still be of some use:

    For Hegel, history both expresses and changes God, as it realises aspects of the divine that would otherwise have remained potential in the divine being, and as God truly relates to these aspects in new and creative ways. It is compatible with this view to say that God also has a proper divine actuality even without creation, and certainly without this specific universe. So we may not wish to say that this universe is necessary if God is to be conscious of the divine nature. However, there is a great deal of force in the thought that, if God is to realise the divine nature as love — in the sense of relation to truly free personal agents — then the creation of some universe in which true freedom is possible will be needed.

    The sort of love that obtains between God and created persons — a kenotic love that enters into humility and suffering, that seeks those who are lost and reconciles those who are estranged — is not possible solely within the being of God itself. Because of that, the creation of a universe is the necessary condition of the actualisation of kenotic love in God. A stronger stress on the value of personal relationships leads to involving God more in time and change than classical theologians like Aquinas thought. We may not want to follow Hegel in the detail of his philosophy, but this is a move that he was the first major philosopher to make. (p. 156)

    This sort of thing is apt to make more traditional thinkers nervous. It seems to imply that the divine being in itself is somehow incomplete and requires the creation of something in addition to God in order for the divine potentiality to be actualized.

    There’s a connection here to the doctrine of the Trinity: Ward is suspicious of more “social” versions of the Trinity that emphasize the fully personal existence of each trinitarian person. These models see the “inner” life of the Trinity as a fully complete interchange of self-giving love; consequently, there is no need for creation to actualize God’s nature as love.

    Ward writes, in criticism of this kind of view:

    In any case, it is hard to see what sort of love could exist between persons who are all parts of the same being. It is as if different parts of a human being with three different personalities could all be said to love one another. That would be a very peculiar, even pathological, sort of love.

    […]

    If the love of Jesus is our model for the love of God, then God, as love, must go out to persons who are other than God, who are capable of rejecting God, but who can be healed by divine love and united to the divine life by compassion nad co-operation. This is not a love of one hypostasis of God for another hypostasis of God. It is a love for what is other than God but can be united to the life of God in fellowship. It is a love that requires a created other, perhaps, but not a love that can be operative within the divine being itself, where there is no possible scope for rejection, compassion, healing or a real autonomy of the other. (pp. 76-77)

    This is an interesting argument because it suggests that the intra-trinitarian divine love is in some sense inferior to the extra-trinitarian reconciling love that seeks the lost. In some sense I can see the force of this: it does seem that a love where there is literally no possibility of the beloved not reciprocating is somehow diminished in that there is no risk or vulnerability involved.

    On the other hand, it is somewhat worrisome to say that God must create a world in which there is a risk of rejection and estrangement in order to actualize this aspect of the divine love. For one thing, this seems to suggest that evil is necessary for God’s being to be fully actualized: for a world in which rejection and estrangement are a live possibility is one that would seem to (necessarily?) contain suffering. This is the same worry I have about Robert Jenson’s theology, that God’s self-determination is so bound up with the historical process that evil becomes part of the very being of God.

    Maybe there can be a mediating position: perhaps it’s possible (at least logically) for God to create creatures who are capable of estrangement without necessarily falling into it. In other words, the kind of risky love demonstrated in God’s decision to create free creatures who may fail to respond to the divine love does differ from God’s self-love, and is thus something good to be actualized, but it doesn’t necessarily entail the existence of evil.

    Regardless of what we want to say about this, I do think Ward is right to distinguish between the kind of love we might imagine between the persons of the Trinity and the kind of love that exists between God and finite persons, or between finite persons themselves. Some theologians have taken to seeing the relationship between the persons of the Trinity as a model for human community, but this seems like a bad idea for a couple of reasons.

    First, a lot of the descriptions of the nature of the love between the Persons is, let’s face it, rank speculation. And using fancy Greek terms like “perichoresis” doesn’t really change the fact that we have only the dimmest idea of what the “inner” life of God is like, much less does it provide some kind of blueprint for human relationships.

    Secondly, the life of the Trinity, we’re told, instantiates a perfect union of wills, a unity of wills in fact. The three Persons will all and only the same things. But this is a very bad model of human relationships. There is never perfect agreement of will in human communities, and to try and ensure such unity would be a recipe for tyranny. Conflict is an essential part of human living, due both to our differing interests and limited knowledge about what is good. Human beings are different from each other in a way that the Persons of the Trinity aren’t. So, it is, I would suggest, an inadequate model for human relationships to say the least.