Another short excerpt from my paper in New Orleans (at Earl’s request):

[S]ome theologies of retrieval offer fresh genealogies of modernity in order to reinvigorate the possibility that postmodern (or late modern) theology might find continuity with the classical Christian tradition. Radical Orthodoxy is one such path. While highly diverse, it shares a common refusal of the language of secularity and autonomy which finds its genesis, on its reading, in modernity.

As a form of ressourcement, the argument is not for a nostalgic return to the theology and politics of the middle ages, instead, it argues (according to Simon Oliver) that “the riches of the orthodox Christian tradition of faith and reason, theology and philosophy, can be deployed not only as a possible solution to the problems of late modernity, but as the only solution.” Theirs is clearly retrieval, but not of practices or even wisdom, but the recovery of relationships and priorities, one that can only be accomplished by a radical retrieval of premodern modes of Christian thinking that refuses marginalization by metaphysics.

Here is a brief excerpt from the paper I gave with David Buschart last week in New Orleans, “Looking Back, Moving Forward: Retrieval as Theological Method.” (I also heard some great jazz at The Preservation Hall) 

Our interest in the paper was to suggest that “retrieval” is a particular mode of theological reasoning in which its practitioners believe the future of the church hangs in some sense not on our ability to innovate but in our capacity to retrieve something from her past.

Those who pursue retrieval recognize and embrace the fact that the history of Christianity, of the church, and of theology consists of both change and continuity. This may seem obvious, not in need of stating, but recognition of this “both-and” is fundamental to retrieval.

Change is a universal and patently obvious characteristic of historical existence. Thus, the modern era and our own time – whether one regards it as modern, post-modern or hyper-modern – is not alone in seeing an inextricable connection between “history” and “change.” It is one of the necessary parts of this “both-and” – both continuity and change. The modern era can, however, be challenged for its almost myopic preoccupation with change and newness – indeed, dis-continuity? – to the virtual exclusion of continuity. And, this is a challenge posed by the method of retrieval.
Retrieval does not deny the fact of change. It does, however, challenge the modern tendency to presume that change is (always) good, as well as the accompanying tendency to emphasize change to the virtual neglect of continuity…

Paths of retrieval embrace this connection between “what has gone before” – that is, that which is retrieved – and “what comes after” – that is, retrieval is undertaken in order to contribute to Christian thought and life today and tomorrow. In so doing, those who employ retrieval acknowledge continuity, whether or not this specific term is employed. Thus, for example, writing about contemporary liturgical retrieval, Paul Gavrilyuk observes, “Repetition is at the very core of liturgical action. It is healthier for liturgical life to develop by gradual evolution, not by revolution.” Pursuing evolution, rather than revolution, is but one example of the ways in which retrieval can give continuity its due.

As most of you know who have followed Theology Forum for any length of time, we have a real interest in the nature and task of theology and the spiritual aspect inherent in being a theologian and to “doing” theology. As we’ve mused on what this might mean, I have looked at several spiritual theologians, and, recently, reviewed Mark McIntosh’s volume Divine Teaching. There, as I noted in my post, he suggests that the outcome of a theology must speak to the quality of the theologizing itself. In other words, good theology will bear good fruit, we may say.

In light of this, I was wondering your thoughts about the inevitable move backwards – judging theology by bad fruit. Could we, for instance, attack an evangelical doctrine of Scripture by pointing out the reality that, were you to go to ETS, you are more likely to find a paper on the use of the aorist-passive in Greco-Roman shipping industry between the years 20-27 than you are to find a paper on a dogmatic account of Scripture? Along these lines, could we point out the seemingly backward use of integration in evangelical theology, commandeering history, philosophy and psychology well before doing any serious dogmatic work – as fruit of a sick tree?

How far can we take some of these issues? Is this a valid theological critique? I’m very aware of how this can be used poorly, but is there a place for this kind of analysis?

It has been a LONG time, but continuing our look at Ngien’s volume, we now turn to the meditation on blessings. Luther offers 7 images of evil and 7 images of blessing that are to guide our meditation. The first image is of “internal blessings” which are those blessings the believer possesses within themselves (beauty, strength, intelligence, etc.). These attributes are, as it were, “salted” with “the relics of the cross” in this world. “Evil,” Ngien continues, “is the seasoning necessary to preserve the savor of blessing” (58). The second image is delineated as “the blessing before us.” These are the future blessings in which we can find our comfort. Like Christ therefore, who for the sake of what was before him endured the cross, believers can rest in the blessings which are promised but not yet grasped.

Thirdly, Luther suggests the “blessing behind us.” Since redemption is fundamentally God’s work, truly by grace, the believer can boast in the work that God has done and continues to do. Next, Luther suggest the image of the “blessing beneath us.” Like the third image, this image forces our mind and heart to the God who elects. “Beneath us,” as it were, lie souls who were not saved – the damned. These images work together to turn our attention to the God who is both faithful as well as just. Meditating on both his goodness and his wrath keep the heart straight, turned to God as he has revealed himself.

The fifth and sixth images are the “blessing on our left hand,” and the “blessing on our right hand,” respective. The left hand depicts the enemies we will have in this life (enemies which Luther knew all too well). Meditation on the enemies who are richly blessed in this world gives us hope that God will all the more bless those who are truly faithful to him. Likewise, the right hand depicts the communion of saints in which you participate. In Luther’s words,

Therefore, when we feel pain, when we suffer, when we die, let us turn to this, firmly believing and certain that it is not we alone, but Christ and the church who are in pain and suffering and dying with us. Christ does not want us to be alone on the road of death, from which all mortals shrink. Indeed, we set out upon the road of suffering and death accompanied by the entire church…All that remains for us now is to pray that our eyes, the eyes of our faith, may be opened that we may see the church around us” (63-64).

The last image Luther suggests is the “blessing above us.” Christ’s resurrection is the greatest blessing for the believer. Again, in Luther’s words, “I am a sinner, but I am borne by his righteousness which is given to me. I am unclean, but his holiness is my sanctification, in which I ride gently. I am an ignorant fool, but his wisdom carries me forward. I deserve condemnation, but I am set free by his redemption, which is a safe wagon for me” (64). As the image “above us” calls us to set our mind and heart on heaven, it does so only after we have contemplated the reality of evil in our hearts, in the world and, for the damned, in eternity. Likewise, our meditation has focused on the givenness of God’s grace, and therefore orients our hearts and minds to God, in Christ. Luther puts it well,

This, then, is the most sublime image, for in it we are lifted up not only above our evils, but even above our blessings, and we are set down in the midst of strange blessings gathered by the labors of another, whereas formerly we lay among evils that were also brought about by the sin of another and enlarged by our own (Rom. 5:17). We are set down, I say, in Christ’s righteousness, with which he himself is righteous, because we cling to that righteousness where he himself is acceptable to God, intercedes for us as our mediator, and gives himself wholly to us as our high priest and protector” (65).

Any thoughts about this? I find Luther’s work here to be incredibly realistic, if that makes sense. In other words, he does not offer a piety so focused on perfection that it makes no sense of sin and evil. On the contrary, Luther’s account makes no sense without sin and evil around ever corner! This seems missing in the piety found in much of the church today. It is realistic but not lackadaisical.

Hey all, I’ve had some random thoughts lately about preaching and would like to hear from you. How do we delineate preaching, say, in comparison from teaching or lecturing? Has anyone read anything on preaching that has been really good? I’m not talking about any “how to” manuals here, but a real theology of churchly proclamation. What is the controlling mechanism for churchly proclamation? Is it simply its object, its being carried up by its object, the manner of its proclamation, etc.?

I have been a bit scarce around TF lately due to heavy commitments at Huntington and an upcoming conference paper (which is still dreadfully unformed!), but we recently hosted Ben Witherington III  and his paper on social identity deserves comment.

Unrelated to the paper, I found Ben a delightful guest. After dinner and before his presentations we chatted about recent films, debates on the doctrine of justification, the first of his two-volume ethical theology of the New Testament, and what he believes might characterize “responsible” theological interpretation of scripture. On this later point Ben was passionate and will be posting something here in January on the topic.

In his paper on social identity, “E Pluribus Unum: The One and the Many in Luke-Acts,” Ben leverages social identity theory to draw conclusions about conversion and Christian identity. “The problem of social identity formation in the church is a pressing one,” he explains, ”not least because all too often a person’s Christian identity is their secondary identity, and their national or ethnic identity is de facto their primary identity.” He goes on,

Crises tend to bring to the surface what our real defaults are, what our real primary commitments and identities are. And this leads to some painful revelations. All too many church goers seem to have been inoculated with a slight case of Christian identity, and in some cases it is preventing them from getting the real thing.

We have pressed this point before on TF, and it is a critical one for Christians to get straight – especially American evangelicals for whom God and country can become dreadfully disordered.

People in antiquity understood social identity in the opposite manner as most modern Westerners: the group identity is primary and the individual identity secondary (dyadic personality). For example, New Testament figures have no last names because geography, gender, and generation defined group identity. “What established identity in antiquity was not how you stood out from the crowd but rather what crowd you were a part of, or which ethnic, social, religious, kin group you came from.”

For Christians to hear the message of social identity and transformation in Luke-Acts, they must embrace something of antiquity’s understanding of social identity, thereby reversing personal and social identity such that being in Christ is now primary and being (in my case) American, male, caucasian, middle class, etc., is properly ordered second.

Ben marks out the implications of this reordering as follows:

None of the usual identity defining social categories—social, sexual, ethnic, racial, class, national have any salvific import in Christ.  This does not mean they are of no import, but it does mean they are not requirements for salvation or redemption. Whatever good there is in human diversity, it is always a mistake to deify a particular culture or human social or racial identity and make that the means or necessary pre-requisite for salvation or for being a true Christian [...]

But Luke would tell us equally that our secondary identity as Americans, or males or females, or belongers to one subculture or another is not of no importance. There is indeed a goodness to diversity, perhaps especially in the body of Christ.  Luke does indeed dream a big dream of a community that is a rainbow coalition of races, genders, ethnic groups, social statuses.  But their oneness is not created by a mere common commitment to diversity and its potential goodness nor is it created by the fact that we are all human.  That oneness is created by the Spirit of God who transforms and transfigures our previous identities.

And Luke would tell us as well, that in Christ we are not called to radical individualism, we are called to a new group identity as our primary identity— to be ‘in Christ’, in the body of Christ [...]

‘E pluribus unum’ says the coins of our realm,  ‘out of the many one’.  But this philosophy suggests that group formation happens mainly through human effort, as our metal is tested, so to speak. But what the Bible says is that from the One the many can find their eternal identity in community, when he comes by his Spirit to indwell us.  And this is an identity not found in a mere common commitment to diversity or respecting difference, though both of those values are worth affirming [...] Luke would tell us that this sort of identity forming and culture making enterprise should still characterize the church today.  Unity in the midst of diversity,  unity which transforms without eliminating diversity, unity as a more primary value than diversity or a commitment thereto, these are the values of Luke.  In my judgment they should be ours as well. If it is true we become what we admire, then it is time for us to admire Christ more, emulate him more and share his vision of unity that transforms and transfigures diversity so that social, sexual, ethnic, racial, class differences no longer chiefly define us, nor do they any longer divide us from one another.   

Hearing Ben’s paper I couldn’t help but think about worship. 

Objects of worship define us; around them and in terms of them we implicitly or explicitly identify ourselves. While many would say they self-consciously worship God on a weekly, daily, or momentary basis, do we not risk unconsciously worshipping the objects associated with our secondary identity and in doing so make them idols?  When worship becomes disordered, granting ultimate value to that which it doesn’t warrant, we are essentially committing something the Bible straightforwardly calls idolatry.

So what are the reigning ‘idols’ and ‘deities’ of contemporary society threatening to hold the allegiance of Western Christians? Socio-economic status? Race? Militarism? Nationality?

We continue our look at Nicholas Lash’s book by picking up his chapter, “What Might Martyrdom Mean?” To set the stage, I will let Lash speak for himself:

There is a received account, in this country, both of the character of these enterprises, and of the relationship between them, which goes something like this. Christian hermeneutics is principally concerned with negotiating the ‘gap’ between what was once said and what might appropriately be said today. The biblical scholar, and the historian of doctrine, are expected to recover, today, what the text meant; the systematic theologian is supposed to transpose the recovered meanings into contemporary idiom; and Christian living is conceived as the practical application…In this essay I propose to indicate some of the reasons why I regard this hermeneutical model as profoundly unsatisfactory” (75).

Lash is allergic to building one’s exposition around what the text “meant” towards what it “means,” and offers a series of responses to Stendahl. First, Lash is concerned about the positivist account that this kind of analysis will bring. What does it mean to exposit what the text meant – apart from what it means? Is this somehow to believe that historical work exists pre-interpretation? Second, Lash is concerned about the meaning of the concept…well…”meaning.” Is the concern Paul’s intent or the Corinthian audience’s reception? Translation, Lash fears, is then pushed to the systematic analysis, and is somehow after the historical task. Furthermore, the theologian’s task is then always the second half of a larger task, the first completed by the biblical scholars. This is, of course, never actually completed, and therefore the theologian’s project is never able to get off the ground. This Lash, argues, is the model used by many, and it is defective.

In contrast, Lash claims that the two enterprises, say, New Testament scholarship and systematic theology, are dialectical – a relation of mutual dependence. Lash states, “There is thus a sense in which the articulation of what the text might ‘mean’ today, is a necessary condition of hearing what that text ‘originally meant.’…I am only concerned to insist, as a matter of general hermeneutical principle, that understanding what an ancient text ‘originally meant’, in the circumstances in which it was originally produced, and understanding what that text might mean today, are mutually interdependent and not merely successive enterprises” (81). Furthermore, if New Testament scholars followed this line, they would never be able to utter: “This is what the texts means,” or even, “This is what Paul means.” They would only be able to claim, “It seems probable that Paul might have meant this.”

After further analysis, Lash provides a resting point before moving on to further exposition, stating,

The practice of Christian faith is not, in the last resort, a matter of interpreting, in our time and place, an ancient text. It is, or seeks to be, the faithful ‘rendering’ of those events, of those patterns of human action, decision and suffering, to which the texts bear original witness” (90).

The hermeneutical “gap” therefore, does not lie between what the text meant and what it means, but rather, “between what was once achieved, intended, or ’shown’, and what might be achieved, intended, or ’shown’ today” (90-91). Instead of poles between “meant” and “means,” the poles are between what Jesus accomplished and testified to on the one hand, and what kind of testimony to Jesus does that call us to on the other. The question, therefore, “What might martyrdom mean today?” is a question concerning fidelity to the Jesus whose own life and death were the martyrdom of God – God’s self-witnessing. The gap therefore, is between that action with the meaning of that action, and God’s action in the world today with our performative interpretation of that textual reality.

Any thoughts about this? Could it be said that Lash is the only real theologian?!?!

I was reading Pope Benedict XVI’s little gem The God of Jesus Christ: Meditations on the Triune God this morning and found that he provided some new perspective on what was at issue in my post. But first, a little clarification of what I was suggesting earlier is in order.

My terribly titled post was aimed at redefining “theology” as involving more than just the establishing of facts or the advancement of scholarship. Appealing to Calvin, it assumed that knowing God is a fundamentally different sort of endeavor than knowing, say, a tree or, even, another human being. To know God is not like knowing any other reality in this world, because God, as Creator and Redeemer, is ontologically determinative for the knower in a fundamental way. To know God thus is not just about knowing another fact, but about understanding oneself, about seeing one’s true place in the world. In this way, knowledge of God provokes knowledge of self. Theological rationality is irreducibly spiritual in this way.

Unfortunately, I never clearly brought out the consequence of this which was, for me, the most important point. The point that I really wanted to make was not simply that true theology is unavoidably spiritual, but that theology must consequently take on a certain form or character wherein the spiritual struggle of accepting certain views should be on display and part of the argumentative development. One is not simply making a theoretical case for a view, but is also making a spiritual case. Simply put, theology should be sermonic or exhortatory. Theology should enjoin upon the reader the self-knowledge that is demanded by the knowledge of God and overcome by pastoral-like criticism the false selves that would inhibit the acceptance of the position being argued for. And this is why I recklessly alleged that Rowan Williams is the only true theologian, as his theology is often sensitive to the human temptation to idolatry and often ends with prescriptions about what it means to be human (see, for example, his essay “On Being Creatures,” which not only argues for a certain understanding of the doctrine of creation, but also for a certain understanding of human identity, the moral of which is humility). In short, crucial to the exposition of theology is moral and spiritual exhortation. Theology is more, but not less, than conceptual or evidential argument; argumentation that stalls out at mere description is not yet “theology.”

Now, on to Pope Benedict XVI. One side of my thesis is that theology is bound to spiritual struggle or, as Luther put it, oratio, meditatio, and tentatio (prayer, meditation and spiritual trial). Theological positions cannot be determined in a vacuum since the kind of knowledge theology is after directly bears upon oneself. Theological reasoning is not abstract, but deeply personal. Thus, as said above, theology takes assumes an exhoratory or sermonic form to be transparent to its special rationality, to the spiritual decisions one must make to reach the conclusion being offered.

In his book, The God of Jesus Christ, Pope Benedict XVI has a similar view which might supplement my appeal to Calvin. He begins by noting that “the knowledge of God is not a purely theoretical matter” (p. 17). Knowing God, he says, “depends on the relationship that a man establishes between himself and the world and between his own self and his life” (p. 17). In an existential key, he continues: “The fundamental experiences and decisions in this interplay between ‘I’, ‘you’, and ‘we’ determine how a man sees the presence with him, and antecedent to him, of the One who is utterly other: Is he a competitor, a danger, or a reason for confidence” (p. 17). How humans understand God is thus bound up with their experience of love. Successfully knowing God is not merely a matter of the conceptual integrity of a view or its scholarly benefits, then, but something more basic, more personal, namely, an interpretation of the human situation. In other words, existential judgments are prerequisite to intellectual or rational judgments; the knower will not correctly interpret God without also correctly interpreting creaturely existence.

The Holy Father grounds this in the fact that God is omnipresent and so basic to the human experience. He is careful to say that this basic human experience of God is only an experience of the hidden God and so does not amount to positive knowledge. But it does, he believes, mean the question of God is an unavoidable part of human life. In other words, as one interprets his or her life – what it means to be in relationships – one inevitably will be making decisions about God. Here is how the Pope brings his meditation to a conclusions: “The contents that an image of God holds [sic] for a man are a fundamentally decisive factor in determining whether or not knowledge can develop here. And this knowledge and these contents are so profoundly interwoven with the basic decisions of human life, which limit or open up the sphere of a man’s knowledge, that mere theory is impotent here” (pp. 19-20).

What the Pope suggests, then, is that decisions about who God is and what God has done are hermeneutic, they are life decisions about who one is and what one experiences. Theology, then, is caught up within the larger experience of human life; it must be negotiated not simply conceptually, but spiritually (which I prefer to existentially). Theology is born out of wrestling with the world, with oneself and with one’s friends and enemies. How one interprets his or her life will shape how one interprets God, the author of life.

Of course, much more must be said. As it stands, this is entirely too individualist an account of theology. A fully developed view would place Scripture and the Church as norms in this interpretive process, such that right decisions about God amount to obedience to Scripture and affirmation of Tradition. But the basic point I want to establish is simply this: theological decisions should not be made apart from this spiritual struggle, an active wrestling with oneself, one’s world and God. This, I believe, adjusts the criteria for successful theology: theology is not simply that which is intellectually satisfying or argumentatively compelling, but something fundamentally spiritually edifying which is to say it enjoins upon its audience the same spiritual struggle from which it was born. Thus, to judge a theological system is to exercise spiritual discernment, not simply weighing its argument.

I’d be happy to hear disagreements or better explications…

If you recall (I know it has been a while) that our last post on Gordon Mikoski’s volume Baptism and Christian Identity we looked at Gregory of Nyssa. Now we turn our attention to John Calvin. Mikoski offers justification for his rather odd pairing:

Gregory of Nyssa and John Calvin shared enough similarities on the matter under investigation that meaningful comparison is both possible and useful in service to developing overtures to a contemporary trinitarian practical theology of formation. Both were servants of the church and dedicated their lives to the defense and promotion of the Christian faith…More to the point, both Gregory of Nyssa and Calvin held together the sacrament of baptism, the doctrine of the Trinity, and the practices of ecclesial pedagogy in dynamic interplay” (132).

Calvin’s development of Baptism, Mikoski argues, arose out of the Roman liturgical “subfamily in the early Western church.” This liturgy included: Pre-Baptismal Rites (anointing and renunciation); Baptism Proper; and Post-Baptism Rites (White garment, anointing, imposition of hands and prayer by bishop, anointing of forehead by bishop, and eucharist). Calvin’s developed his understanding of the liturgy as connected with the preaching of the Word, and within a covenantal framework and Augustinian conviction of the primary of grace (contra voluntarism), Calvin’s focus was the baptism of infants. Calvin’s liturgy developed in the following way:

1. The rite opened with Psalm 124:8, which served to emphasize the priority of divine initiative and grace. The minister would then ask the parents if they were presenting their child for baptism. If they answered yes, the rite continued.
2. The minister next launched into a lengthy baptismal exhortation. This exhortation began with an account of original sin, the necessity of complete renunciation of trust in self, regeneration through Christ, and the work of the Spirit.
3. This led into a prayer of invocation, concluding with the Lord’s prayer.
4. Next, the minister asked the parents if they desired to have their child baptized in the name of the Trinity.
5. Next, the minister directed the parents to claim and carry out their vocation as the primary Christian educators for their child. This charge focused specifically on teaching the Apostle’s Creed to the child when they came of age, and to instruct that the One God who exists as Three Persons was to be the sole object of their common worship and life. They were also to focus their pedagogy on Christ, the incarnate one’s work in human history, and his death, resurrection and ascension.
6. The minister then read the story of Jesus blessing the children in Matthew 19.
7. The minister, for a third time, turns to the parents and asks them to affirm that they are presenting the child for baptism. Once the parents affirm, the minister asks for the name of the child (the parents had to offer an acceptable name!).
8. The minister would pour “clear and pure” water on the head of the child saying, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Interestingly, this was without definite description of the agency as the Latin rite which proclaimed that, “I baptize you….” The minister would offer a short prayer asking for grace to make the newly baptized a true member of Christ Jesus and bear the appropriate fruit.
9. The baptismal rite concluded with a benediction from Matthew 28:20, invoking the promise of Christ’s presence with the command to teach and baptize in the Triune name. (147-153)

One of the underlying realities for Calvin in developing the rite this way was his understanding of the sacramental sign. Mikoski explains, Calvin “argued for a crucial distinction between the baptismal sign of water and the divine reality to which the sign served as pointer. The baptismal rite had as its meaning and substance none other than the crucified, risen, and ascended Jesus Christ. Nothing but the singular event of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ can bring about salvation for human beings” (154). Therefore, far from an “empty sign,” Calvin posited a sacramental view of baptism because of the necessary action of the Triune God to make it what it is.

It is at this point where Calvin posits the covenantal reading of baptism by invoking the rite of circumcision. It has been far too long since I’ve read this material in Calvin himself, but I generally regard it as Calvin at his worst. Does anyone else think that? Are people persuaded by that line? I just don’t find it to be either plausible or faithful to the biblical texts. Like I said, it has been a while since I’ve worked through his arguments on this, but I would love to hear your thoughts.

Halden has been musing about the divine persons and attributes here and here, and I thought it would be helpful to posit Edwards as a distinctive in the tradition. The two major issues brought up in Halden’s posts seem to be, in the first, the question of relations in the Trinity and simplicity, and, in the second, the question of attributes. In the second post, Halden questions the move to punt difference to procession and spend the rest of the time making sure there is no difference in attributes between the triune three. I think Edwards has a solution.

Using the psychological analogy, Edwards suggests that the Son actually is the Father’s understanding and the Spirit actually is the Father’s will. To be clear, these remarks do not function on the level of appropriation but being. So, how is the Son a person? Edwards runs personhood through the machinery of perichoresis so that personhood obtains only insofar as perichoresis obtains. The Father is a person only as he has the Son (his understanding) and the Spirit (his will/love). The Son, likewise, wills as he has the Spirit and so on. The benefit that this has is, first, exegesis. Halden mentions the Son being called the wisdom of God – and Edwards highlights this and several other passages to note that the Son actually is God’s wisdom. Edwards, of course, could build on a long line of theorists and exegetes working with appropriation and utilize their insights for his program. But second, this mediates the issue of person and individual. For Edwards, in the triune life, personhood is only had through communion. His view refuses to falter towards either slope, oneness or threeness, because you have threeness only insofar as you have oneness, and oneness obtains as each member shares and partakes of the other (the Father is a singular person only as he shares in the Son and Spirit). Edwards still grounds this idea, ultimately, in the divine essence, but forces the discussion to the level of persons rather than essence.

This leads us to the attributes. Edwards delineates the divine attributes into two categories: “real” and “relational.” Real attributes are simply those things that are true of God qua God. As fate would have it, there are only two real attributes in God: understanding and will. Other attributes, like wisdom, for instance, fall under understanding, and others fall under will, but every other attribute Edwards kicks into “relational” attributes – what he calls mere “modes” or “relations” of existence.

So, any thoughts? I think Edwards is on to something by running personhood through perichoresis. The attribute discussion is wrought with debates right now, and I won’t go into my interpretation.