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.

In my last post on Evangelical idolatry I focused on the various movements in evangelicalism and how they tend to be attached to various kinds of idolatry. In the discussion on Facebook, unfortunately not had on the post itself, it was suggested to me that evangelicals cannot honestly be concerned with the Christian tradition and still be Evangelical! I find this both possible and shocking. I have often said that if you want to be miserable (and are Evangelical), the best way is to study either theology or Church History, but I never imagined that giving the tradition any weight whatsoever would preclude you from being Evangelical.

I find this suggestion interesting because it could very well help to delineate two kinds of evangelicalism – as well as help explain why evangelicals tend towards either fundamentalism or frustration. Fundamentalism because they border on, or accept wholesale, bibliolotry, such as post-Reformed heretics who were biblicists (the renewal, for instance, of Arianism and general anti-trinitarian sentiments because they were seen to be an addition to the Bible itself). Frustration, because, with the total neglect of tradition, social action and, well, thoughtfulness I suppose, Evangelicals who learn about the broader church inevitably get angry and flee, leaving behind whatever good qualities Evangelicals do have.

So, for this post, I would like to hear your thoughts on a couple of things: First, is this true? Second, if so (even a qualified “yes), how is it the case? In other words, you could say that Evangelicals cannot care about the tradition unless they can use it for their own benefit (which is, sadly, usually the case), and therefore still cannot truly be said to give it any real “weight.” It is like when non-denominational pastors preach on money they suddenly sound like OT scholars even though they never really reference the OT in other discourse (we need to fill the storehouse)! Third, if you think otherwise, that you can both be Evangelical and give some weight to the tradition, could you specify how that is the case, and to what degree it is?

John Calvin began his Institutes of the Christian Religion programmatically asserting that the knowledge of God and knowledge of self are irreducibly intertwined. In this, he stood in a long tradition of spiritual theologians who saw theology as more than a mere articulation of truths, but as a self-involving activity, more about the growth of people than the increase of scholarly knowledge. We ought not make too much of the fact that Calvin chose “knowledge” rather than “will” or “affections,” for while such a decision probably prioritizes rationality and is rooted in the medieval tradition of seeing rationality as the essence of the imago Dei, I think Calvin is far enough removed from modernity to be free from any cold rationalism. Today, we might appropriate Calvin’s thought by saying that for him, knowledge is a spiritual event, for seeing knowledge of God linked with knowledge of self runs against any purely analytic or empirical conception of theology.

Now, Calvin thought this relationship between knowledge of God and knowledge of self was ordered, that is, knowledge of God was primary and determinative while knowledge of self was contingent and derivative. Just so, one’s knowledge of God cannot increase unless one’s self-understanding catches up, as it were. Knowledge of God is thus transformative of the knower; one cannot have knowledge of God unless one changes, conforms to the object. No doubt, such a view is tied to a larger theological vision about the relationship between the Creator and creatures where the former has ontological priority over the latter.

We could easily explore with interest said vision. But what I want to briefly point out is how different Calvin’s position is from the general course of most contemporary theology, academic and seminary. In conservative seminaries, one learns about doctrines as if they are facts. Students learn ways of “proving” doctrines, biblically, historically and philosophically. Little if any time is devoted to the spiritual realities involved in accepting these facts, to say nothing of the moral, social and political aspects of the doctrine. Accepting a doctrine has to do with weighing the evidence, not with seeing oneself implicated or summoned by the doctrine and being forced to adopt a corresponding active relationship to God and all God’s works as stipulated by the doctrine. When treated thus, doctrines become a fundamentally different kind of knowledge than the aforementioned view, not to mention strains the original meaning of doctrina which is “teaching.” Theology on this view becomes the weighing of evidence and the compilation of those notions that pass the burden of proof, not the transformation of the self by the divine teacher.

The same can be said of most academic settings, unconcerned with any confessional commitments. Most academic theology is inane and absurd. It cannot even be said to be a cheap imitation of true theology. Academic theology tends to be about advancing discussions in the field. And so the endless publication of would-be theologians making observations about other theologians or putting different theologians into dialogue to form some quasi-new view thought to escape certain theoretical deficiencies of older ones within a very limited topic and debate. Of course, there is the obvious attempt at originality by bringing some long ignored or obscure theologian to light and, very unoriginally, using his or her thoughts as a “new way forward” on some debate. At the end of the day, academic theology is just about being intellectually sexy, about trying to coin some technical distinction in thought, about being the first to introduce some unknown figure into a debate or trying to mediate a debate through appeal to other thinkers. It is concerned with advancing a body of knowledge, either for the sake of one’s career or, for the slightly more noble, for the state of knowledge. The whole enterprise is purely cerebral, and even that may be too high a compliment.

In both cases, the only thing that changes in the theologian is his or her theoretical knowledge. And, as suggested, those thoughts are often shortsighted. In the case of the former, with the emphasis being placed on fact, they are developed without attention to the moral, political and spiritual content of doctrines, while in the case of academic theology, they are only oriented toward the state of scholarly knowledge. In short, contemporary “theology” is conducted quite independently of self-knowledge. No personal adaptation to the truths under study is required for the successful study of those truths.

It strikes me that contemporary “theology” is quite worthless in this regard, not worthy of the name. Call me cynical or anti-intellectual, but there is no way contemporary theology is healthy. It says something terrible about the state of the discipline that it is utterly objective and scholarly, that one can be successful without ever having to pray, meditate upon Scripture, participate in the life of the church, serve the poor, counsel the downtrodden or just repent of one’s selfishness and become more loving. It is a blight against contemporary theology that the mark of success has to do with argumentation or even conformance to some tradition, intellectual or confessional, not holiness. That one can be considered a knowledgeable theologian without ever really having to be affected by the knowledge they have is at the very least curious for a discipline concerned with knowledge of the ultimate ontologically reality, God.

For Calvin, there is no knowledge of God apart from corresponding knowledge of self. Knowing God entails personal change, for one cannot truly know God without coming into active, transformative relationship to him. Theologians thus do not know various doctrines, even if they can argue compellingly for them, if their selves are not conformed, not taught by the content. Calvin thus recognized that theology is not only plagued by false gods or idolatry, but by false selves as well. For him, it is impossible to retain a false self and yet know God in truth. In this way, what makes for a successful theologian is not simply good intellectual traits, but, more fundamentally, virtue and piety. Theologians are those who do not simply pontificate and speculate about the truth for others, but above all those who have been personally taught by Truth, who have been grasped by the content of their task to the point of being conformed to it. True theologians do not fool themselves into thinking that theological problems are solved conceptually (in other words, enough babbling about the perils of capitalism and more getting on with providing relief to those who suffer from its oppression). True theologians don’t master their discipline, but are mastered by it, being moved not simply intellectually by thoughts, but personally by realities shorthanded by doctrines.

I have been thinking, as of late, about the various strategies in evangelicalism to navigate the marketplace of ideas. It seems to me that the typical evangelical strategy to “win” (sorry, I don’t mean this to be polemical (yet) but I can’t think of another word which is accurate), is simply to create something of a boys club. In other words, we surround ourselves with people who both agree with every word that comes our of our mouth and who won’t actually attack our views in any significant way. This is enough, in itself, to be idolatry, but it rarely stops there. The next step is to start a movement. A movement, in these terms, is nothing more than simply organizing leadership and adopting worldly strategies for kingdom building. Once teaching, leadership and dogma can be disseminated, there is a twofold turn outwards: First, a turn outwards to evangelize – not Christ as much as the movement itself - and, second, a turn outwards to attack anyone who thinks differently. The latter turn stems from the inherent fundamentalism in evangelicalism which equates difference with danger.

So, why this seemingly random rant about evangelical idolatry? Well, I have been thinking about what a healthy movement of the church might look like, and I didn’t have any examples. All the movements I can see, from my perspective, seem to be endlessly idolatrous. Which made me think about the emergent church conversation. It was the “conversation” piece that frustrated all these other movements. It seems unfair to just talk about things without calling anyone a heretic. As I was contemplating these realities, it struck me that the emergent church dialogue was truly a healthy endeavor. Now, there were certainly “movement” portions of it that were equally idolatrous, but the main thrust was that questions need to be asked, and the solution shouldn’t merely be reasserting what those around me simply assert. The emerging church conversation, it seems to me, was a prophetic call to the church against the idolatry of movements.

Therefore, I want to think through what a healthy “conversation” or “movement” could look like. These are random thoughts, I haven’t thought about this very much, so I am looking for some more input. What are the signs or fruit of a healthy theological conversation?

First, I believe self-criticism is necessary. In other words, if you can’t think of any possible problems with the given “movement,” denomination or conversation you are a part of then you are an idolater.

Second, it seems necessary that you can truly understand someone else is seeking to be as faithful to the biblical text as you are and still disagrees with you. There is a general thought among evangelicals, sadly, even educated evangelicals, that their view is just simply what the Bible clearly says. This, again, is idolatry.

Third, in light of the second, it is necessary, to be truly faithful, to stay away from rhetoric. What I mean by rhetoric is this: you don’t ever use “biblical” as an adjective of your own projects. I am astonished how quickly people label something they do “biblical.” This kind of rhetoric is a strategy employed by those who believe that God’s kingdom comes through their own rhetorical might, and is, again, idolatry. Rhetoric, in other words, is simply the use of a platform to self-will one’s own agenda and seek to commandeer God’s reign for one’s own use (almost always done so out of a belief that to do so is obviously “biblical”).

Fourth, there must not be a true telos to the conversation/movement. In other words, those who have a vision statement that spells out a well defined teleology do so out of a belief that they are God’s answer to the church. This, again, is idolatry. In the words of Eugene Peterson concerning pastoring, “I don’t know what God has for these people.” Likewise, we don’t know what God has for our agendas, movements, ideologies, etc.

Fifth, it seems necessary that the conversation/movement cannot be inbred. There must be ears to hear prophetic voices from without, from those whose views, ideas and theology may be foreign, may contradict our own or may even be perceived as dangerous. I am continually shocked at how many evangelicals, dare I say possibly the majority of the laity, believe that agreeing with something someone said necessitates agreeing with everything they say. By failing to listen to those outside of our own conversations, and truly listen for God’s voice, we assume the gospel can be read in its entirely through our own worldviews, and that, again, is idolatry.

Sixth, it seems that it is necessary that areas of interest widen rather than shrink. In other words, a truly healthy movement would seek deeper in the tradition, would continue to search for answers beyond its own assumptions, while an idolatrous movement considers its views solidified and now simply circles the wagons to protect those inside. What is inside, of course, is idolatry, and what is being protected is, in itself, wicked.

Seventh, and this goes along with the idea of self-critique. A movement/conversation must be weighed by the people it helps produce. In other words, if the broader church regards members of the conversation/movement (with good cause) as zealous without knowledge for instance, or, angry, arrogant and, ultimately, sub-Christian, then a leader must come to grips with their failure to truly lead to Christ, and therefore, necessarily, the cross. Evangelicals have turned ego-driven movements into a franchise network, so, likewise, we should recognize that God is the ultimate judge of our movement, and therefore he gets to draw up the qualifications for what “successful” is. Again, a movement believing they can do so without the larger church’s input is toying with idolatry.

Any other thoughts? What have I missed? I stayed away from naming names, which is probably a good idea, but I am certain this only scratches the surface.

 [A]n adequate doctrine of Scripture [contra B.B. Warfield and C. Hodge] depends circularly on the very doctrines that Scripture helps establish. It fits equally well at the end of a systematic theology as at its beginning. Indeed, it arguably fits best throughout one’s theological system, developing along with its other categories in order to inform them and be informed by them at every point. The Bible is a truly rich theological resource, as both prophetic and apostolic foundation for Christian doctrine and a beneficiary of it [...]

Systematic bibliology…orders the various dimensions of Scripture according to the divine economy of salvation: The Bible saves because of its divine character and agency. The Bible has a divine character and agency in order to form, reform, and govern God’s chosen people” (Work, Living and Active: Scripture in the Economy of Salvation [2002], 319-20).

“The Bible is inherently the live Word of God that addresses us concerning the character and will of the gospel-giving God, empowering us to an alternative life in the world…Given inherency…the Bible is endlessly a surprise beyond us…

The Bible is not a fixed, frozen, readily exhausted read; it is rather a “script” always reread, through which the Spirit makes new…Nobody makes the final read; nobody’s read is final or inerrant, precisely because the Key Character in the book who creates, redeems, and consummates is always beyond us in holy hiddenness” (Walter Brueggemann, Struggling with Scripture (2002), pp. 11, 12, 13)

I will continue our look at Dennis Ngien’s book, Luther as a Spiritual Advisor: The Interface of Theology and Piety in Luther’s Devotional Writings. The chapter we will look at here is entitled: “Gems for the Sick: Proper Meditation on Evils and Blessings,” and is taken from Luther’s work Fourteen Consolations. Ngien summarizes:

In all these consolations the victorious image of Christ looms large, by which we are lifted outside ourselves (extra nobis), and are so caught up into Christ that we might see how, with such eagerness, Christ was willing to suffer on the cross to make death contemptible and dead for us (pro nobis)” (48).

The fourteen consolations are made up of seven evils and seven blessings. Instead of focusing his attention solely on glory, Luther accepts the reality of the cross as forming the Christian life – thereby making this work – as Ngien argues, an exercise in a “theology of the cross.” Luther, Ngien explains, “accentuates the unity of word and Spirit, working together in accomplishing the proper outcome of any act of meditation. The Holy Spirit assigns value and meaning to a thing on which our mind focuses so that whatever he considers as trivial and of no significance will move us only slightly, be it love as it comes to us or pain when it disappears” (49). Utilizing the great teacher from Ecclesiastes who stated that, “In the day of evil be mindful of the good, and in the day of good be mindful of the evil” (Ecc. 11:25), Luther writes,

It is thus very true that we shall find consolation only through the Scriptures, which in the days of evil call us to the contemplation of our blessings, either present or to come, and, in the days of blessing, point us to the contemplation of evils” (49).

The first image of evil is the evil within us, our true evil nature. Sufferings therefore, are only small revelations of our evil nature and “God’s fatherly chastening.” This image should allow us to rest in the sovereign care of God as Father. The second image is the evil before us, which is “the tragedies, infirmities, and indignities that may yet befall us” (51). Death, therefore, is the greatest evil which will befall us – second only to falling from grace. We must see death therefore as God’s rescuing us from the domain of sin and the reality of something far worse – falling from grace. The third image of evil is the evil behind us. Ngien explains, “The basic argument behind this image is this: if our lives and actions were under God’s guidance and grace in the past, during the times of disobedience, how much more would our present life be under his, even when his presence is not felt? Just as God helped us in the past, he too will come to our rescue in the present with great mercies” (52).

The fourth image of evil which confronts us is the evil beneath us, or the infernal evil, including both death and Hell. Our response to this evil is the realization that, no matter what, we do not suffer as we deserve. The fifth image is the evil on our left hand, which refers to the many different agents of evil in this fallen world. We accept, in other words, like Christ, the agents of evil in this world and recognize their role in our purification, understanding their own state of death. Next, for the sixth image, Luther refers to the evil on our right hand, which is the evils experienced by the saints, both alive and dead. This sign calls out the reality of the suffering of the saints, suffering that is no doubt greater than our own. It is here where Luther puts his theology of the cross to work against the theologians of glory “who honour the saints in the hope that they would be freed from all sorrows and ills.” Ngien offers a helpful quote from Luther:

“If you are a sinner, good! The thief was also a sinner, but by his patience he merited the glory of righteousness and holiness. Go and do likewise. Whenever you suffer, it is either because of your sins or your righteousness. Both kinds of suffering sanctify and save if you will but love them” (55).

The last image of evil is evil above us, which is the suffering of Christ Jesus for our sins. In explanation, Ngien suggests, “For Christ transforms the believer’s existence, turning life’s evils upside-down so that in him all of life may be embraced, not as a source of grief but of ‘delight.’ Consequently, this last image lifts us ‘above and beyond ourselves’ in order that we might see ‘the heart of Christ,’ and be drawn into him, who for our sake suffered the evils mentioned before, those ‘beneath us and near us’ – sin, death and hell, but defeated them by the resurrection.”

Luther’s work here is really interesting to me. The way he takes on the realities of life and weaves them into a theology of the cross – really a spirituality of the cross – seems incredibly fruitful. What are your thoughts?

We continue our look at Lash’s volume, Theology on the Way to Emmaus with the chapter “How Do We Know Where We Are?” As good a question as any I suppose! Lash muses that our trouble with a theology of history is that we have no summit from which to stand beyond and view our situation. Likewise, he adds:

But if the philosophy of history now seems so questionable an enterprise, how much more problematic must be the idea of a theology of history. If ‘the meaning of history’, the idea that history has some single sense or direction, is a will-o’-the-wisp, how much more insubstantial must be any attempt to perceive how such ‘meaning’ stands in relation to the mystery of God” (64).

There is a sense, of course, that to be a Christian, let alone a theologically minded one, is to necessarily be historically minded. Again, Lash states, “To put it as baldly as possible: whatever be the case with some other religions, I do not see how a Christian theology could fail to be, in some sense, a ‘theology of history’ (64). Lash suggest what he calls “the middle distance,” as a way to orient both past and future gazing. For the past, this would allow/entail a certain transcendence without claiming absolute validity, and for the future it would entail a grounded hopefulness. With respect to the past, we would be grounded in the reality of a tradition, with the knowledge that we are not on our own; with the future, we could be grounded so as not to fall into despair or a misguided optimism. Lash explains:

Despair is ‘near-sighted’, it allows the sharp and painful edges of existing fact to obliterate from view the possibilities inherent in the present situation. Optimism, on the other hand, is ‘far-sighted’: its vision wanders to distant horizons which appear attractive because they are, in fact, invisible” (66).

Lash attempts to begin his project by stating, “If we wanted a slogan, it might be: memory is possible and hope permitted because all history is the history of grace” (67). Building on this, there are two directions one must go to avoid error. First, nature, as that which is constituted by grace, has its own intelligibility, regularity and autonomy. Likewise, Lash continues, the second path that must be tred is to insist that “distinctions between ‘creation’ and ’salvation’ are not to be drawn in such a way as to suggest that these two concepts refer to two different sets or sequences of events” (67). He explains by noting that the doctrine of creation itself must be be conceived outside of the doctrine of grace. Likewise, he pushes on the point that we tend to, in his mind mistakenly, posit God undertaking two distinct tasks, one of creation and one of redemption. A history of salvation, on this account, would merely spell out the latter, while virutally ignoring the former. Lash, invoking Rahner, explains:

God’s single, eternal act (which he is) finds contingent expression in a single process of gracious self-bestowal, a single world, a single hsitory. ‘Profane’ history and ’salvation-history’ are, as Karl Rahner put it, ‘materially co-extensive’. The distinction between what we call ‘church’ and what we call ‘world’ is not a distinction between two empiracally distinct ‘places’: an oasis of light and a wilderness of darkness. It is a distinction between one single, vastly diverse, bewildering complex, frequently conflictual and largely ‘illegible’ process and, within that process, an unexpected laguage: a discourse of clarification and the promise of peace” (68).

Any thoughts about this kind of account?