Per Caritatem

In Problemata I, the question is raised, “Is there a teleological suspension of the ethical?” Johannes responds by stating that if the ethical is the highest to which one can aim, then Hegel is right in his qualification of the individual as a “moral form of evil” which must be “annulled in the teleology of the moral”[1]. However, if such is the case, Hegel’s account of faith is wrong and as a result, Abraham should not be praised, but condemned as a murderer [2]. Here Silentio, points the reader to the inability of Hegelian categories to properly interpret faith. If one accepts Hegel’s ethical, then Abraham can only be understood is as a murderer. Thus, Silentio leaves the reader with a dilemma: either Hegel is right and Abraham must be condemned for his deed, or Hegel’s system is flawed and a new category (i.e., the “religious”) must emerge that can handle the weightiness of faith. Accordingly, Silentio desires not only to set forth a positive view of faith, but likewise he seeks to show the inadequacies of the Hegelian system—a system when applied correctly, condemns Abraham as a murderer and destroys faith. Here Westphal provides a nice summary,

“Fear and Trembling is a confrontation between Abraham and Hegel. Its central theme is the incompatibility of Hegelian philosophy with biblical faith, of which Abraham is the paradigm in both the Jewish and the Christian Bibles. Contrary to its own central claim, the system is the abolition rather than the perfection of Christian faith [3].”

In Problemata II, Silentio continues his critique of Hegel’s ethical by asking, “Is there an absolute duty to God?” Because Abraham’s ordeal was personal and “above” the ethical, Johannes concludes that Hegel was wrong both concerning Abraham and in regard to faith in general. However, if we allow for the new category of the religious, then “faith is the paradox that interiority is higher than exteriority,”[4] and the single individual (i.e., Abraham) can relate absolutely to the absolute. If this formulation is correct, then the ethical is reduced to the relative and the single individual’s absolute duty is to God [5]. This is not to say that the ethical becomes invalidated, yet it does give the ethical a paradoxical expression [6]. Thus, because faith cannot be mediated, lest it be “canceled,” Silentio informs us that we must understand faith as a paradox in which the “single individual simply cannot make himself understandable to anyone” [7] This paradoxical nature is for Silentio the essence of Abraham’s faith because we see Abraham’s ethical relation to Isaac (viz., that a father must love his son) reduced to the relative as it is superceded by his absolute relation to God [8]. Concluding again with an either/or scenario, Silentio says,

“either there is an absolute duty to God—and if there is such a thing, it is the paradox just described, that the single individual as the single individual is higher than the universal and as the single individual stands in an absolute relation to the absolute—…or else Abraham is lost” [9].

Though I did not discuss all three problemata, it is instructive to note that each begins with the formulaic structure—the ethical is the universal. Likewise, each mentions Hegel by name and compels the reader to confront the either/or situation mentioned above. As Westphal notes, Johannes systematically and in increasing intensity brings us to a confrontation between Abraham and Hegel.

The point is clear. No one claims that Abraham is a philosopher. But if Hegelian philosophy requires that he no longer be honored as the father of faith, this could only be because, in content as well as form, it differs from the Christian faith of the New Testament, which holds up Abraham as a prototype of our true relation to God” [10].

Having seen (at least some of) the inadequacies of the Hegelian system via Silentio’s critique, in the next “installment” we’ll discuss that which Johannes omits from his account of Abraham’s faith as presented in Scripture—i.e., we’ll investigate the irony of Silentio’s silence.

Notes
[1] Soren Kierkegaard. Fear and Trembling. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983, p. 54.
[2] Ibid., pp. 54-55.
[3] Merold Westphal. “Kierkegaard and Hegel.” As found in The Cambridge Companion to Kierkegaard, edited by Alastair Hannay and Gordon D. Marino. (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1998), p. 108.
[4] Ibid., p. 69.
[5] Ibid., p. 70.
[6] Ibid., p. 70.
[7] Ibid., p. 71.
[8] Ibid., pp. 70-71.
[9] Ibid., p. 81.
[10] Merold Westphal. Kierkegaard’s Critique of Reason and Society. (Macon: Mercer Univ. Press, 1987), p. 76.

Ironically, in Fear and Trembling, Johannes, who claims to be neither a philosopher, nor a “knight of faith” speaks rather profusely about his view of faith and philosophy. According to Silentio, people in his day were approaching faith in an arrogant way, assuming that it was merely something easily attained. That which both ancient and modern philosophers spent a lifetime pursuing, people today presume to simply begin with faith and then casually proceed to go further [1]. Silentio finds this offensive and speaks against the Hegelian system that considered faith a mere step along the dialectical path leading to Absolute Spirit. Instead of construing faith as something we must pass beyond, Silentio is awed by Abraham’s faith and regards it as that which transcends human intelligibility. Moreover, faith involves “passion” and this aspect of faith has been completely destroyed by the Hegelians in their attempt to rationalize faith. Any attempt to rationalize faith by forcing it to harmonize with Hegel’s system simply destroys faith and demonstrates that one has not moved beyond the sphere of Hegel’s ethical.

Here it might be helpful to discuss in more detail Hegel’s ethical. Hegel, in contradistinction with Kant, argues for a more concrete ethic as opposed to Kant’s formal categorical imperative. As Evans points out, Hegel,

“thinks rather that the demands of reason must become concrete by becoming embodied in social institutions that would make possible an ethic (Sittlichkeit) that could actually guide the lives of a people…The individual satisfies the demands of reason not by autonomously legislating for himself, but by recognizing and affirming those demands as they are embedded in the institutions of the society in which he participates. [Thus] There is an historical dimension to Hegel’s account of the ethical life that is largely missing from Kant” [2].

So for Hegel, ethical duties don’t simply come about as the result of a human person being a rational agent. Rather, individuals have ethical obligations because they are embedded in concrete social institutions such as the family and the state [3].

Lastly, we should note that for Hegel knowledge is mediated. As Westphal explains,

“Objects can be given to consciousness in many ways, but to reflect upon them is to go beyond their givenness. Thus [for Hegel] every form of thought involves ‘the negation of what we have immediately before us.’ It is this negative movement that is called mediation. “For to mediate is to take something as a beginning and to go onward to something else” [4]

In contrast, for Silentio (and in this case, for SK as well) faith can neither be rationalized in terms of Hegel’s categories nor mediated. Rather, Abraham’s faith explodes Hegel’s categories, thus creating the need for a new category, the “religious,” or else Abraham must lose his status as the father of faith and be condemned as a murderer. The category of the “religious” in contrast with the universality of Hegel’s ethical, affirms the intensely personal relationship between the single individual and God.

[1] Silentio’s discussion can be found in the “Preface” to Fear and Trembling. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983, pp. 6-8.
[2] C. Stephen Evans. Kierkegaard’s Ethic of Love: Divine Commands and Moral Obligations. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 68.
[3] Ibid., Evans, p. 69.
[4] Merold Westphal. Kierkegaard’s Critique of Reason and Society. (Macon: Mercer Univ. Press, 1987), p. 66. Citations are taken from Hegel’s “Lesser Logic,” paragraph 12.

As I’ve been reading through the Gospel of John and Ridderbos’ commentary, I recently came across John 1:9, where we read, “Ην το φως το αληθινον, ο φωτιζει ανθρωπον, ερχομενον εις τον κοσμον” (“The true light, which illumines all human beings, was coming into the world”). As Ridderbos points out, “true” highlights that which is genuine, i.e., it is in fact what it claims to be. In this context, it also has an “exclusive meaning, referring as it does to the ‘uniqueness’ of Jesus (p. 43). However, regarding the phrase, “which illumines [or enlightens] all human beings,” Ridderbos says that this statement “describes the light in its fullness and universality.” However, I’m wondering if one couldn’t understand John 1:9 as did St. Augustine in his work, De Magistro. Augustine reads John 1:9 and concludes that Christ is the reason that anything is truly intelligible to us. I.e., according to Augustine’s epistemology, ultimately, it is the light of Christ shed in our minds that enables us to know anything. Thus, Christ is in effect the only Teacher. Human teachers don’t have the “power” to teach, they just point us to the true Teacher. So Augustine would say that understanding takes place because Christ implants in my mind the truth of what another person is trying to communicate to me. Thus, all knowledge is a divine gift that comes through grace—in both the believer and the unbeliever.

This interpretation harmonizes well with St. Augustine’s argument against skepticism and his argument for the existence of God. In other words, God’s divine illumination is the reason why fallible, changing human minds can attain eternal, unchanging truths and have certainty about these truths. According to Augustine, necessary and immutable truths depend upon the eternal “ground” and foundation of all truth, viz., God. I.e., that we encounter eternal truths that are superior to the human mind implies the existence of God. Even though our minds are finite and fallible, we are able to attain to certainty of these eternal truths because God grants us this certainly through divine illumination.

Undoubtedly, there are similarities here with Plato and Neoplatonism; however, there are also significant differences. For example, with Plato, Augustine believed that the fact that we make judgments of things as more or less beautiful, or of actions as more or less righteous, etc. entails the existence of eternal “Ideas/Forms” or standards. However, Augustine followed the Neoplatonists in saying that the Ideas must be in a Divine Mind. Yet, Augustine explicitly states that the Divine Mind is Christ, who is also a Divine Person and not an impersonal abstract principle. The divine Ideas are not “seen” directly, but rather in an indirect, mysterious way as God impresses or implants these ideas in us. Likewise, in contrast with Plato, Augustine rejects Plato’s doctrine of the soul’s pre-existence, and consequently, denies that the soul “remembers” what it saw in a pre-existent bodiless state. Instead, Augustine’s epistemology is centered in Christ as Illuminator, the one true Teacher who enlightens all. Lastly, Augustine’s “inward turn,” does recall Plato and the Neoplatonists to a certain degree. However, again there are distinctions to note. For Augustine, one seeks truth not by turning first to the external world, rather, first one turns her gaze inward where the soul has intimate relation to God. One of course doesn’t remain inwardly focused, but instead must then turn upward to God. Though Augustine doesn’t begin with the senses, he nonetheless does not eschew the external world in the world that Plato does. How can he in light of the fact that he holds to God’s creation ex nihilo, which God himself proclaimed to be “good?” Rather, according to Augustine, having turned inward and then upward, you then turn your gaze back outward to the external world. Now having understood by God’s grace who God is and who you are, the external world will make sense. That is, the created world is now viewed as that which imitates or reflects God in its own way (what Augustine and other medievals call, “participation”) and thus has a symbolic and even iconic significance as it ultimately points us to God.

With all that said, I don’t mean to detract from the climax of the passage, viz., και ο λογος σαρχ εγενετο (and the Word became flesh), and given that Augustine’s teaching on Christ as the only true Magister is appealing for a number of reasons (to me at least), I wonder if Augustine’s and Ridderbos’ emphases couldn’t be harmonized notwithstanding other differences.

Søren Kierkegaard is well known for his use of pseudonyms; however, his purpose in utilizing this literary device is often overlooked and has resulted in wrongly attributed views to Kierkegaard that he himself would reject. In various texts, Kierkegaard expressed his view that an author’s personal experience is only properly manifest in his works in a transmuted fashion, i.e., as the “universally human, not as personal disclosure.”[1] In other words, Kierkegaard by means of indirect communication purposely distances himself from the views of the various personae he created.[2] For example, Johannes de Silentio, the author of Fear and Trembling, clearly states in the Preface that he is not a philosopher, but is rather a poet who cannot understand Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac, though he deeply admires Abraham’s faith act. Time and again throughout the work, we read that Johannes, by his own admission, lacks the faith of Abraham, for he (Johannes) is merely the poet who immortalizes the hero while not claiming to be what the hero (Abraham) is. In other words, Johannes can only look upon Abraham with awe since he himself lacks the (“absurd”) faith that made Abraham great.

In the epigraph we are given another clue pointing to Johannes’ status as an outsider who is incapable of giving a full account of faith. Here we read, “Was Tarquinius Superbus in seinem Garten mit den Mohnköpfen sprach, verstand der Sohn, aber nicht der Bote. [What Tarquinius Superbus said in the garden by means of the poppies, the son understood but the messenger did not].” This quotation is taken from a story in which Tarquinius Superbus’ son, having taken control of the city of Gabii, sends a messenger to his father to ask for further instructions. Tarquinius, because he did not trust the messenger, responded by walking through his garden and cutting off the tallest poppy flowers. The “answer” was inexplicable to the messenger; however, when he informed the son as to his father’s actions, the son immediately understood that his father was instructing him to weaken the city by killing its key citizens [3]. Thus, as C. Stephen Evans points out, it seems plausible to understand Silentio as the “messenger” who communicates that which he in reality does not truly (or fully) grasp [4].

[1] Howard and Edna Hong in the “Historical Introduction” to Fear and Trembling. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983, p.x.

[2] Howard and Edna Hong make this observation in the “Historical Introduction” to Fear and Trembling. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983, p.x. The editors also cite several passages from Two Ages, pp. 98-99, KW XIV (SV VIII 91-92) and Concluding Unscientific Postscript, KW XII (SV VII [545]) to support this claim (pp. ix-x).

[3] The epigraph argument is discussed and presented by Evans’, Kierkegaard’s Ethic of Love: Divine Commands and Moral Obligations. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 63.

[4] C. Stephen Evans. Kierkegaard’s Ethic of Love: Divine Commands and Moral Obligations. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 63.

NINTH ANNUAL STUDENT CONFERENCE
“The True, The Good, and The Beautiful”

Hosted by the Paideia College Society, the University Honors Program, and the DBU Music Department

February 24-25, 2006

Keynote Speaker: Dr. William Edgar

Dr. Edgar is a modern day Renaissance man—a true man of the arts and letters. Much of his work has been to connect objective theological truths with subjective, aesthetic experience. As a professional Jazz pianist, ordained PCA minister, and Professor of Apologetics at Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia, Dr. Edgar is able to appeal to the artistic and intellectual elements in all of us. His published works include “Reasons of the Heart”, “The Face of Truth: Lifting the Veil”, and “Truth in All Its Glory: Commending the Reformed Faith” and he holds degrees from Harvard University, Westminster Theological Seminary, and the University of Geneva.

Conference Program:

Friday, February 24, 2006

Lectures with Dr. Edgar

12 noon, Friday Symposium, Great Hall, Mahler Student Center, DBU Campus: “The Revenge of the Aesthetic: The Decline and Reemergence of Beauty”

1:15 pm, Presentation and Concert, Great Hall, Mahler Student Center, DBU Campus: “An African- American Musical Journey: From Slavery to Early Jazz”

Saturday, February 25, 2006

Paper presentations will begin at 9am and continue until 3:30

Morning Liturgy, Lecture with Dr. Edgar & Lunch

Liturgy:
“With His help, I shall love Him the more ardently the more I advance in learning.”
— Adeodatus (St. Augustine’s son)

11:00-12:30 pm, International Student Center; Lecture: Dr. William Edgar
“Can We Be Good without God.” (The lecture will be illustrated with accounts of goodness and power in Augustine’s Confessions, in Chinese Cultural Christians, and in the village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon during the Second World War.

Concluding Banquet and Lecture with Dr. William Edgar: “The Art of Persuasion and Christian Apologetics”

Banquet at 6:00 pm
La Madeleine French Bakery and Restaurant
3906 Lemmon Ave., Suite 110,
Dallas, Texas 75219

For more information contact, Dr. David Naugle d1naugle@aol.com.

Below are selections from my review of Louis Dupré’s, The Enlightenment and the Intellectual Foundations of Modern Culture. If you are interested in reading the “full” review, just click on the link above. (In light of the recent Schuld posts, I thought that Dupré’s take on the differences between ancient and modern autobiographies might stir up some interesting discussion).

In chapter 3, “A New Sense of Selfhood,” Dupré discusses the new conception of the human being that corresponds with the new cosmology. In contradistinction with the ancient self, the modern self “defines reality, rather than being defined by it” (p. 46). In his “thesis” section, “The Modern Predicament: The Self, Subject or Substance” (pp. 46-53), Dupre engages in an extended discussion of the ways in which the problem of the self as subject and/or substance determined the theoretical discussion of personhood during the Enlightenment. On the one hand you have rationalist philosophers (following Descartes’ lead) defining the self primarily as a “source of meaning” (p. 47). Then in reaction to Descartes’ understanding of the human person as res cogitans and res extensa, we see the emergence of materialism (e.g., Condillac) in which the human person is viewed as part of the mechanistic universe. Toward the end of this section, Dupré mentions objectors to the sensationalist theory (e.g., Diderot and Buffon). Diderot, for example, finds the sensationalist theory insufficient for explaining the birth of consciousness (p. 51). Buffon position attempts to overcome material reductionism, however, he still leaves us with the problem of Cartesian dualism. Dupré ends the section by stating that both philosophy and literature during this time display an awakened subjectivity (p. 53). He then turns to discuss those representing a more subjective view.

In the section entitled, “Passions, Feelings, and Emotions,” (pp. 53-67) Dupré discusses the reactions in the literary world to the unsatisfactory picture of the dichotomous self inherited from Descartes and others. Here the attempt to bridge the gap between the self as subject of meaning and the self as substantial reality took an inward or introspective turn (e.g., Shaftesbury, Rousseau). For Shaftesbury, self-knowledge consists primarily in an awareness of one’s feelings (p. 54). Rousseau made similar claims, arguing that feeling, not reason forms the “core of mind” (p. 54). Dupré also mentions the role played by the novel in the 17th century. The novel, having become increasingly introspective, served as a “reflection on the complex interaction of feelings, passions, and emotions in love” (p. 55). On pages 57-67 Dupré continues his discussion of the various emerging literary genres, providing interesting insights in regard to differences between ancient and modern autobiographies. For example, earlier autobiographies had described the self in relation to others (e.g., St. Augustine and Teresa of Avila). During the Enlightenment, the relation with others was no longer a dialogue and instead “displayed the controlling presence of the author” (p. 62). Modern autobiographies became in effect increasingly self-focused. “As each person possesses a strictly private, incommunicable awareness of him or herself, so each must find his or her own way to truth” (pp. 62-63).

I recently came across this and had to share it. Absolutely hilarious!

*******
Dear Doctor Rude,

I think I understand what a “platonic kiss” is, but could you explain to me the difference between the following kisses?

Aristotelian kiss
Hegelian kiss
Wittgensteinian kiss
Gödelian kiss

Signed,
Flummoxed in Florida

Dear Flummoxed,

That’s a very good question; nowadays most sex education courses focus on secondary and tertiary sources, so much so that few people really get exposed to the classics in this field any more. I’ll try to make a brief but clear summary of some of these important types of kisses:

· Aristotelian kiss. A kiss performed using techniques gained solely from theoretical speculation untainted by any experiential data by one who feels that the latter is irrelevant anyway.
· Hegelian kiss. Dialiptical technique in which the kiss incorporates its own antithikiss, forming a synthekiss.
· Wittgensteinian kiss. The important thing about this type of kiss is that it refers only to the symbol (our internal mental representation we associate with the experience of the kiss–which must necessarily also be differentiated from the act itself for obvious reasons and which need not be by any means the same or even similar for the different people experiencing the act) rather than the act itself and, as such, one must be careful not to make unwarranted generalizations about the act itself or the experience thereof based merely on our manipulation of the symbology therefor.
· Gödelian kiss. A kiss that takes an extraordinarily long time, yet leaves you unable to decide whether you’ve been kissed or not.

Other “notable” kisses:

· Socratic kiss. Really a Platonic kiss, but it’s claimed to be the Socratic technique so it’ll sound more authoritative; however, compared to most strictly Platonic kisses, Socratic kisses wander around a lot more and cover more ground.
· Kantian kiss. A kiss that, eschewing inferior “phenomenal” contact, is performed entirely on the superior “noumenal” plane; though you don’t actually feel it at all, you are, nonetheless, free to declare it the best kiss you’ve ever given or received.
· Kafkaesque kiss. A kiss that starts out feeling like it’s about to transform you but ends up just bugging you.
· Sartrean kiss. A kiss that you worry yourself to death about even though it really doesn’t matter anyway.
· Russell-Whiteheadian kiss. A formal kiss in which each lip and tongue movement is rigorously and completely defined, even though it ends up seeming incomplete somehow.
· Pythagorean kiss. A kiss given by someone who has developed some new and wonderful techniques but refuses to use them on anyone for fear that others would find out about them and copy them.
· Cartesian kiss. A particularly well-planned and coordinated movement: “I think, therefore, I aim.” In general, a kiss does not count as Cartesian unless it is applied with enough force to remove all doubt that one has been kissed. (cf. Polar kiss, a more well-rounded movement involving greater nose-to-nose contact, but colder overall.)
· Heisenbergian kiss. A hard-to-define kiss–the more it moves you, the less sure you are of where the kiss was; the more energy it has, the more trouble you have figuring out how long it lasted. Extreme versions of this type of kiss are known as “virtual kisses” because the level of uncertainty is so high that you’re not quite sure if you were kissed or not. Virtual kisses have the advantage, however, that you need not have anyone else in the room with you to enjoy them.
· Nietzscheian kiss. “She/he who does not kiss you, makes your lust stronger.”
· Zenoian kiss. Your lips approach, closer and closer, but never actually touch.

Sincerely,

Dr. Rude

(slightly modified from the original post: http://www.trygve.com/uekiss.html)

The Westminster tradition makes a distinction between “self-evident” and “self-attesting” or “self-authenticating” (autopiston; see Calvin’s Institutes, I.vii.5) and claims that Scripture is “self-attesting.” For example, the Westminster Confession of Faith 1.4 reads,

“The authority of the Holy Scripture, for which it ought to be believed, and obeyed, depends not upon the testimony of any man, or Church; but wholly upon God (who is truth itself) the author thereof: and therefore it is to be received, because it is the Word of God.”

The Westminster divines are careful to say that the authority of Holy Scripture resides in itself, i.e., there cannot be any authority “behind” Scripture except for God himself who is known through that Scripture. In other words, the Bible as Scripture has resident within itself its own authority. Self-attestation does not mean self-evident (as a subjective property—“it is self-evident to me”) in the way in which philosophers use the term. Rather, self-authority is an objective attribute of Scripture itself. This is no way means that Scripture compels agreement, as Scripture can of course be rejected. However, the point is that Scripture carries its own justification within itself.

Calvin as well seems to have similar thoughts as to the authority of Scripture:

“It is utterly vain then to pretend that the power of judging Scripture so lies with the church that its certainty depends upon churchly assent. Thus, while the church receives and gives its seal of approval to the Scriptures, it does not thereby render authentic what is otherwise doubtful or controversial. But because the church recognizes Scripture to be the truth of its own God, as a pious duty it unhesitatingly venerates Scripture. As to their question […] How can we be assured that this has sprung from God unless we have recourse to the decree of the church? – it is as if someone asked: Whence will we learn to distinguish light from darkness, white from black, sweet from bitter? Indeed, Scripture exhibits fully as clear evidence of its own truth as white and black things do of their color, or sweet and bitter things do of their taste” (Calvin’s Institutes, I.vii.2, p. 76, Ford Lewis Battles trans.)

Of course the question naturally arises, “How can we be assured that this is from God?” Calvin seems to say that this is like asking, “How do you distinguish between white and black, sweet from bitter—those things carry their attributes within themselves.” In section 5, Calvin writes, “It is not right to subject it to proof or reasoning.” In other words, Calvin is stressing that there is no higher authority to which we can appeal for truth. If you need a proof to establish the authority of Scripture, then the authority of Scripture depends on that proof. It depends then at least on another authority in order to show it as authoritative. In sum, Scripture as self-attesting, self-authenticating, self-authoritative means that Scripture carries that attribute in itself.
However, self-attestation does not exist in a vacuum. Again, quoting Calvin,

“Unless this certainty, higher and stronger than any human judgment, be present, it will be vain to fortify the authority of Scripture by arguments, to establish it by common agreement of the church, or to confirm it with other helps. For unless this foundation is laid, its authority will always remain in doubt. Conversely, once we have embraced it devoutly as its dignity deserves, and have recognized it to be above the common sort of things, those arguments – not strong enough before to engraft and fix the certainty of Scripture in our minds – become very useful aids” (Calvin’s Institutes, I.viii.1, pp. 81-82, Ford Lewis Battles trans.)

Here we note an interesting progression. First, we have the self-attestation of Scripture as our foundation, then given that, we can utilize evidence and arguments that are useful in our reasoning with others.

The notion of self-attestation might cause one to ask, “What then is the role of the Church in regard to Scripture?” We should not see Calvin’s emphasis on the autopiston of Scripture as a “doing away with the Church.” The Westminster Confession of Faith section 1.5 is instructive on this matter.

“We may be moved and induced by the testimony of the Church to a high and reverent esteem of the Holy Scripture. And the heavenliness of the matter, the efficacy of the doctrine, the majesty of the style, the consent of all the parts, the scope of the whole (which is, to give all glory to God), the full discovery it makes of the only way of man’s salvation, the many other incomparable excellencies, and the entire perfection thereof, are arguments whereby it does abundantly evidence itself to be the Word of God: yet notwithstanding, our full persuasion and assurance of the infallible truth and divine authority thereof, is from the inward work of the Holy Spirit bearing witness by and with the Word in our hearts.”

Here the divines are not dismissing the Church, but they do subordinate the Church to the authority of Scripture. Two things are mentioned in section 5: (1) objectively there are evidences in Scripture that we can point to in order to help people understand the authority of Scripture; (e.g. scope of the whole, many excellencies, consent of all the parts etc.). Hence, we have Scripture evidencing itself to be the Word of God; (2) subjectively we have the inward testimony of the Holy Spirit—hence, “our full persuasion and assurance is from the inward work of Holy Spirit.” For Calvin, there must be both an objective and a subjective element.

I recently purchased Herman Ridderbos’, The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary, and must say that thus far it is excellent. In an introductory section entitled, “History and Revelation,” Ridderbos discusses critical views that reject not only the Johannine authorship, but also the historical character of Jesus described in the fourth gospel. E.g., having decided Johannine authorship unreliable, critical scholars likewise cast shadows as to “any direct personal contact between the Evangelist and the historical events he described” (p. 12). This then allowed for “much more radical views concerning the relationship between interpretation and history” (p. 12). As the story goes, “the great distance in time and space that separated the author from Jesus’ historical appearance and ministry made it impossible for him to form a clear picture thereof and, going further, that his Christology affected to a high degree his telling of the story, to the point where if he did not completely dissolve its historical character he at least weakened it” (p. 12). Whether one seeks to explain John’s Gospel in terms of syncretistic Hellenistic categories emphasizing an inherent dualism in John’s gospel or in terms of a dichotomous earthly-heavenly Lord, history either becomes that which serves merely as “pointer to a higher or fundamentally different reality” (p. 12) or a historical context created by the Evangelist that manifests characteristics of the later church (i.e., John’s gospel is full of anachronisms). In light of these accounts, Ridderbos restricts himself to what he views as central to this complex of problems, viz., “the meaning the Evangelist attributes, in his interpretation of the Christ-event, to history […] The Evangelist views the real miracle of the coming and work of Jesus, the Christ, as the in-carn-ation of the Word or, as he states in a no less pivotal pronouncement, as the descent of the Son of man (3:14)” [p. 13]. This, of course, cuts against any account claiming that in John’s Gospel the meaning of history recedes to the background, is made fuzzy, spiritualized or simply fictitious. Rather, in John 1:14 we encounter the unthinkable, the scandalous—και ο λογος σαρζ εγενετο (and the Word became flesh). As Ridderbos points out, “‘flesh’ refers precisely to that which is human, natural, and historical, and that neither as the unreal though visible world over against a real though invisible world nor as the concealment of the glory of the only begotten of the Father […] but as the life in which and the means by which his glory was made visible to every eye and, as it were, palpable to every hand (cf. 1 Jn.1:1ff.). Hence, to have ‘beheld’ the revelation of that glory in the flesh and to witness to him who thus dwelled among us forms the foundation and content of the Fourth Gospel” (p. 13).

Ridderbos has just said a mouthful (and a delicious mouthful at that). What struck me in reading the words και ο λογος σαρζ εγενετο και εσκηωσιν (and the Word became flesh and ‘tabernacled’ among us) is how dissonant this would have sounded to a Greek mind. If one considers the Platonic or Neoplatonic view of “flesh,” one finds a rather disdainful orientation toward the bodily. For example, in Plato’s Phaedo, the philosopher is described as one who constantly pursues death. Why such a dark picture of bodiliess? Plato’s picture of our bodily state is that of a fallen state (see the Phaedrus), a prison house, that which hinders the soul’s search for knowledge and keeps us tied down to the sensible where we only have doxa. This negative view of the body is part of the reason why Socrates claimed that for the philosopher death is not to be feared because his/her whole life is spent pursing a “death” of sorts anyway.

Given this orientation, we can see that when John says that the Word became flesh, this would have shocked a Greek thinker. An analogy that comes to mind as to the “about face” that such a statement would produce is what is called in jazz “playing out.” For example, if you are improvising in the key of C major (say for at least 4 measures, thus establishing the tonal center of C), you can for a kind of “shock” effect purpose to play one-half step higher (in this case D-flat). That is, you would play a short melodic pattern in the key of C and then play the exact same pattern in the key of D-flat and then resolve it back to C major. Because the movement from key to key is only a difference of a minor second, it creates an incredible, even alarming dissonance. Moreover, “playing out” is something effectively executed by an experienced player—someone who understands the rules of music theory and who knows full well what kind of effect will be produced when he/she engages in “out-playing.” This seems to me quite analogous to what John did—he was no doubt cognizant that his claim of the Word becoming flesh would sound completely “out” to his hearers. Not only did this Jesus become flesh, but He dwelt among us as one of us. Another shocking claim—here we don’t encouter a nous nous-ing or an aloof impersonal god, but a God who cares about his people so much that in order to save them, he actually becomes one of them and ‘tabernacles’ with them. With Ridderbos, I wholeheartedly agree, “nowhere is Jesus’ glory more splendid than in the Fourth Gospel. Nor is his humanity more human anywhere else—right down to the account of his death and resurrection (19:34; 20:20, 27). And nowhere does the Son of man, clothed by God with all power, descend more deeply, realistically, and scandalously into human flesh (cf. 6:27, 53)” [p. 14].

This is my last post from Schuld’s excellent book, Foucault and Augustine: Reconsidering Love and Power. In this installment, I focus mainly on selected passages centered on Foucault’s interpretations of infirmity and healing.

Interpretations of “infirmity” in sanctioning cultural responses to human differences, deviations, and imperfections

Foucault is aware of a shift of governing metaphors, viz., we move from salvation to well-being. “Transformations of the self are no longer interpreted in terms of the movement from sin to salvation, but from pathology to well-being” (148). Instead of pursing purity in a Cassian ethic of chastity, we now strive for “physical vigor and mental health.” Salvation, now defined as health, well-being and security is not sought after in the next world but in this world.

Secondly, Foucault observes a kind of displacement of morality in the attempts of the modern science narrative to promote a “neutral” or “unbiased” position. “Foucault holds that the modern scientific-medicalized paradigms of knowing and perfecting presume to stand at a safe remove from traditional disputes over what constitutes the good…Such discourses tend to ignore the moral and social biases of those who decipher information and the moral and social consequences of their determinations. Because knowledge is always put to use by fallible human beings in a practical world of competing interests and visions, we are deluding ourselves…if we believe that questions of truth can be disentangled from questions of normative worth and value. Even what appears to be most self-evidently natural is inevitably situated in a cultural context, and thus, shot through with social meanings and moral ambiguities” (149).

As was mentioned in a previous post, Foucault is known for his concern for the infirm and the so-called “abnormal.” In light of the transposition of moral and religious discourses into this new “scientific key,” human frailties and fallibilities become that which we must seek to eradicate. E.g., in his detailed description of what a mentally ill person undergoes in a mental hospital, Foucault wants to burn into our minds the extreme lengths our culture in willing to go in order to try and “eliminate disorder and clean up social messes” (150).

Instead of being excluded or reprimanded for forbidden acts, the “new way” of being set apart by society involves new differentiating techniques. For example, in contrast to “commemorative accounts” and “genealogies,” one now “becomes known by scientifically defined variances and anomalies” (151). Instead of legends of brave saints, we produce “distinctively modern epic genres—the psychological autobiography and the carefully monitored and charted case study” (151). In sum, Schuld states, “No longer moral transgressions and guilt, no longer honor and shame, no longer action and social consequence, but nature and defect analyzed through rational quantitative study govern the relations of power to those falling outside expected norms, values and behaviors” (151).

In sum, Foucault wants us to be acutely aware that an “uncompromising passion for clarity about and control over our frailties and infirmities suffuses our culture” (151). Its presence can be felt in self-help bookstores, in gyms with their personal trainers, counselors etc. We are all “vulnerable to becoming scientifically normalized subjects and scientifically normalizing judges” (151). As Foucault asserts, “we have culturally created as modern ‘confessing animals’ a new field of pleasure, the pleasure of analysis, and an unexamined devotion to the self-knowledge and bliss that it promises” (152). In this modern myth, not only those regarded as “abnormal” but also the “seemingly normal are haunted by dark yearnings that must be brought out into the light and liberated” (152). In a sense, “this mirrors Augustine’s conception of the universality of sin and the need for continual confession. But here, ‘fragments of darkness’ are countered not through confessing our fallibility and need for mercy and sanctifying grace but through bold exercises of autonomy. Not self-forgetting love and self-surrender but self-assertion frees one from all such dangerous impulses” (153)

Interpretations of “healing” as a process of convalescence or transfiguring cure requiring critical intervention by specialists

For Foucault, “the potential danger of these dynamics of normalization—those that feed off our fears of pathology as well as those that entice us with visions of self-affirming health—is that the seeming naturalness of this ‘matrix of individualization’ is warranted by a host of expensively trained and licensed experts” (154). The experts produce their ‘canonical bits of knowledge’ and again we have an asymmetrical power relation. “Although self-knowledge supposedly resides within persons who are confessing, it nevertheless lies beyond their grasp. Thus, those who are pursuing the truth do not control this relationship” (154). The asymmetry of such relationships is easily seen in the context of psychiatry.

Schuld then goes on to discuss “biotechnologies and the science of genetics,” as a kind of new “hermeneutical key” (155). Interestingly, in this genetically focused paradigm, as opposed to a more Augustinian paradigm in which one is engaged in an on-going battle generation after generation, now the thought is that “by manipulating our malleable bodies down to their tiniest micro-dynamics of power, some seem to expect that we will finally be liberated from imperfection and fallibility, and along with this, the myth of the good shepherd that has governed our relations in various ways for so long” (155-156).

Wrapping up the chapter, Schuld notes Foucault’s penetrating insights as to the various ways that we dis-embrace our finitude and the accompanying disappointment and disillusionment that results. “By placing so much hope…in an illusionary promise that we can liberate ourselves from relational fragility, ambiguity, and finitude, we have culturally invested, through the fervency of our faith, scientific discourses with hallowed power and given them sanctuary from historical and political critiques. Ironically, we have made ourselves more rather than less susceptible to the uncertainties we sought to escape…By giving ourselves over uncritically to an invasive power of our own making, we have intimately exposed ourselves not only to socially exploitable technologies of personal formation and control but also to devastating disappointments when we realize it is not liberating and redemptive.” Schuld ends by saying that on her reading, “Augustine would agree with Foucault that such efforts are fueled by arrogance, a deluded sense of self-importance, and a refusal to acknowledge the limitations of finitude” (157).

Today I experienced great joy in taking in an excellent sermon by Dr. Skip Ryan on (among other things) the Reformed view of Christian calling. The text was Luke 1:1-11 where we encounter the interchange between Simon Peter and our Lord on the topic of “catching fish.” As Dr. Ryan pointed out, fishing was Peter’s profession, his field—in other words, what he knew best. When Jesus then instructs Peter to cast out his nets, you can almost hear the irritation in Peter’s voice when he responds (v.5), “Master, we toiled all night and took nothing! But at your word I will let down the nets.” Yet, to Peter’s surprise, they caught so many fish that the nets were breaking, and they needed additional manpower to pull in the fish. What is incredibly interesting is Peter’s response: “But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, ‘Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord.’” For he and all who were with him were astonished at the catch of fish that they had taken (vs. 8-9). Jesus did not “preach” to or lecture Peter as to his doubt, his sin, his lack of faith, his in effect saying “this is my realm, Jesus, I’ll call you when I need some ‘religious’ advice.” Nonetheless, when Peter saw Jesus’ deeds, “he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, ‘Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord.’” Peter had just encountered the Lord who reigns over fish, over the sea, over all of creation—which includes Peter’s own doubting and sinful heart. Having been in the presence of this Holy God—this Holy Other God—Peter is gripped with his own lack, his sin, his utter difference and falls at Jesus feet, unable to bear His presence. (Oh how I relate with Peter!) Notice again Jesus’ reaction—He does not chide or rebuke Peter, rather He says, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching men” (v. 10).

Dr. Ryan then connected the sermon with events that directly relate to the “bodylife” of our church, viz., a missions conference where we celebrated all that God is doing around the world. Now that the conference has come to a close, Dr. Ryan emphasized that each of us, whether “foreign” missionaries or missionaries to those in our own “backyard” have a calling from God that we are to fulfill. In other words, some are called to leave their current jobs and homes and serve in foreign countries; however, many (perhaps most) are not called in this way. So what about this vast majority? Do they also have a calling on their lives or do we have a kind of Christian “A” team and “B” team?

The Reformed tradition would answer absolutely not, as we are all called to be God’s representatives on earth. As Dr. Ryan pointed out, this sense of vocation has been obfuscated today in our tradition, yet it was (and should be) at the heartbeat of the Reformed expression of the Christian faith. To illustrate his point, Dr. Ryan described a painting by Albrecht Dürer in the 16th century that hangs in the town hall of Neuchatel, Switzerland (see comment #1 for more on Dürer). The painting depicts Jesus’ return in the clouds and his people meeting him in the clouds—the cobbler with beautifully crafted shoes in his hands, the housewife with a delicious apple pie, the scholar with scrolls and books—all dedicated to the Lord and done with excellence! What an amazing picture! I walked away incredibly encouraged—both as to what I believe my calling to be—a philosopher, writer and university professor—and with a greater appreciation for the diversity in the body of Christ.

Though speaking specifically on the subject of “interpretation,” with a little imagination James K.A. Smith’s comments below could likewise be applied to celebrating the diversity of callings within the body of Christ—all being incredibly important, valuable, and imaging God in their own unique way.

“The hermeneutical structure of creation is good; it produces goods; a plurality of interpretations and a diversity of readings. The sin of Babel was its quest for unity—one interpretation, one reading, one people—which was an abandonment of creational diversity and plurality in favor of exclusion and violence; and ‘the ravages of hatred have an ominous sameness.’ Plurality in interpretation is not the original sin; it is, on the contrary, the original goodness of creation: a creation where many flowers bloom and many voices are heard, where God is praised by a multitude from ‘every tribe and language and people and nation’ (Rev 5:9), singing songs in a diversity of tongues, even worshipping through a diversity of theologies.” James K.A. Smith, The Fall of Interpretation: Philosophical Foundations for a Creational Hermeneutic, p. 33.

Before discussing Foucault’s interpretations of “confession,” Schuld notes that Foucault’s work as a historian has been criticized, and his investigation of early Christian culture is both limited and lopsided. However, for our present purposes, we will “look for his broader strokes that give shape to a central modern transformation that has great import for theology” (135) As to Foucault’s views of Christian practices, Schuld opts to focus on his later writings, which are more sympathetic in his examination of monastic texts, particularly the works of John Cassian.

Foucault describes the emergence of monastic practices of self-examination as “power technologies that enabled persons to navigate themselves and others” through common perils (136). “A number of structuring relational rules governed the self-examining and renunciating practices” (137). Foucault is interested in how these developments will be later put to use for secular purposes.

The power of confession, whether by means of speaking or writing, was “never simply an act of expression; it was an act of making or constructing” – i.e., an act of remaking the individual (137). As the self turns inward, it discovers various hidden places and “encircling shadows,” and this leads the self to an understanding that it will not be abandoned, but retrieved by the Good Shepherd. “The biblical images of the good shepherd establish the basic social expectations in early Christian monastic culture and shape…a complex field of social power within which persons search for self-knowledge, truth and perfection” (139). This narrative, however, leads to an “assymetrical dynamic” where you have “on one side, a selfless kindness whose only concern is the welfare of those who need tending…On the other side, being looked after in such a way calls for and exemplifies a social response that is grateful, humble and obedient. Ever-present care can only be assured by renouncing the self in ‘a kind of everyday death’ and thereby becoming utterly trusting of and reliant on the devoted other” (139).

Foucault describes this asymmetrical dynamic as laying the ground rules for “a strange game” whose success can only be achieved by a “detachment with respect to oneself and the establishing of a relationship with oneself which tends toward a destruction of the form of the self” (140). However, as Foucault warms to the idea of “monastic technologies,” he describes it as a “chastity-oriented asceticism” in which renunciation works on the self as a whole (140). This new perspective is gained by way of Cassian’s insight that vices and virtues “do not exist in isolation” (140). “To reform on, they must be reformed together. Purity, therefore, is always a labor involving the whole, even though it works on particulars as it strives for a harmonious self-identity. Yet, the individual cannot reach the truth on his own and thus must labor “by way of submission to the wise mediation of another” (140). Here, Foucault becomes most concerned as to the battle with chastity.

It is not so much that the potential relational danger involves a relation of asymmetry—for Foucault, asymmetry is not a social evil in and of itself (141). Yet, Foucault sees a two-fold problem with asymmetry: (1) “it inhibits a fluid and reversible flow of power among participants”; (2) “It increases the opportunities to manipulate and exploit others without their being sufficiently aware or sufficiently empowered to resist” (141).

Foucault’s concerns as to “uneven power relationships” significantly increases “as these evolve and become reformulated in an institutional setting and for institutional purposes” (141).

“By examining fractures and shifts that surface as ancient monastic practices of confession become institutionalized for medieval and Tridentine purposes, we begin to see the lay of geography that modernity builds itself on and adapts to its own secular ends” (141). “Foucault … signals that something important has occurred, changing how these cultures comprehend and respond to the dangers of the desiring person” (141).

Schuld next traces two conceptions of the self that lead up to our situation of a “scientized self.” Both involve practices of the self and sex.

1. First, we have “Cassian’s harmonious spiritualized self.” In the early monastic attitude, the focus was not on a list of forbidden or permitted actions. Rather, in Cassian’s ethic of chastity, changes were made to a “moving whole, not to isolated fragments” (143).

2. Second, we encounter the “highly systematized sexualized self of the late medieval and Tridentine institutions.” In contrast, the later medieval and early modern developments, created a rigid systematic codification in which “compilations of rules, acts, and satisfactions could be classified in unambiguous categories of kind and degree, making it easier for persons to sort, identify, evaluate, and effectively make reparations for explicitly detailed transgressions” (142). Thus, uncertainties and apprehensions could be controlled with precision.

Foucault observes again a two-fold danger in the codified approach: (1) Rather than desexualize the self, the intense concentration on specific details would have actually sexualized one’s religious identity (144). (2) “In analytically breaking down the subject into fragments and privileging sexual vices and virtues over other formative desires, there is a dual danger of neglecting valuable aspects of the self while marginalizing and hounding others” (144).

Then the discussion moves more specifically to the shift from religious practices to the secular adaptations of confessional techniques. As to our similarities with the past, Foucault reminds us that our tale is built on many older ones. In important ways our drama is similar to the ancient ascetics—“we exercise powerful practices on our desiring selves and submit ourselves to the wise counsel of others as we pursue promises of truth and perfection. Even in the most secular corners of the world, the story of the good shepherd still generally governs our expectations…we [still] set our hopes on living under some protective knowledge that is shielded from error” (145). On the other hand, our modern drama is different from the past in that we refuse “to acknowledge that we in fact live storied lives” (145). We desire a security that drama with its contingencies cannot provide. “For Foucault this change in sentiment is the principal reason that our particular story has proven so compelling. It is a story that promises to alleviate such fears and clean out all dangerous spaces, and it claims to have the power to do precisely that because it is no longer a story” (146-147).

Lastly, our search for the purity of truth and the safety of certitude becomes “scientifically validated” (147). The modern version of confession employs a variety of techniques that claim to yield an “unclouded knowledge of ourselves and others through the rarified and neutral viewpoint of science.” However, the presuppositions of the modern drama, despite its efforts to “withdraw itself from the messiness of the drama…traditions and rituals…manifests elements of them all” (see, e.g., Foucault’s description of the “carefully staged” regimens of a hospital, p.147). Though the modern drama has different costumes, props and stages, it “still has privileged players and spaces and ritualized patterns of interaction with coded contents” (147). Its claim to objectivity, precision and cool disinterest … “bolsters our confidence that finally we have managed to leave behind fallibility, contingency, uncertainty and disorder” (147).

*Quotations taken from chapter 4 of Joyce Schuld’s, Foucault and Augustine: Reconsidering Love and Power

[Schuld selections: part III]

Both Foucault and Augustine understand that the “search for knowledge, truth, and ultimate fulfillment orients all of one’s relations” (131). Likewise, both discern “that the truths we pursue and the perfection and happiness we anticipate” involve costs (131).

As Schuld points out, Foucault writes in a human-centered, rather than a God-centered, cultural context. Consequently, “his questioning about the personal and communal costs of our peculiarly modern appetites for knowledge, truth, emancipation, and perfection refers to how these have come to be grounded exclusively in the human subject” (132). Foucault observes that the basic desire to know who we are, the risks involved and how to best attain fulfillment, still have the same all-encompassing focus as was the case in antiquity. “What has changed is where we look for that essential truth and how we bring others into our search” (132). The new turn is to seek answers from those who offer themselves as “experts.”

Schuld next turns to analyze “from Foucault’s perspective the cultural transformations involved in modern aspirations for a “redeeming” self-knowledge and truth” (132). Then she enumerates three theological and sociohistorical themes that provide a basic structure for Foucault’s analysis: (i) interpretations of “confession” in shaping personal and communal identity; (ii) interpretations of “infirmity” in sanctioning cultural responses to human differences, deviations, and imperfections; and (iii) interpretations of “healing” as a process of convalescence or transfiguring cure requiring critical intervention by specialists (133).

Interestingly, Foucault asserts that in various ways, all of the above “have been appropriated from early Christian practices and tailored for secular purposes so that the social desires attending each have shifted significantly from a paradigm of sin and salvation to one of ‘pseudo-scientific’ pathology and well-being” (133).

In his analysis Foucault uncovers the “bare cultural beams” upon which the new social superstructure will be built and used for new purposes as the culture shifts from its privileging of truth in theology and philosophy to science (136). This superstructure appears to Foucault to be grounded in what were understood as four religious dangers: (1) “the endlessly desiring person who cannot control his intentions, thoughts, whims, fantasies, and dreams;” (2) “the hidden and ingenious nature of concupiscence that can only be seized and eradicated through painstaking coercion;” (3) “the ease with which evil can be made to appear good so that one can never know the real root of desire or trust even the most fleeting and innocuous-seeming images and sensations;” (4) “the inability of individuals to decipher adequately the spiritual temptations and struggles taking place within them so that for salvation they have to seek the aid of a human intermediary” (136).

[In the next “installment,” we’ll examine in more detail Schuld’s take on Foucault’s interpretations of confession].

*Excerpts taken from chapter 4 of Joyce Schuld’s, Foucault and Augustine: Reconsidering Love and Power

[Additional selections from chapter 4 of Joyce Schuld's, Foucault and Augustine: Reconsidering Love and Power]

Foucault, as well as Augustine, stresses human finitude, making the reader aware of the “ever-shifting ground of contingencies on which they build expectations of certitude and perfection” (125). Likewise, Foucault attacks the “myth of personhood as self-originating being” by pointing to the inevitability of historical and social fragility (125). Though there are similarities here, there are also significant differences in regard to Augustine’s account of finitude. Augustine’s account is cast in relation to God, whereas Foucault’s clearly is not. However, Foucault’s insights are illumining and well-worth one’s time—his negative critiques, e.g., are penetrating and quite on target.

Secondly, Foucault shares with Augustine a desire to challenge cultural norms and values. In the Confessions, Schuld notes that Augustine describes the various ways in which he experienced a “naturalizing” or “normalizing” process—a process Augustine came to strongly criticize and detest. “Like Augustine, much of [Foucault’s] own self-emptying involves taking the ‘natural’ and making it seem strange” (127).

Though Augustine and Foucault may be brought together in light of their “self-emptying” desires, again significant differences between the two thinkers emerge as to what they each think this self-emptying will accomplish. “For Foucault, decentering the self opens unexplored terrain for artistic self-creation” (128). Whereas for Augustine, “deconstruction is always in preparation for a relational self-identity that is given, not made. He understands himself as participating in a co-creation, but this is a graced process” (128).

Next, Schuld discusses Foucault’s critique of so-called “neutral” and “disinterested” modes of knowledge. “On Foucault’s view, modern arrogant modes of knowledge secure their own refuge of power by defining themselves with certitude as ‘purely’ neutral and disinterested … Anyone assaulting their shielding tactics is thereby attacking a consecrated sanctuary … To question, then, how particular truths socially and historically function becomes an act of blasphemy” (pp. 128-129).

The specific discourses that Foucault has in mind are those “that associate themselves with scientific or pseudo-scientific language and practices” (129). One of Foucault’s greatest concerns is “when such presumptuous modes of knowledge take as their task examining, classifying, and eradicating the frailties and imperfections of human lives” (129). Ironically, however, these discourses have gained power through the desires of those who want to be free of “blemishes” and “defects.” So it seems that the attempt to flee one’s fragility actually makes one more vulnerable (129).

In contrast with Augustine’s Christocentric perspective, for Foucault, “humbled modes of knowledge … are … those that make room for knowledges that have been judged inadequate and dismissed as of no account” (129). Such a “chastened perspective recognizes its own contingency” and refrains from making universal “normative assessments and judgments” of others (129).

Foucault has a special interest in providing a voice for the “low-ranking” knowledges (e.g., the psychiatric patient, the infirm, the criminal, the deviant, or the defective), i.e., those that have been devalued by the privileged discourses (130). Schuld then seems to suggest that perhaps the church could benefit from Foucault’s suggestions to listen to the “disqualified voices” and “open itself to the advice and labors that arise from the ‘untrained’ in specific locales” (130). Secondly, Schuld suggests that the church, by appreciating the difficulties that “subjugated knowledges” experience in trying to compete with “culturally privileged discourses,” can benefit from Foucault’s insights and be emboldened to offer their own social critiques (131).

The selections below are taken from chapter 4 of Joyce Schuld’s, Augustine and Foucault: Reconsidering Love and Power. For some reason Schuld’s clever description of Augustine as an “anti-heroic” model recently came to mind, so I decided to review some of my reading notes from her book. In a section entitled, “The Wisdom of Sorrow and the Ethic of Humility,” Schuld writes, “On Augustine’s view, coming face-to-face with the harshness, the stark corporeality of the crucifixion is imperative for grasping the relational significance of Christ as mediator. As Christ is pierced with the implacable realities of finitude, the faithful have pressed upon them their own limits as creatures…Christ must reach to the faithful in their weakness; they cannot reach him.” (120). Schuld observes how scandalizing Christ’s reaching out to the fallen is to the classical mind. In other words, that Christ would willingly enter into the messiness of life is more than unfathomable—it is unbearable. “He does not minister to and transform the lowliness of suffering from the heights of heaven; he fully descends into it. He participates in humanity’s lowliness by becoming lowly himself” (122) and actually takes on our affliction.

Unlike earthly glory, association with Christ’s glory entails association with Christ’s humility and accepting the “shame of the cross.” Paradoxically, the person who embraces the “shame of the cross” is transformed and compelled to serve others. The new knowledge of self is balanced by humility. “The wisdom and virtues that are re-formed in light of the cross are…from the standpoint a successful world, tragic virtues: they are shaped and moved by the painful awareness of human frailties, shortfalls, dependencies, and finitude” (121, emphasis added). The wisdom of sorrow produced by the glory of the cross, comes through brokenness and humility, which then leads the transformed person to reach out in compassion to others.

Embracing the “shame of the cross” moves one from the “hollowness of naïve optimism to the hope of sacrificial love.” The life of sacrificial love is motivated by two beliefs: (1) “God loves without reserve” (122) (2) “this boundless love is founded on sheer mercy rather than human merit” (122). These two beliefs help guard the believer from hopelessness and arrogance. Moreover, the solidarity created through sacrificial love among the believing community also interacts with the solidarity of all human beings in Adam, thus again compelling an outward focus.

Speaking of the role of confession in the community, Schuld says that Augustine’s own confessions and reflections can be seen as a form of “sacrifice” that is “meant to nourish … bonds of social solidarity” (123). When confession is understood in a “self-emptying” way, it fulfills two functions for the community: (1) It keeps one thankful and mindful of his/her need for God’s mercy and sustaining power, thus encouraging a mindset that protects one from both despair and arrogance. (2) “As a public activity, it disturbs the pride of others” (123).

Lastly, we come to Schuld’s description of Augustine as an anti-heroic model. Augustine’s own confessions reveal his continued moral, spiritual, and cognitive struggles even after conversion. Augustine’s honesty and open confession of his own failings help to remind the community of their finitude and relational dependence. In this way, Augustine’s life of non-glorification serves as an anti-heroic model, which “punctures the pretensions of his fellow Christians” (124). Augustine is definitely my favorite “anti-hero.”

Have you ever had one of those days when the dissonance of the “already-not-yet-ness” of your struggle with sin just doesn’t want to resolve?

When I reflect on the concept of sin and my sin in particular, what seems to constantly come to the surface is a kind of fundamental irrationality. When I consider Adam and Eve and their “fall” from their original, pristine state where they walked intimately with God, I’m faced with the mystery as to why they choose to turn from God, why the disbelief, why the discontent? Yet, the same mystery is present in my own heart, and I’m forced to ask myself the same series of questions.

Calvin described creation (which of course includes human beings) as a kind mirror reflecting God. Yet, when sin corrupted our being, a “fracturing” effect was set in motion—our relationship with God, with others, our understanding of ourselves—all fractured. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, in his famous book, The Gulag Archipelago, describing the mystery of human beings in their current shattered state, wrote, “the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.” Solzhenitsyn’s notion seems to harmonize well with Solomon’s divinely inspired insight, “I have found only this, that God made men upright, but they have sought out many devices” (Eccl. 7:29). Any serious contemplation regarding our nature that ignores this darker side of the human person “is occupied with an abstraction and will never acquire a right view of the actual problems of man’s life” (G.C. Berkhouwer. Man: The Image of God, p. 13.).

Though this dark side must be acknowledged, nonetheless, in the Scriptures we likewise encounter the dignity of the human person. In other words, a two-fold view of human beings is distinguished and is designated in theological terms as the prelapsarian (viz., Adam and Eve) and the postlapsarian state. Calvin, noting this distinction writes, “It would be of little benefit to understand our creation unless we recognized in this sad ruin what our nature in its corruption and deformity is like…” (John Calvin. The Institutes of Christian Religion. Vol. I, I:1 (chap. 15), p. 183.)

When we (by God’s grace) look honestly at ourselves and the world about us, there is an awareness that neither we, nor the world are as they should be. But as Calvin reminds us, though we now reflect a shattered, deformed image, we still retain our status as imago Dei. Perhaps part of our puzzlement with ourselves is that we in some faint way sense our “fall” from that which was exceedingly greater. Recalling Pascal’s analogy, we are like “dethroned kings” whose greatness and misery are now forced to harmonize into one being—a kind of dissonance-in-consonance. In those rare moments of stillness, the pangs of alienation are felt, and somewhere in the distance sounds a faint melody of a communion between God and man of times past, a communion devoid of sin—virtually unfathomable. We who have rebelled against God are like a deaf man who in days past was a great composer of symphonic masterpieces, yet who now sits in silence while the orchestra plays – all the while hoping, faintly recalling the rich, resonant harmonies of times past. He strains, yet he cannot make out the notes, for he has not ears to hear. Worse than dissonance with no resolution, in Adam we experience the total silence of our own making. However, the analogy is not quite true to the biblical picture because we do hear the voice of our Maker, yet we ourselves cover our ears(Rom. 1:18-19).

Sketching the complexity of our postlapsarian state as an amalgamation of glory and shame, Calvin writes, “Even though in man’s corruption … some vestige remains imprinted in his very vices. For whence comes such concern to men about their good name but from shame? And whence comes shame but from regard for what is honorable? The beginning and cause of this that they understand themselves to have been born to cultivate righteousness, in which the seed of religion is enclosed. But, without controversy, just as man was made for meditation upon the heavenly life, so it is certain that the knowledge of it was engraved upon his soul” (John Calvin. The Institutes of Christian Religion. Vol. I, I:6 (chap. 15).

In spite of our rebellion, thanks be to God, He has not left us without hope. God Himself in the Person of his Son bids us to come and find our rest in Him, to be re-oriented and re-integrated through union with Christ. Oh the depth of the riches of the love poured out to us in Christ Jesus! Open the eyes of my heart, Lord, to live in light of this love all the days of my life.

Originally, “biblical theology” (BT) was an answer to the “prejudiced” use of the Bible in dogmatics. BT’s reaction to systematics was to read the Old Testament descriptively rather than prescriptively (N.b., Vanhoozer seems to rightly question this claim. In other words, are biblical theologians somehow “unbiased” or more “objective” than systematicians? The claim seems to involve its own set of (modernist) assumptions, i.e., one must first say what it “meant,” not what it “means,” as well as a belief in neutrality). Back to the story…

Certain trends in the 17th and 18th centuries led to the emergence of BT as a separate discipline. E.g.,(1) the practice of compiling proof texts as the basis of Protestant doctrine; (2) Pietism—a reaction to “dead” orthodoxy; and (3) the developments of new critical methods and what would later come to be known as the “grammatico-historical” approach (thank you, Spinoza). Gabler’s distinction within BT of “true BT” (the historical study of the OT and NT) and “pure BT” (the study of the biblical material so as to distinguish that which is time-conditioned from that which is eternal truth), set BT on a trajectory paved with ever-increasing rationalistic tendencies (18th and early 19th centuries) and atomization (late 19th to 20th centuries). Also, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries ANE archaeological discoveries appeared to call into question the uniqueness of biblical faith. This gave rise to the history of religions approach, which emphasized that the true subject matter of biblical studies is religion. Part of this devolution into the study of Israelite religion was due to BT’s (modernist) historical assumptions (‘what it meant’ vs. ‘what it means’ etc./K. Stendahl). Also significant is the impact that WWI had, viz., it shook confidence in notions of the goodness of humanity and of “objective” historicism. Because of the global evils giving rise to WWI we see a renewed interest in the prescriptive dimension of the Bible. Karl Barth’s commentary on the book of Romans also played a huge role in calling the church back to the authoritativeness of the Bible. Consequently, there has been a resurgence of BT, which now includes this prescriptive dimension.

There continues, however, to be differing opinions as to exactly what BT is? E.g., Is it a theology that the Bible supports or is it the theology that the Bible contains? Is there a biblical theology of Exodus? Is BT undertaken on the source level (e.g., a theology of J or P or E) or on the level of genre (e.g., the theology of the Pentateuch or law, or the wisdom books) or on the level of the theology of the OT as a whole? Both historically and synchronically, BT has meant many things.

BT in the Vosian tradition should be differentiated both from that which is advocated by critical scholars, as well as fundamentalists. As understood in the trajectory of Geerhardus Vos, BT speaks of the “self-revelation of God” as recorded in the Bible [Geerhardus Vos, Biblical Theology: Old and New Testaments (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1948), p. 5]. Vos’s understanding of BT upholds both the unity and the diversity of the Bible. For example, as Dr. Peter Enns explains, Vos emphasized the “progress of redemption culminating in the person and work of Christ in whom Scripture coheres, while also showing a respect for theological diversity as a function of the historical situatedness of revelation” [“Apostolic Hermeneutics and an Evangelical Doctrine of Scripture: Moving beyond a Modernist Impasse.” Westminster Theological Journal, Vol. 65, no. 2 (Fall 2003), p. 284]. Enns goes on to say that “such an approach to biblical interpretation is not a ‘method’ that assures a stable exegetical result, but a spiritual exercise wherein a Christian looks at Scripture from the point of view of what she/he knows to be true—Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again—and reads the OT with the expectation that it somehow coheres in that fact. Perhaps Biblical Theology is as much about where one starts as it is about where one finishes” (Ibid.,p.284).

In my reading Henri de Lubac’s Medieval Exegesis, I was struck with the similarities between his thoughts on Scripture and those of Vos/Enns. E.g., de Lubac in describing the two Testaments not as two books, but rather as two dispensations or covenants also alludes to the progressive unfolding of Scripture in redemptive history. “The goal of the one that is prior in time is to prepare the way for the second. But this is not what merits them those respective terms of ‘old’ and ‘new.’ The New Testament does not take its name solely from the fact that it comes second in time. It is not merely ‘modern.’ It is the last word, in an absolute sense […] The New Covenant is not repeated. It is completed and fulfilled once and for all” (de Lubac, p. 227). Speaking of the necessity of faith for proper exegesis, de Lubac writes, “Christian exegesis is an exegesis in faith. But it does not presuppose the instances of naivety that have sometimes been imputed to it. […], it is an act of faith in the great historical Act that has never had and never will have its equal: for the Incarnation is unique. This exegesis is conscious of its developments by virtue of a creative principle, or, to be more precise, a transfiguring principle” (de Lubac, p. 260).

As is so emphasized at Westminster, though seeing Christ as the proper hermeneutical lens of true Scriptural exegesis is predicated on faith, it is nonetheless also clearly set forth in Scripture itself by the Lord Himself (Luke 24:44). Indeed for the Church Fathers, as well as the medievals (and for those who see with the eyes of faith today), “Jesus Christ brings about the unity of Scripture, because he is the endpoint and fullness of Scripture. Everything in it is related to him. In the end he is its sole object. Consequently, he is, so to speak, its whole exegesis” (de Lubac, p. 237)