Per Caritatem

Norman Kretzman, in his article, “Abraham, Isaac, and Euthyphro: God and the Basis of Morality,” discusses the relationship between God and morality. More specifically, Kretzman wants to answer the question, “just what is involved in God’s establishing of moral principles?”[1] Kretzman quickly qualifies his purpose in footnote 1 by stating that his inquiry might be better expressed in terms of examining the relationship between morality and the “concept of God,” i.e., “What could a being with at least some of the traditional divine attributes have to do with establishing the principles of morality?” In other words, what Kretzman seems to want to stress is that his entire discussion can be done and will be done apart from raising the question of God’s existence.

In addressing his specific question (viz., what is involved in God’s establishing of moral principles), Kretzman examines three theories of religious morality: theological subjectivism (TS), theological objectivism (TO) and a theory based upon an “absolutely perfect being” (APB). Kretzman then employs two well-known literary examples, the Abraham/Isaac narrative and Plato’s Euthyphro, so as to bring into sharper focus the various problems in some of the theories mentioned above. Turning first to the Abraham narrative, we recall that Abraham is commanded by God to sacrifice Isaac, his beloved son. From the narrative, we see that Abraham loved Isaac, yet he was also willing to obey God’s command to sacrifice his son. Kretzman then discusses three possible answers that could reconcile this difficulty and concludes that really only one fits the story best.

What Kretzman wants to point out is that in our ordinary language we often equate goodness and holiness, and in fact, most theistic religions take this for granted. Kretzman picks up on this assumption in his examination of the Abraham narrative. On the one hand, we have God, who is assumed to be holy, commanding Abraham to kill Isaac. This in itself strikes one as problematic because God has elsewhere commanded that such an act is wrong. This then speaks of God’s nature as it appears that God is changing on two counts: (1) he had promised Abraham that through Isaac, he would be the father of many nations; (2) as just mentioned, God says elsewhere in Bible that it is wrong to kill the innocent. Thus, we have a problem because it appears that God has changed his mind and for God to be God, he must both holy and immutable (among other things).

In the next post, we shall examine the three possibilities discussed by Kretzman.

Notes
[1] Norman Kretzman. “Abraham, Isaac, and Euthyphro: God and the Basis of Morality,” as found in Harmartia: The Concept of Error in the Western Tradition, D. Stump et al., eds. (New York and Toronto: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1983), p. 27.

In preparation for my lecture on Parmenides, I read a number of different interpretations of his poem, On Nature, and his philosophy as a whole. I found the following passage from D.W. Hamlyn both interesting and telling, especially in light of my convinction that human beings are and have always been dependent upon and in need of God’s revelation.

“What makes Parmenides so remarkable is his willingness to relay on strictly deductive argument and to hold fast to its conclusion however implausible that is. Some might see in this a kind of paranoia, but it also marks the birth of true philosophy or of one aspect of it—the appeal to argument that is as rigid as it can be. Deductive metaphysics of this kind will appear again in this history. It is always a failure, not simply because of the implausibility of its conclusions, but because reason alone cannot provide us with sound premises from which to deduce the nature of reality. All the same, it is remarkable that the enterprise begins so early with so little in the background to explain its incidence” (D.W. Hamlyn, A History of Western Philosophy, p. 25).

In a section called “Embodiment” found in chapter 8 of his book, Theology, Music and Time, Jeremy Begbie discovers and number of theological gems through engaging David Sudnow’s work, Ways of the Hand, which is an account of a classical pianist’s struggle on the road to becoming a jazz improviser. Sudnow describes in detail how at first he felt estranged from his body, viz., his hands. That is, the connection between his hands, the rhythm and metre, and the lines he wanted to play was at best strained and often more of a dis-connect. However, over time his hands began to anticipate the “shape” of various chord clusters and melodic lines—in short his hands “became one” with the piano, which was now in a sense an extension of his own body and not simply a tool to be used. As Begbie explains, “the hand would treat the keyboard as a terrain to be engaged, relating to its contours, for example, to the contours of different keys […] Knowing what the next note or next notes would sound like was more to do with hand sensations than visual inspection of the keyboard. […] From the point of view of piano improvisation, listening is as much to do with the hand as with the ear” (pp. 225). Havin reached this point in his studies, Sudnow describes his former alienated relationship between himself and his hands as being healed. “The hand ‘had ways’ with the keyboard which opened up potentialities of sound not readily discoverable in any other way” (p. 226).

As Begbie points out that “the constraint of the body, far from being treated as a prison to be escaped or obstacle to be fought, become integral to the realization of freedom.” In other words, though it is the case that the body does have limits—in this case, one’s hands may simply not have long enough fingers to be able to play certain chord voicings. However, the main point still stands, viz., “the body is not seen primarily as negative confinement but is drawn into a process such that its own peculiarities, specific capabilities and so forth are employed as a resource of channels of sensitivity and response, intelligence and insight, expression and articulation. In short, in and through our bodies we become free, free for interacting more fruitfully with realities beyond ourselves” (p. 230). Here Begbie begins to make a number of excellent theological connections for those who want to uphold the Biblical emphasis on our embodiedness, as well as a balanced account of freedom within constraint. “For here is a construal of free personal being in which the particularities of the body are regarded as intrinsic to human identity and its formation, in which the body is viewed as a field of dynamic processes of exchange in our commerce with the world, in which the senses are not treated as inherently passive and in need of compensation by the active mind, and in which bodily action is not viewed merely as the outward (or even optional) consequence of some ‘inner state’ or intention. Likewise, there is much here for those at work in theological epistemology who urge that we become less dependent on controlling paradigms which ignore our embodiedness and our active participation as God’s physical creatures in a God-given physical world. It is also possible that there is material here for a Christology which would want to take the embodiedness of Jesus with due seriousness” (pp. 230).

Furthermore, in the case of the instrumental jazz improviser, the new “somatically realized freedom necessarily involves an exploration of the keyboard, a respectful interaction with its physical peculiarities which coheres in significant ways with a theological ecology respectful of the non-human physical world” (p. 231). Lastly, as was mentioned in passing above, the instrument is no longer seen as a mere tool or intruder, but rather “as materially instrinsic to the creation of the music. […] Rather than being a hindrance to expression, an obstacle to an idea, it becomes, through bodily engagement, part of the expressivity” (pp. 231-232). Interestingly, in distinction from the way most music is composed in the classical tradition, viz., creating the musical line and then making it conform to a particular instrument, jazz improvisers create their melodic lines in terms of their own instruments. Consequently, one’s instrument is not a tool to be fitted to musical ideas created apart from that instrument, but rather “its own properties, characteristics and features are explored, honoured and incorporated into the music. […] The instrument is allowed to ‘have its say’. This attitude is redolent with theological resonances of honouring the contours and characteristics of the physical world in which we have been given to participate, in marked contrast to subsuming the natural world under pragmatic, utilitarian categories” (p. 232).

A provocative (and timely) essay by Anthony Smith has just been posted on the church and postmodern culture blog.

“The purpose of this particular engagement is to bring together conversation partners and philosophers James K. A. Smith, Michel Foucault, and George Yancy to examine the relationship and resonances between the Christian tradition, postmodernity, and race. Specifically this essay focuses on whiteness as an extension of the conversation on race.” Click

I recently came across the following quotes from C.S. Lewis—all of which I connect with in one way or another. Unfortunately, I do not have the references for any of them, as it has been a while since I have read anything from Lewis. If you happen to know from which works these quotes are taken, please send the book titles my way.

“Eros will have naked bodies; Friendship naked personalities.”

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one!’”

“We live, in fact, in a world starved for solitude, silence, and private: and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship.”

“Consciousness is either inexplicable illusion, or else revelation.”

“Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.”

“Faith is the art of holding on to things your reason once accepted, despite your changing moods.”

“Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

“If we cut up beasts simply because they cannot prevent us and because we are backing our own side in the struggle for existence, it is only logical to cut up imbeciles, criminals, enemies, or capitalists for the same reasons.”

“Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery’s shadow or reflection: the fact that you don’t merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief.”

[This post was inspired by a great conversation underway at the church and postmodern culture.]

Though it is the case that Calvin’s hermeneutic is a more or less grammatico-historical (GH) orientation given his humanist training, such a label needs to be carefully nuanced. E.g., Spinoza, who is perhaps the father of the GH “method,” does not read Scripture the same way that Calvin reads it, though both are lumped into the GH category. Though Calvin for the most part does reject what we tend to call “allegory,” he realizes and acknowledges that this causes problems when we look at the ways in which the New Testament authors use the Old Testament (which is decidedly un-grammatico-historical). Calvin of course wanted to read the OT in a Christian way, i.e., he wanted to see Christ in the OT—enter accommodation and typology. Accommodation might be described as a “pedagogical tool” that God employs to communicate to human beings given his “wholly otherness” (He speaks to us in human languages etc.)—the Incarnation of course being God’s ultimate act of accommodation. The point being that in the OT (and Scripture in general) God spoke to his people in ways that they could understand. Even a cursory study of the institutions and worship practices of Israel’s life demonstrates that these were not something foreign to the surrounding cultures—pagans also had temples, sacrifices, priests, etc. With Calvin’s notion of accommodation in mind, we see that when God revealed himself to his people, he did so in ways that are part of the Ancient Near Eastern milieu (ANE). This of course raises questions—e.g., if God accommodates himself in ways that people understand, are we to understand God’s accommodation to Israel as the way the world is or not? Perhaps a sic et non (yes and no) answer is the “best” answer. It is not that God’s accommodating himself in the OT means that he was taken by or obligated to the ANE environment, rather the focus of all of these institutions was Christ himself—enter typology and the OT sacrificial system. God accommodated himself in Israel’s sacramental system because the idea of sacrifice is woven into creation itself for the purpose of pre-figuring the sacrifice of Christ. If this is the case, then even the other sacrificial systems of the surrounding cultures then become parodies of the ultimate type—Christ. Creation, culture, and the universe itself can then be understood as sacramental or theomorphic, as it is “set up” to reflect who God is. So for Calvin, the tensions that he felt and acknowledged by going the GH route were “eased” via accommodation and typology. Thus, Christ is truly yet proleptically in the OT. So even with his GH constraints, he still has a Christotelic reading of the OT and given that, it seems unfair to label Calvin as a strict “modernist.”

Wanting to avoid a “logic of reciprocity” [echoing Levinas] in which a dialogue turns into a monologue, as when one party sets the terms of reciprocity, Benson turns to Gadamer in order to begin mapping out what a healthy dialogue might look like. According to Gadamer, “good will” toward the other, as opposed to “proving that you are right,” is crucial. Likewise, reciprocity begins “at home,” and involves vulnerability. “True reciprocity is only possible if I make the first move—without knowing that the other will reciprocate” (The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, p. 168). Once this “move” is made, then what? Here Gadamer introduces the metaphor of a “fusion of horizons” (Horizontverschmelzung) to help explicate this relationship with the other. In terms of successful musical dialogue, we might say that “communication takes place when the ‘horizon’ (or perspective) of the listener ‘fuses’ (or, perhaps better, ‘connects’) with that of the performer, composer, and tradition. The score and/or composer has one sort of horizon (temporally, culturally, musically, and perhaps otherwise) and performers and listeners have yet other horizons. The goal, then, is a ‘fusion’ of these horizons to enable a genuine dialogue” (p. 168). However, the downside of this metaphor is that perhaps in the fusing of these horizons, “the ‘otherness’ of the other is lost,” and we are back to one voice (p. 169). Though it is the case, e.g., that in an orchestra the many voices must blend into one voice, we still desire a situation in which the individual voices or instruments retain their individuality. As Benson noted in a previous chapter, “it is all too easy to impose our own horizon and then proclaim it as the ‘authentic’ horizon of the past. To be honest, performers always face this reality. The goal of the composer, performer, and listener seeking a genuine dialogue, then, is both to be aware of this danger and to be creative in allowing each party to have a real voice” (p. 169). Yet, we might also point out that perhaps our situation is not as bad as it seems. After all “since my horizon is never truly ‘mine’ (given that I am part of a culture—both musically and in general—that I do not possess and cannot control), then ‘my’ horizon is always a shared horizon and is always affected by otherness” (p. 169).

If a true fusing of horizons takes place between the composer, the work, and the performer (as well as the audience), then in what sense is composer’s voice still heard? As Benson astutely observes, “music has no existence apart from the voices of the conversation” (p. 170). Though it has been common in the classical music tradition following the Werktrue model to attempt to let the music “speak for itself,” this is in reality impossible. The composer must allow the performer to be his/her representative, thus interpretation of the work by the performer (who is also part of a musical tradition) is inevitable. “A text can only mean by way of the act of interpretation and a score can only sound through a performance. […] But that in no way means that the interpreter simply (as Gadamer puts it in a later text) ‘disappears—and the text speaks.’ For, in speaking on behalf of the composer (and the musical tradition), the performer does not simply disappear” (p. 170). Here Benson introduces an interesting analogy to help us think through how we should understand the relationship between composer, work, and performer. Just as stringed instruments are tuned on the basis of tension, “so the relationship of musical partners depends on tension to be maintained. On the one hand, as composer or performer or listener I open myself to the other when I feel the pull of the other that demands my respect. On the other hand, my openness to the other cannot be simply a complete giving in to the other, for then I am no longer myself and am instead simply absorbed by the other. Thus, a dialogue can only be maintained if there is a pull exerted by both sides. The danger for genuine dialogue, then, is not the presence of tension but its loss or imbalance. A dialogue is only possible when each partner both holds the others in tension—that is, holds the other accountable—and feels the tension of accountability exerted by the other. As strange as that may sound, these ‘tensions’ actually make the ‘freedom’ of dialogue possible. Why that sounds strange is because we usually think of freedom as ‘negative freedom’—freedom from constraints. But what I have in mind here is ‘positive freedom’—freedom for genuine dialogue. Of course, in order to ‘feel that pull,’ one needs to be able to listen to the other” (pp. 170-171).

In chapter 5 of his book, The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, Benson engages in a discussion of the “other” in a section called, “The Voice of the Other.” He begins by briefly introducing Emmanuel Levinas who sees philosophy as “suppressing or transmuting the alterity of all that is Other.” In addition, Levinas claims that a desire for autonomy fuels the desire to suppress otherness. If we consider Kant’s view of the free and highly individualistic artistic genius along with his views of morality which center on autonomy, Levinas’ claim is strengthened. In other words, for the artistic genius to manifest her genius, she must be completely free—“unfettered.” As Benson explains, Kant sees this kind of free, autonomous space as something positive, as it establishes the conditions necessary for artistic creativity. Levinas, however, views this autonomy as dangerous because one person’s freedom comes at the expense of the other’s freedom. From another perspective, we might say that for Kant freedom is construed negatively, i.e., freedom is not being constrained by another, whereas, for Levinas, a certain constraint by the other is a positive thing (p. 165).

Relating this back to our musical dialogue, we recall that on the Werktreue paradigm, the composer is privileged and the emphasis is on re-creating “authorial intention.” With the Werktreue model, it is clear that the performer (as well as listener) is the suppressed other. So what might serve as an answer to the “autonomous monologue” of the Werktreue ideal? As Benson notes, some might suggest an existentialist antidote of “authenticity” (Eigentlichkeit). Here Benson makes a helpful connection between a practice of the romantic (musical) performance tradition with Heidegger’s notion of Eigentlichkeit. In the romantic tradition, performers are told to “make the piece your own.” For Heidegger, to be eigentlich means to “be yourself” which is of course tied in with authenticity. In one sense, this is of course good advice for a musician to follow, however, “the problem is that the structure of Eigentlichkeit is all too close to that of Kant’s autonomy. When Heidegger says that ‘understanding is either authentic, arising out of one’s own Self as such, or inauthentic,’ it is hard to distinguish this sense of authenticity from Kant’s account of autonomy. For, in both cases, the self is not merely supposed to be the principle but the sole determining factor” (p. 166). Thus, going with the strict Eigentlichkeit model, the performer is privileged and the alterity of the composer and listener is denied (think of Paganini and the virtuoso tradition). Instead of privileging any one of these three, Benson suggests we listen to Levinas, who says “to approach the Other is to put into question my freedom, my spontaneity,” as well as Gadamer, whose (in our context) ideal composer, performer and listener is open to the other who “breaks into my ego-centeredness and gives me something to understand” (pp. 166-67). Benson then adds, “to treat the other as other requires that I recognize the other as having a kind of claim on me. Naturally, the kind of claim and the force of that claim depend upon the specific dialogue, for dialogues can be of different sorts and even musical dialogues differ. Yet, to take the other seriously means that I am not simply ‘free’ to do ‘whatever I please’” (p. 167).

More to come…

In John 8:19 Jesus pointedly answers the Jews’ unbelieving question “Where is your Father?” with, “You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also.” As Ridderbos explains, the Jews’ question was not a case of simply needing more information, rather “[i]n raising the question they are assuming a formal legal position: if a person appeals to the testimony of a witness, that person should be able to produce the witness! Again, […] they are presenting a demand for legitimation and an indirect challenge: if the Father is going to be your witness, bring him forward!” (The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary, p. 297). This demand for legitimation is actually an indication of their failure to acknowledge Jesus’ own self-testimony as Lord (as St. Paul would say, a “suppressing of the truth in unrighteousness”), which is in turn a rejection of the Father’s self-testimony. “That is, they are inwardly strangers to and outside the fellowship of both Jesus and his Father. And the two are inseparable. If they really knew Jesus and if his words did not sound strange and presumptuous in their ears, they would not ask, ‘Where is your Father?’ They would know that what he says is of God and that the Father is his witness” (Ibid., p. 297).

Jesus has repeated made the claim throughout this pericope that He and the Father are one, but now He says it in such a way to press what some Reformed theologians call the “antithesis,” i.e., the divide between believer and unbeliever in which the ultimate question becomes: will you acknowledge and embrace Jesus’ claims and place yourself on the side of covenant-keepers or will you reject his claims, demand further “legitimation” (to what higher authority could one appeal?), and align yourself with covenant-breakers who suppress the truth? Though, of course, at this point, the wisdom of the world cries, “circularity, circularity, circularity.” That is, the “person will say that Jesus’ ‘evidence’ consists precisely in what needs to be proved: that the Father is with him as the great ‘witness’ of what he says and does. This short circuit is inherent in the issue itself. God’s revelation does not subject itself to human control and cannot be required to legitimate itself by human standards. It can only be ‘known’ and assented to by those who ‘know’ him, that is, by those who, as children of God, are born not of flesh and blood but of God (1:13; 3:3ff.). But this a priori is not a demand for blind faith in the one sent by God. It is a ‘knowing’ in the light of Jesus’ words and works. If, therefore, Jesus bears witness to himself as the light of the world, this does not call for ‘unknowing’ acceptance (cf. 6:69). Rather, it is a coming to know, by the content of Jesus’ words and the power of his deeds, the claim and irrefutability of the love of God extended to the world in him. It is to that decision of faith that all these dialogues lead and in the confrontation with which they all find their conclusion and climax” (Ibid., p. 298). In sum, Ridderbos seems to be saying that not all circles are vicious (though some are) and indeed some circles are necessary. I tend to agree.

Michael at Evangelical Catholicism has two excellent posts on “Luther, Aquinas, and the Question of Grace,” which can be found here and here.

I found the following quotes from Michael’s article to be particularly illuminating and worth contemplating. Quoting Aquinas, we read, “everlasting life is an end exceeding the proportion of human nature…. Hence man, by his natural endowments, cannot produce meritorious works proportionate to everlasting life; and for this a higher force is needed, viz., the force of grace” (Summa theologica, I-II, 109, 5, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (Allen, TX: Christian Classics, 1948).

Michael then goes on to explain, “Aquinas notes that grace may be taken in two senses, either as operating or co-operating. Operating grace indicates the sole action of God whereby He moves the soul, such as His action in moving the Christian to faith. Taking his cue from Augustine, Aquinas describes co-operating grace in respect to God’s initial movement in the soul and the soul’s subsequent response and cooperation with the movement of God. With regard to justification, Aquinas writes: “God does not justify us without ourselves, because whilst we are being justified we consent to God’s justification by a movement of our free-will. Nevertheless this movement is not the cause of grace, but the effect; hence the whole operation pertains to grace” (Ibid. I-II, 111, 2, ad. 2).

In his second post, Michael writes, “It has already been stated that Aquinas denies that humanity may meritoriously earn eternal life through its own natural design and action. However, Aquinas, again following Augustine, holds that through co-operating grace, human actions may merit justification in Christ: ‘And hence it is that no created nature is a sufficient principle of an act meritorious of eternal life, unless there is added a supernatural gift, which we call grace.’[Summa theologiae, I-II, 114, 2]. Ultimately, due to its sinful state, humanity must be first acted upon by the grace in order to subsequently respond to God and please Him in act (i.e. faith and good works). The very power of the will to desire God and believe in Him, as well as the power to commit oneself to acts of charity, is given by God. The very value of this merit ‘depends upon the power of the Holy Ghost moving us to life everlasting….’ Thus, there is no sense of an “earning” of eternal life in the thought of Aquinas, but instead a salvation based completely upon grace alone.”

Lastly, addressing the issue of assurance of salvation, Michael writes:
“It is true that Aquinas believes no one is able to possess a natural knowledge of having grace (as did Paul!). Since grace is the very agent of salvation, humanity in itself cannot be cognizant of its salvation, ipso facto. However, Aquinas asserts that a man may know he has grace through the revelation of God, either privately or publicly. The public revelation of salvation is of greatest concern, for it bespeaks of the salvation of all Christians. A Christian knows that he is a partaker of grace through the Sacrament of Baptism: ‘Since, however, the death of Christ is, so to say, the universal cause of human salvation, and since a universal cause must be applied singly to each of its effects, it was necessary to show men some remedies through which the benefit of Christ’s death could somehow be conjoined to them. It is of this sort, of course, that the sacraments of the Church are said to be.’(Summa contra Gentiles 4:56, 1, trans. Charles J. O’Neil (Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1957). A Christian is guaranteed access to grace through the sacraments of the Church, and his salvation is sealed in Baptism. Because grace is not efficacious quantitatively, Aquinas assures the Christian that salvation is not a matter of performing an arbitrary number of works, but rather a response in faith to the grace which is received by the power of the Holy Spirit and the reception of the sacraments.”

Since my schedule has been crazy this week, I haven’t had time to read as much as I would like and consequently, my posts are less frequent. Given my schedule-packed week, I thought I would post something more “personal” (and humorous–at least I find it humorous) about names and nicknames. While I was cleaning Ashley’s room today, I came across a book that someone had given us sometime ago called, The Classic Book of Baby Names. I decided to flip through it to see whether or not it had my name. To my surprise, I found the name “Cynthia,” which the book says is “from the Greek, the goddess of the moon. (In Roman myth she was named Diana).” On the next page there is an entry for “Diana,” which reads, “from the Latin, meaning ‘divine;’ in Roman times the goddess of the hunt and the moon.” I of course liked the “divine” part, but wasn’t too thrilled about the goddess of the hunt business, though strolls in the moonlight are rather appealing, so the goddess of the moon part I can work with. The best part, however, comes at the end of the entry on “Cynthia,” where it reads, “Cindy as a nickname is unfortunate.” Now this I loved because I absolutely hate it when I introduce myself as “Cynthia,” and people then call me “Cindy.” I am so not a Cindy, so now I have a great text to which I can refer people in order to enlighten them as to the unfortunate nickname that has been associated with “Cynthia.” Actually, my favorite name to be called is “Kristina,” which was the name that I went by while living in Russia, because the Russian alphabet has no “th” equivalent and my name ends up sounding like “Cyn-tee-a” (which is not at all aethetically pleasing) or they revert to the detestable “Cindy” denomination–again not appealing. Interestingly, my Russian acquaintances who had only been introduced to me once or twice would, when trying to remember my name, call me “Kristina” anyway, and because I like the sound of this name when spoken with a Russian accent, I decided to keep it while living overseas. The really nice thing about Russian names is that each name has a diminutive form (sometimes many forms). For example, the diminutive for Alexsandr is Sasha, for Vladimir it is Volodya, for Dmitri it is Dema and so on. But there is also a very pleasant and intimate sounding diminutive suffix that can be added for feminine names–the suffix–ичка (sounds like “EEchka”). So Kristina then becomes, “Kristinichka” (pronounced, KristEEneechka). This is perhaps my favorite name of all, as I have very fond memories associated with this name.

Having spent four years of practicing six to eight hours a day as performing jazz guitar major, I wholeheartedly agree with Benson’s take on jazz as “premeditated spontaneity.” That is, contrary to the common and even “romantic” view of jazz improvisation as a kind of musical ex nihilo creative act, Benson argues that jazz improvisers actual heavily rely on musical ideas worked out in advance which, as it turns out, enables them to be spontaneous. “As odd as it may sound, the musician who is most prepared—not only in terms of having thought about what is to be played but even having played various possibilities—is most able to be spontaneous. It is when one already is prepared that one feels free to go beyond the confines of the prepared (with the assurance that one can always fall back on them if necessary). In the same way that Gadamer argues that the experienced person is most open to new experience, it is the experienced improviser—the one who has already thought a great deal about what is to be played—who is most able to play something surprising. Experience can turn into a rut, but is can also beget spontaneity” (The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, pp. 142-143).

Continuing his discussion of the “ergon within the energia,” Benson introduces Ingarden’s position. Ingarden’s fundamental assumption is that there is an essential (not simply an accidental) separation between a work and its written and aural expressions (The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, p. 126). Ingarden is concerned to preserve a kind of superhistorical ergon that remains untouched by the energia of actual music performance through the course of time. However, Ingarden himself is aware of this tension, which makes his contribution highly instructive. First, Ingarden begins by asking as to the relation between the work and the score. According to Ingarden, the score preserves the work and helps to maintain its identity (Ibid., p 127). Yet, Ingarden admits that the score does not exhaust the work and merely relates aspects of the work—the score functions as a kind of “schema.” By acknowledging both that the score maintains the identity of the work in some sense and yet the score does fully circumscribe the work, we are pressed to ask, what then is (ontologically speaking) the “something more” that the score fails to capture?

Ingarden’s position is more or less a kind of Platonism when it comes to the role of performances. That is, for Ingarden, a work possesses a “stock of possibilities” and is “in a sense inherently complete” (Ibid., p. 128). In essence, over time the various performers of a work are not adding anything new, rather they are discovering the latent possibilities already “embedded” in the work and that simply need to be actualized. Thus, the work does not really change over time but merely “appears” to change. However, as Benson observes, “the problem with this view is that—practically—these possibilities seem not to come merely from within but also from without: for they arise—at least partly—by way of performance traditions, which are themselves developing” (Ibid., p. 128). But, being a good phenomenologist, Ingarden does not totally ignore the fact that the work seems to go beyond the intentions of the composer due to Unbestimmtheitsstellen—“places of indeterminacy” that are born with every work—some of which are only made determinate through a live performance.

Contra a Platonist-type understanding of a work, Benson argues for a kind of mediating way that acknowledges that a work possesses a “stock of possibilities” that constitutes it, yet those possibilities are supplemented by additional possibilities that arise over the course of time and as a result of evolving musical traditions. “Thus, we could say that Bach had intentions for the St. Matthew Passion that were complex and specific. But the performance by Mendelssohn did not merely bring out those possibilities (even though it did that too). Rather, it also created certain possibilities—possibilities that truly did not exist before” (p. 129).

In light of the “interconnectedness of work and performance,” Benson ends the section by suggesting that instead of “work” which seems to suggest a “finished” product, we should return to the denomination “piece.” Piece implies a more fragmentary and on-going character—something “inherently incomplete, for the musical context in which it exists is in flux” (pp. 132-33).

A new blog–the church and postmodern culture–has recently entered the “blogosphere” and is well-worth checking out. Next Wednesday the blog will begin a series of conversations centered around James K.A. Smith’s book, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism: Taking Derrida, Lyotard, and Foucault to Church. The blog coordinator, Geoff Holsclaw, has kindly invited me to participate in the first round of discussions–an invitation that I warmly accepted. I have put together a short one-paged conversation starter that Geoff plans to use in the beginning dialogue on Wednesday or shortly thereafter. Do join us, as the “spirit” of this blog seems to be very much one of discovery and charitable interaction.

In his book, Reading Dostoevsky, Victor Terras makes a few interesting comparisons and contrasts between Dostoevsky and Tolstoi.

In regard to heroes, “Tolstoi’s heroes and heroines are ordinary people, engaged in typical relationships, mostly normal ones. The forces that move them are the ones the most men and women know well—for example, the sex drive” (p. 37). With Dostoevsky, “typical relationships” and characters are marginal, as he claims that a “deeper truth” is opened up with exceptional characters and not-so-typical relationships. According to Terras, “normal love affairs do not interest Dostoevsky. Even simple adultery is a nontopic. Dostoevsky is fascinated by passions that seem to be a manifestation of a metaphysical yearning for an absolute, for something that defies reason—in a word, the Eros of Plato’s Symposium. Eros has many forms: the earthly lust of Fiodor Pavlovich Karamazov […] Dmitry’s sensual but more exalted ‘aesthetic’ love, Ivan’s cold intellectual passion, Aliosha’s spiritual agape” (p. 38)

As is well-known, Dostoevsky is found of developing characters such as Prince Myshkin, Aliosha, and Sonia Marmeladov who exemplify genuine Christian agape. Here we might get the impression that this aspect of Dostoevsky is similar to the “old Tolstoi” who often wrote of the purity of love. But, as Terras explains, “the keynote of Dostoevsky’s feeling is different. Nowhere in Dostoevsky is there a real challenge to, must less a putdown of, that powerful god, Eros. There is nothing resembling the old Tolstoi’s squeamish distaste for sex in Aliosha’s extreme chastity, or in Myshkin’s virginity. Myshkin and Aliosha are both bridegrooms. The Dostoevskian saint is chaste because of too much, not too little, Eros” (p. 39). It seems to me that St. Augustine, C.S. Lewis, and Kierkegaard would say the same of the Christian saint.

Another nice passage from Benson, as found in, The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue:

“So what results from the improvisatory movement of composition and performance? From musical energia grows an ergon—but an ergon that still remains within the play of musical energia, and from which it cannot be disconnected. Indeed, we might more properly say that this ergon exists as energia. Thus, improvisation provides a way of conceptualizing music that does not force us to choose between defining music as either ergon or energia. Music that is improvised endures and is yet transitory. Being transitory, its existence is very much genetic, historical, changing: but, in that it likewise endures, it has a continuing identity” (p. 125).

So many nice theological parallels come to mind! I also noticed that Benson has a nice article on Jean-Luc Marion on one of my favorite blogs, TheoPhenomenon.

In a section discussing the ever-so subjective topic of music “restoration,” in which among other preferences, one might focus more on the letter of the piece or on the spirit in trying to re-capture the more “authentic” Bach, Beethoven, or Chopin, Bruce Ellis Benson, writes,

“Following Hegel, Gadamer argues that an essential ingredient in having a genuine experience (Erfahrung) is the element of surprise: it is precisely when we do not expect something that it affects us the most, which means genuine experiences have the character of a reversal. As such, they cannot be repeated again and again. This reversal is precisely what early music performances[1] accomplish. They force us to listen, and it is in the act of truly listening that we have a genuine experience in which we make contact with what we hear. But, since a genuine experience is surprising and shocking, we cannot continue to experience a piece by having it performed repeatedly in the same way. It needs to be changed, not merely so that we can hear it anew but so that we can hear it at all” (The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, p. 118).

Notes
[1] In brief, a movement that tries to recapture the “real” experience of, say, a Bach fugue by (as one example) not using modern pianos, and opting for instruments that were likely used (when possible) during the composer’s day. In so doing, promoters of this movement no doubt have their own assumptions and subjective inclinations as to what a more “authentic” performance is. This notwithstanding, hearing a piece played on a harpsichord that we are accustomed to hear played on a modern Steinway can cause one to listen anew, and thus, experience the same piece differently.

Though the Preface to the first part of the Latin edition of Luther’s works (1545) is often used to date the so-called “Turmerlebnis,” Oberman is highly skeptical of this approach, pointing out that the Preface “has been molded in so many directions and Luther scholars have deduced from its few pages so many different Luther-figures that a usage of these passages in our time has almost become the characteristic of unscientific Luther research” (p. 109). In the Preface of 1545, we have the famous account of Luther’s being grasped by a passage from St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, viz., Rom. 1:17. Having mediated on and wrestled with this passage for some time, Luther by divine illumination comes to understand the righteousness of God (iustitia Dei) as that which the righteous person (i.e., the believer already in a state of grace) lives by faith—itself a gift of God. As Oberman brings to our attention, it is crucial to note that in the Preface, “Luther is not dealing with the works of sinners but rather with those of the just; as he says, the issue is satisfaction required of the penitent following absolution [see W A 54, 185; cf. Luther’s Works, op. cit., 336f.]. Put in the terminology of scholasticism, the first concern is not the reception of grace, the praeparatio, but the continuation of its presence, the conservatio. His question is: what does it mean when Paul says that the justified lives by faith?” (p. 115). Luther described himself as a “monk without reproach”—a believer who having received the sacrament of absolution struggled with trying to live the right way in a state of grace (pp. 115-16). For Luther, given the New Testament’s higher standard, viz., the internal focus on a person’s heart vs. the more external focus of the Old Testament, how can the Gospel then be good news when it seems to condemn one to an even greater degree?[1] As Oberman explains, the medieval scholastic tradition as a whole agreed and taught that “the Old Testament as ceremonial and civil law is now cancelled, precisely because in those two kinds of law only the hand and therefore only the external actions were dealt with (see e.g., III Sent. D 40, q. I, art. 2 concl.). The law of Christ is the fulfillment of the Mosaic law in a few words because of the interiorization of the righteousness intended by it” (p. 117). According to the teaching of the day (as found e.g., in Biel, who on this point is representative of medieval scholastic teaching), the merits of Christ are indeed the principle merits; however, they are never understood as the “sola et totalis causa meritoria,” by which we are saved (p. 117). What this seems to indicate is that without our merits completing those of Christ’s, His merits would be insufficient. Thus, it becomes “necessary that Christ is not only Redeemer but also Legislator, since, without the complement of obedience to His Law, His redemption would fall short of assuring man of his eternal salvation” (p. 117). This understanding of Christ as Legislator is, according to Oberman, an agreed upon position of the medieval scholastic tradition. It no doubt the case that the medieval tradition taught that those in a state of grace have received the righteousness of Christ (iustitia Christi); however, “their works have in one way or another to meet the requirements of the ‘iustitia Dei’ [righteousness of God], whether by ontological elevation or by acceptation” (p. 119).

So what was so radically different about Luther’s understanding of the iustitia Dei in relation to the iustitia Christi? It was not that grace is always prevenient (St. Thomas, among others, taught that). Nor was it his teaching that the sinner is justified through sanctifying grace (gratia gratum faciens) and receives as an unmerited gift the righteousness of Christ (again St. Thomas, as well as Scotus taught this). The crux of the matter of Luther’s attack on the medieval scholastic tradition (a tradition later confirmed at the Council of Trent), centered on the way that this tradition as a whole separated the iustitia Christi and the iustitia Dei. “According to this tradition the ‘iustitia Christi’ is granted in the justification to the sinner as gratia or caritas. But the iustitia Dei is not granted together with the iustitia Christi. […] The iustitia Dei remains the finis, the goal, or the ‘Gegenüber’ of the viator who is propelled on his way to the eternal Jerusalem by the iustitia Christi. The iustitia Dei is the standard according to which the degree of appropriation and the effects of the iustitia Christi are measured and will be measured in the Last Judgment. The iustitia Dei is the eternal immutable Law of God” (pp. 119-120). Thus, Luther’s discovery contra medieval scholastic theology may be summarized as follows: “the heart of the Gospel is that the iustitia Christi and the iustitia Dei coincide and are granted simultaneously.” […] The Pauline message is the Gospel exactly because the iustitia Dei—revealed at the Cross as the iustitia Christi—is given to the faithful per fidem. The ‘fides Christo formata’ replaces the medieval ‘fides charitate formata’; in other words, ‘faith living in Christ’ has come in the stead of ‘faith active in love’ as it had been formulated and defined in a unanimous medieval tradition” (p. 120).

Notes
[1] Oberman goes on to dismiss the common caricature of Luther’s personalistic tendencies stating, “[w]e are faced then not with a mere personal question of Luther, necessitated by this or that psychological structure of his personality or determined by his adherence to this or that theological school. It is the question of scholasticism par excellence in connection with the clarification of the relation of the lex vetus and the lex nova” (p. 116).

In chapter 5 of his book, The Dawn of the Reformation, Oberman discusses one of the central issues of Luther’s difference with the scholastic tradition as a whole. As we noted in previous posts, Luther in his Disputatio contra scholasticam theologicam (1517) is said to have attacked the entire medieval scholastic tradition, yet with a special condemnation against Ockham and his school. Luther claims that the medieval tradition had allowed Pelagianism in some form or fashion to influence its theology. Given the extensiveness of Luther’s charge, some have argued that Luther must have been tragically mistaken—a victim of his time given the prevalent misreadings of Thomas being espoused in his theological mileu—surely he and could not possibly have meant to indict St. Thomas or Scotus. At the end of the day, had Luther focused his attack strictly on Ockham and company all would be well. However, as Oberman explains, Luther was in fact aware of the differences among the schools and differentiates between an earlier (from Lombard to Scotus) and a later tradition (Ockham and his disciples), and takes up his issues with each theologian according to the individual theses with which he understood a particular theologian to err. In discerning the nuances among the various positions, it is only against Ockhman and company (not St. Thomas and Scotus) that Luther “assails on the grounds of their shameless teaching that reason without the illumination by the Holy Spirit can love God above everything else and secondly because of their teaching that Christ would have earned for the Christians only the first grace (“Occam enim et moderni, ut vocantur, sceleste docent, quod ratio sine Spiritu Sancto posit Deum super omnia diligere, et quod tantum meruerit primam gratiam”)” (p. 109). Yet, as Luther saw things, besides St. Augustine, only Gregory of Rimini had escaped the error of Pelagianism or semi-Pelagianism. Given these findings, Oberman asks, “what could Luther have meant by the statement that the earlier doctors also proved to be pelagians, albeit in a more hidden and refined manner than Occam and his followers?” (p. 109).

Oberman begins by emphasizing crucial differences between Luther and Biel. For Biel, one uses the natural virtue of prudentia in the reading of Scripture (lectio) in order to discover what one should ask God for in prayer—the sequence being lectio, meditatio, oratio. Thus, for Biel prudentia is given a central place and is employed “into the service of the ‘facere quod in se est,’ as part therefore of man’s best efforts to which God has committed himself” (p. 113). In contrast, for Luther, one begins with oratio, moves to meditatio, and then is gripped by tentatio. The second “stage” is always done in conjunction with Scripture, and we can in no way “prepare” ourselves for grace and the gift of God’s love, as these are unmerited (by us) gifts, though merited by Christ. For Biel, love is not “a human task insofar as it is God alone who can infuse it in us; but we are responsible for the preparation and the later preservation. The preparation for the infusion of love takes place exactly in this reading, meditation, prayer” (p. 114). As we also observed in a previous post, the earliest literary evidence, viz., the marginals of 1509 to Lombard’s Sentences, suggest that Luther had already rejected the facere quod in se est of human reason (p. 114). In sum, we might say that in place of Biel’s prudentia, Luther puts the gift of divine illumination. “The prudential cannot discern in the biblical passage anything else than the litera occidens; it is the spirit which shows the true literal sense” (p. 114).

But we still haven’t moved beyond a contention with nominalistic theology—what about Luther’s assertions against the medieval scholastic tradition more broadly speaking? In order to engage the larger framework, Oberman moves to a discussion of Luther’s understanding of the relation of the lex vetus and the lex nova (the Law and the Gospel) so as to show how radically different Luther has “re-interpreted the ‘facere quod in se est,’ both as regards the preparation for the reception of the gift of love and as regards the preservation of this gift. With this stance Luther assumes a position which is not only independent of the nominalistic position but independent of the whole medieval scholastic tradition. Luther looked beyond the central issue in nominalistic theology, namely the preparation for grace, to the problem of the conservation, or preservation, of grace. In pursing the traditional battle contra Pelagianos in this larger framework, he had to confront the whole scholastic tradition” (p. 114).

More to come…

[N.b. My desire is in no way to offend my Roman Catholic friends, so as usual please feel free to interact, disagree, and offer corrections on anything that you see as an inaccuracy, or that should be nuanced differently. Those that know me well, know that I have great respect for the Roman Catholic tradition, and that I am convinced that as a result of many of my Catholic friends and professors, I am a better person and have a stronger walk with the Lord. However, as a Protestant, it is important for me to understand my own theological tradition (the good and the bad), as well as the continuities and discontinuities with my Roman Catholic (and Orthodox) brothers and sisters. Unfortunately, sometimes posts like these serve as the occasion for extremists on either side to respond with a lack of charity. Seeing that I moderate my comments, any such responses will be deleted, which is my practice anyway. With all that said, please do interact, as it will only help me to grow in my understanding].