Per Caritatem

A nice passage to contemplate by Hans-Helmuth Gander on Gadamer’s historically-friendly description of a human being as “biography”:

“Reflection on history means as well, therefore, that the one reflecting is himself always already involved in history. No one simply ‘takes up’ history, and no one begins it; for this reason a single reflection on history is never able to conceive it neutrally and ab ovo. The individual is implicated in history through his biography, which takes shape respectively under the influence of historical events and developments. These latter are, in turn, reflected in one’s biography; they are inscribed in it in such a way that they engrave, as it were, one’s life. In this engraving, the forces of history produce a biography in its individual profile, which therefore can never be removed from the experience of reality, since experience is already history for the individual. Seen in this way, history is the medium in which we carry out our lives. Accordingly, human life is nothing like a substance or an essential core to which one simply attaches, in its factical course and in all of its historical details, a biography. By implication, one’s historical life is not placed before one, as the possession of an autonomous subject. It can be said, with Georg Picht, to modify a famous Gadamerian pronouncement: ‘In truth, we do not possess our biography, but rather, it possesses us. [That is to say:] We are produced by our biography; one could even say: we are nothing other than our biography” (Geschichte und Gegenwart [Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1993], 6). Along with the familial genealogy that is stored within our biography, there lie at the same time those aspects of historical influences and events that allow each person to become for himself the person who he is. Conversely, the ‘course of world history’ only emerges in the form of a concrete course of lives, such that in this constitutive reciprocity between existence and world history, not only can neither be conceived without the other, but it is only in this reciprocal relation that each receives its respective profile” (p. 122).

Bibliography

Gander, Hans-Helmuth, “Between Strangeness and Familiarity: Towards Gadamer’s Conception of Effective History,” Research in Phenomenology 34 (2004): 121-306.

In Solzhenitsyn’s Nobel Lecture (given in the 70’s), he recalls something that Dostoevsky once said—something that he used to consider quite puzzling, viz., “Beauty will save the world.” (“Мир спасет красота”). He goes on to say, “There is […] something special in the essence of beauty, a special quality in art: the conviction carried by a genuine work of art is absolute and subdues even a resistant heart. A political speech, hasty newspaper comment, a social program, a philosophical system can, as far as appearances are concerned, be built smoothly and consistently on an error or a lie; and what is concealed and distorted will not be immediately clear. But then to counteract it comes a contradictory speech, commentary, program, or differently constructed philosophy—and again everything seems smooth and graceful, and again hangs together. That is why they inspire trust—and distrust. There is no point asserting and reasserting what the heart cannot believe. (Попусту твердится, что к серцу не ложится). A work of art contains its own verification in itself: artificial, strained concepts do not withstand the test of being turned into images; they fall to pieces, turn out to be sickly and pale, convince no one. Works which draw on truth and present it to us in live and concentrated form grip us, compellingly involve us, and no one ever, not even ages hence, will come forth to refute them. Perhaps then the old trinity of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty is not simply the dressed-up, worn-out formula we thought it in our presumptuous, materialistic youth? If the crowns of these three trees meet, as scholars have asserted, and if the too obvious, too straight sprouts of Truth and Goodness have been knocked down, cut off, not let grow, perhaps the whimsical, unpredictable, unexpected branches of Beauty will work their way through, rise up to that very place, and thus complete the work of all three? Then what Dostoyevsky wrote—’Beauty will save the world’—is not a slip of the tongue but a prophecy.”

Having examined Calvin’s view on faith, we now turn to Aquinas. As is commonplace with St. Thomas, he takes his starting point from St. Augustine, who defines believing as “thinking with assent” ( cum assentione cogitare). Given his 13th century context and the categories that were now operative as a result of the influx of the translated texts of Aristotle, Aquinas seeks to “update” Augustine’s description and to give it more precision. “To think” ( cogitare) in this context is qualified as an act of intellectual consideration “that is accompanied by a certain searching prior to reaching complete understanding in the certitude of seeing.” That is, “thinking” ( cogitatio) in this more narrow sense “describes the process of the mind searching before reaching its term in the full vision of a truth” (ST, 2a2ae. 2, 1). So the “thinking” associated with “believing” in relation to faith is understood as a state in which one is still searching, pondering, and questioning. In contrast, when one has arrived at “knowledge” there is a lack of puzzlement because the mind has found a place of rest. “Knowledge for Aquinas entails the possession of a firm assent, free from pondering” (Vos, p. 11). Thus, we see that for Aquinas, there is a sharp distinction between belief and knowledge. Faith is not parsed out as knowledge (as we saw in Calvin), but rather is defined as an act of belief. However, there are further distinctions and qualifications to be made. One might assume that since faith is correlated with belief and since belief involves a kind of puzzlement and unrest, then perhaps belief is more like doubt or opinion. St. Thomas addresses this issue, arguing that faith is to be distinguished from doubt and opinion because it involves a kind of certainty that the other two lack. Though believers continue to ponder and question their beliefs which is similar to what takes place when one doubts or holds a mere opinion,

“[t]he act of believing … is firmly attached to one alternative and in this respect the believer is in the same state of mind as one who has science [scientia] or understanding. Yet the believer’s knowledge is not completed by a clear vision, and in this respect he is like one having a doubt, a suspicion, or an opinion. To ponder with assent is, then, distinctive of the believer” (ST, 2a2ae. 2, 1).

Given that the believer’s knowledge is not the result of understanding (a “clear vision”), St. Thomas goes on to explain that assent is based on a voluntary choice. One way that the mind assents comes as the result of the intellect “being actuated by the object to which it assents.” This is not the way in which the believer assents because the object in view is God’s essence, which is not known to us in this life. However, there is a second way of assent “through some voluntary choice that influences the mind in favor of one alternative rather than the other” (ST, 2a2ae. 1, 4). In other words, because in this life we cannot know God’s essence and thus cannot assent as a result of insufficient understanding, we can, however, assent by an act of the will. This is the kind of assent that faith involves—faith is the act in which the will moves the intellect to assent.

In addition, Aquinas distinguishes between the material object of faith, which is “believing in God” (credere deum), the formal object of faith, “believing God” (credere deo), and “believing unto God,” which describes the relation of faith to the will. God is both that which is known (the material object of faith) and the “medium through which faith’s material object is known” (the formal object of faith) [Vos, p. 12, 13]. What Aquinas wants to stress is that one assents to the truths of faith because these have been “revealed by God, and so faith rests upon the divine truth itself as the medium of its assent (ST, 2a2ae. 1, 1). Thus, for Aquinas, as well as Calvin, “faith is grounded in God’s own self-revelation” (Vos, p. 13). Moreover, and this is crucial for (Reformed) Protestants to see, according to St. Thomas, the human intellect does not hold to God by its own power and is in need of what Thomas calls the “light of faith” or “light of grace.” As Thomas explains, (note that here we have essentially the same distinction that Calvin highlighted when he spoke of our ability to know “earthly things” verses our lack when it comes to “heavenly things”),

“[t]he human intellect has a form, namely the intelligible light itself, which is sufficient of itself for the knowledge of certain intelligible realities, those, namely, acquaintance with which it can reach by way of sensible realities. But the human intellect cannot know more profound intelligible realities unless it is perfected by a stronger light, say the light of faith or prophecy; and this is called the light of grace, inasmuch as it supplements nature” (ST, 1a2ae. 109, 1).

For Thomas, as was the case with Calvin, faith involves trust—something like the trust involved between a student and a teacher or a child and a parent. A fiduciary element is necessary because the content of faith exceeds the scope of human reason, but such trust is not without warrant given the “object” of this truth, viz., God himself. (The church as a reliable authority also plays a role here as well; however, this is not my primary focus of my present inquiry).

As Vos points out, the “uniqueness of the formal object of theology” has “implications for the way in which theology is done,” and Aquinas is quite cognizant of this. “What is peculiar to this science’s knowledge is that it is about truth which comes through revelation, not through natural reasoning” (ST, 1a. 1, 6 ad 2m; emphasis added). Clearly, this science of sacred theology is unlike any other sciences, as its principles are rooted in divine revelation—“holy teaching assumes its principles from no human science, but from divine science” (ST, 6 ad 1m). Sacred theology is to be firmly founded on God’s knowledge, which we are able (or better, enabled) to know because God has revealed these truths to us. A consequence of Aquinas’ re-formulation of what a science is in his explication of the science of sacred theology is that it is absolutely acceptable to argue from authority in this science. On this point, St. Thomas writes,

“Argument from authority is the method most appropriate to this teaching in that its premises are held through revelation; consequently it has to accept the authority of those to whom revelation was made. Nor does this derogate from its dignity, for though weakest when based on what human beings have disclosed, the argument from authority is most forcible when based on what God has disclosed” (ST, 1a. 1, 8 ad 2m).

Thomas goes on to state that though the Fathers and the philosophers are of great benefit and helpful to the progress of theology, “our faith rests on the revelation made to the Prophets and Apostles who wrote the canonical books” (ST, 1a. 1, 8 ad 2m).

Lastly, Thomas speaks of “believing unto God,” which concerns the movement of the mind by the will. In the act of faith, the intellect indeed assents but the assent is due to the influence upon the mind of the will as noted above. Here we might inquire as to what moves the will to influence the intellect to assent? Again, to the surprise of many Protestants and perhaps some Roman Catholics, Calvin and Aquinas are one as to the source of this movement, viz., God and God alone. Quoting St. Thomas,

“As to assent to matters of faith, we can look to two types of cause. One is a cause that persuades from without, e.g., a miracle witnessed or a human appeal urging belief. No such cause is enough, however; one man believes and another does not, when both have seen the same miracle, heard the same preaching. Another kind of cause must therefore be present, an inner cause, one that influences a person inwardly to assent to the things of faith. The Pelagians thought this cause to be free will alone and therefore taught that the beginning of faith is from us, i.e., that it is from our own resources that we are ready to assent to matters of faith, and that the finishing of faith is from God, i.e., that it is he who proposes the things we must believe. This is a false doctrine. The reason: since in assenting to the things of faith a person is raised above his own nature, he has this assent from a supernatural source influencing him; this source is God. The assent of faith, which is its principal act, therefore, has as its cause God, moving us inwardly through grace” (ST 2a2ae. 6, 1; emphases added).

For St. Thomas, then, apart from God’s grace, no one is able to embrace Him as Lord and Savior, as faith itself is a gift.

Bibliography

1. St. Thomas Aquinas. Summa Theologiae. Trans. Thomas Gilby et al. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1964-81.
2. Vos, Arvin. Aquinas, Calvin, and Contemporary Protestant Thought: Critique of Protestant Views on the Thought of Thomas Aquinas. Grand Rapids: Christian Univ. Press (a subsidiary of Eerdmans), 1985.

When Calvin argues against the “Schoolmen” in his Institutes does he include St. Thomas in this group or does he primarily have men like John Eck, John Cochlaeus, Andreaus Osiander, and Albert Pighius (all contemporaries of Calvin who taught at the Sorbonne) in mind? As Arvin Vos convincingly argues, the latter are the targets of Calvin’s most passionate criticisms, not those who Calvin calls the “sounder Schoolmen.” In fact, on a number of important issues, Calvin and Aquinas are in substantial agreement. For example, though on the surface it appears that Calvin and Aquinas have diametrically opposed views on faith—Calvin claiming that faith is knowledge and St. Thomas that faith is an act of belief—when one examines the two views more closely, one finds that the disagreement is not substantial but semantic. That is, because both employ the verb “to know” differently and have different meanings in mind, it appears that their views are incongruous. However, once we understand how each defines knowledge and why, we will then be able to judge as to whether their respective views on faith are really all that different.

In Institutes 3.2.7, Calvin defines faith as, “a firm and certain knowledge of God’s benevolence toward us, founded upon the truth of the freely given promise in Christ, both revealed to our minds and sealed upon our hearts through the Holy Spirit.” What we need to understand is why Calvin explains faith as a “firm and certain knowledge.” First, we note a distinction that Calvin makes in 3.2.14 between assurance and comprehension in relation to his claim that faith is knowledge. “When we call faith ‘knowledge’ we do not mean comprehension of the sort that is commonly concerned with those things which fall under human sense perception.” In other words, Calvin wants to distinguish faith as knowledge from other knowledge claims, viz. he wants to emphasize that faith lacks the kind of comprehension (which he uses synonymously with understanding) that comes with our grasp of sensible things (what he calls “earthly things” which would include the arts and sciences). A knowledge based on comprehension or understanding is found in the arts and sciences, whereas faith is not based on comprehension of this kind because “faith is so far above sense that man’s mind has to go beyond and rise above itself in order to attain it (Institutes 3.2.14). In other words, Calvin seems to be drawing a similar distinction in the order of knowing as did Aristotle and Aquinas—that which is closer to us (e.g., physics) is more readily graspable than that which is more knowable in itself yet beyond our senses and grasp (e.g., God). Faith is concerned with “heavenly things” —the “pure” knowledge of God, the mystery of the Trinity, etc.—and thus one’s mind must be raised above itself both in terms of content (object) and its mode of operation. “Indeed, this is the central point in Calvin’s explanation. In faith the mind attains but ‘does not comprehend what it feels. But while it is persuaded of what it does not grasp, by the very certainty of its persuasion it understands more than if it perceived anything human by its own capacity’ (Inst. 3.2.14). Hence [St.] Paul’s description of faith as the power to comprehend the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge (Eph. 3:18-19) and Calvin’s assertion that it is a kind of knowledge … more lofty than all understanding’” (Vos, p. 6).

At this point, we might find ourselves a bit puzzled at Calvin’s view, especially if one thinks of comprehension/understanding as the basis for certitude of knowledge. Because Calvin claims that comprehension is lacking in faith and that faith is a “firm and certain” knowledge, he no doubt has a different criterion for what counts as knowledge. As Calvin explains,
“We see that the mind, illumined by the knowledge of God, is at first wrapped up in much ignorance, which is gradually dispelled. Yet, by being ignorant of certain things, or by rather obscurely discerning what it does discern, the mind is not hindered from enjoying a clear knowledge of the divine will toward itself. For what it discerns comprises the first and principal parts in faith” (Institutes 3.2.9). Clearly, Calvin holds that one can possess knowledge with assurance (faith) apart from comprehension, yet what is the basis of this assurance if not understanding/comprehension? As the passage above indicates, the Spirit of God must illumine the human mind due to the fact that faith goes beyond human understanding. However, Calvin also adds, “it will not be enough for the mind to be illumined by the Spirit of God unless the heart is also strengthened and supported by his power” (Institutes 3.2.33). In other words, faith is not simply a matter of the mind (understanding) but involves a transforming of the heart (will) as well. “It now remains to pour into the heart itself what the mind has absorbed. For the Word of God is not received by faith if it flits about in the top of the brain, but when it takes root in the depth of the heart” (Institutes 3.2.36). As Vos explains, “when Calvin speaks of faith taking root in the depths of the heart he is indicating that the truth revealed by God must so move the will that an individual’s entire being—the understanding in addition to all the other powers—is turned toward God. The effect of this action of the will on the understanding is that one becomes assured of God’s goodwill even though one is not able to comprehend it” (Vos, p. 8).

One might criticize Calvin’s description of faith as “certain knowledge” as redundant. However, Calvin’s purpose is to underscore that faith is not mere opinion. “We add the words ‘sure and firm’ in order to express a more solid constancy of persuasion” (Institutes 3.2.15). Faith after all is a gift of God that is continually strengthened by God’s grace in conjunction with the believer’s obedience to God. Though believers do struggle with doubts in this life, given its source and content, faith is not inappropriately understood as a “firm and certain” knowledge. Lastly, when Calvin includes in his understanding of faith that it involves knowledge of “God’s benevolence toward us,” he wants us to see that faith involves much more than intellectual assent, as it speaks of our grasp (albeit imperfect) of the great love manifest toward us by the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. First, Calvin highlights that faith and the Word are inseparable—the “Word” meaning all of God’s special revelation, the most important of which is the revelation of Jesus Christ given by the Father. Second, faith involves an awareness of God’s mercy poured out for us as a result of the obedience and sacrifice of the Son. Third, “the Holy Spirit reveals the truth about Christ and convinces us of it. Word and Spirit work together so that both mind and heart are changed” (Vos, p. 9). Faith for Calvin is a Trinitarian affair.
In sum, when Calvin claims that faith is a “firm and certain knowledge,” his emphasis is on assurance not comprehension—the will (heart), not simply the intellect (mind). This is not to say that faith lacks intellectual content, rather it is to highlight that its content is not comprehended. “Believers are persuaded of what they do not grasp because the Spirit has changed their heart. […] The content of faith is rooted in the Word of God and this Word takes hold in man because of the work of the Holy Spirit” (Vos, p. 9).

[Part II will focus on Aquinas’ claim that faith is an act of belief with the purpose of showing that in substance Calvin and Aquinas are one when it comes to an explication of the crucial aspects of faith].

Bibliography

1. Calvin, John. Institutes Institutes of the Christian Religion. Bks. II and III. Trans., Ford Lewis Battles and ed. John T. McNeill. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1960.
2. Vos, Arvin. Aquinas, Calvin, and Contemporary Protestant Thought: Critique of Protestant Views on the Thought of Thomas Aquinas. Grand Rapids: Christian Univ. Press (a subsidiary of Eerdmans), 1985.

If anyone is interested, I have just uploaded a new paper on Luther to my website. You can read it by clicking, Luther: Continuities and Discontinuities with His Late Medieval Context.

I hope to post more on Gadamer in the days to come. Until then, Merry Christmas to all!

Cynthia

In stark contrast to a modern aversion to prejudice or bias as a hindrance to “objectivity,” Gadamer presents a positive view of prejudices in his view of hermeneutics. According to Gadamer, all of us come to the text with our own prejudices or “horizons” and these biases are not be understood as solely negative or as necessarily closing off understanding. Though it is the case that our prejudices or presuppositions can and do set limits on our interpretative endeavors, it is not the case that our prejudices are unalterable nor are they always active in a negative limiting way. Rather, they have a positive or productive function as well and actually promote understanding. Addressing this positive aspect of our prejudices, Gadamer writes,

“Prejudices are not necessarily unjustified and erroneous, so that they inevitably distort the truth. In fact, the historicity of our existence entails that prejudices, in the literal sense of the word [pre-judgment], constitute the initial directedness of our whole ability to experience. Prejudices are our biases of our openness to the world. They are simply the conditions whereby we experience something—whereby what we encounter says something to us. This formulation certainly does not mean that we are enclosed within a wall of prejudices and only let through the narrow portals those things that can produce a pass saying, ‘Nothing new will be said here.’” (Truth and Method, p. 9).

Until we engage a text (with an openness to being changed by that text) we are often unaware of our biases. Thus, it is through our dialogic encounter with the text that are prejudices are made evident to us—i.e., we must be open or “made open” to having our presuppositions laid bare. Two analogous examples that spring to mind that might help us to better grasp Gadamer’s idea come from my own experience. The first goes back to my music (jazz) school days when I played in various jazz groups. I had become pretty familiar with a style of jazz called “swing” and in addition to playing in one of the top large ensembles at my school, I also played in a small group on the side. One semester I met a friend who was well versed in Latin jazz and asked me if I would be interested in playing a few Latin jazz gigs. I took him up on the offer and met his group that evening for a rehearsal. To my surprise, I had an extremely difficult time “getting” the nuanced and extremely complex accents of Latin rhythms (which are very different than the accents in swing for which I had a somewhat “natural” feel). Because I assumed that Latin jazz, being a species of jazz, used the same harmonic progressions, scales, and even much of the same standard tunes, I thought that simply adjusting my rhythmic feel to Latin would be no problem. However, once I was actually playing as part of group of well-seasoned Latin jazz players, I immediately sensed the inadequacy of my assumptions and realized that there was much more involved in Latin jazz than I had previously thought. A second example is my experience of living in Moscow, Russia for three years. In preparation for my new cultural experience, I studied Russian and had attained a decent conversational level of speaking, read a few Russian novels and short stories, attempted to read a bit on the Russian Orthodox Church and so on. I thought that surely such efforts on my part would allow for a smoother transition into my new culture. To an extent these things certainly helped, however, I had no idea how my own American culture had so deeply shaped my thinking and behavior. Had I not had this experience of being an “other” in a foreign environment, I would not have been made aware of my own prejudices. My experience of living in Russia among the Russian people—interacting with Russian Orthodox believers, shopping in Russian grocery stores, learning Russian jokes, and traveling on Russian trains—transformed me by making manifest my own prejudices (of which I was unaware—things like a certain American sensitivity to time and getting things done according to a schedule and a certain way that we as Americans tend to view “customer service,” and so on) and provided a way for me to see outside of my own culturally limited perspective by living as an other with a people whose life orientation often clashed with what I had come to think was “normal.” Though these are only analogous examples and are not speaking directly of “texts” per se, I do think that they illumine important aspects of Gadamer’s broad understanding of hermeneutics and the role of prejudices as the conditions that make possible our (on-going) understanding.

Bibliography
1. Hans-Georg Gadamer. Truth and Method. Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1977.

In Kathleen Wright’s article, “On What We Have in Common: The Universality of Philosophical Hermeneutics,” she writes the following regarding Gadamer’s understanding of the universality of hermeneutics:

“the universal aspect of hermeneutics has to do with the community we join and the communion we feel in and through the fusion of horizons.”

What Wright wants to highlight is that according to Gadamer a “successful conversation” involves the interlocutors forming a community and being changed or transformed by the subject matter of the conversation. We can easily see what Wright calls the “I-we sociality” involved in a conversation between two living, breathing individuals, but how are we to understand this sociality when the conversation partner happens to be a text? “With whom or with what does the interpreter actually share an understanding? Gadamer seems to be responding to this kind of question when he states that, ‘It is more than a metaphor; it is a memory of what originally was the case to describe the task of hermeneutics as entering into a conversation with the text (Truth and Method 368). Gadamer maintains, therefore, that the shared understanding, the ‘fusion of horizons,’ that comes about through the interpretation of a text is social in the same I-we sense as the shared understanding, the ‘fusion of horizons,’ that we achieve through a conversation” (p. 237). Here I think that a musical analogy (or two) might help in shedding light on Gadamer’s claim. Consider a solo piano piece written by Beethoven (the score being analogous to a “text”) and its performance (interpretation) by a 21st century pianist. The pianist does not simply approach the score in a monologue fashion, but rather attempts to enter the lifeworld of the piece—a lifeworld that goes beyond Beethoven, as Beethoven himself stood in a tradition of musicians and his composing reflects the various influences of his musical predecessors (Haydn, Mozart, etc.). Likewise, the pianist herself represents a musical tradition—a tradition which perhaps has been shaped by French impressionism and a genealogy of Russian composers. Consequently, when the pianist performs Beethoven’s piano concerto, she, as well as, the piece itself are transformed and a ‘fusion of horizons’ takes place. In a sense, the “conversation,” has been going on for some time (several hundred years); the 21st century pianist (the “I”) is simply joining in (and participating in the “we” and vice versa).

In an excellent introductory essay to Gadamer’s work, Philosophical Hermeneutics, David Linge discusses the ways in which Gadamer’s phenomenology of the game overcomes a number of hermeneutical difficulties. For example, instead of attempting to explicate understanding from the subjective points of view of the author or interpreter, Gadamer describes understanding as analogous to what occurs in the phenomenon of playing. In a game, the individual in a sense loses him/herself in the give and take of the game and experiences a release from subjectivity. As Linge explains, “what is essential to the phenomenon of play is not so much the particular goal it involves but the dynamic back-and-forth movement in which the players are caught up—the movement that itself specifies how the goal will be reached. Thus the game has its own place or space (its Spielraum), and its movement and aims are cut off from direct involvement in the world stretching beyond it” (xxiii).

Gadamer utilizes this “self-presenting, self-renewing” game structure to engage some of the most difficult and important issues in hermeneutics, viz., “the problem of meaning and of the fidelity of interpretation to the meaning of the text” (xxiii). For Gadamer, the meaning of a text is not simply restricted to the intention of the author, nor is interpretation solely construed as an attempt to replicate the author’s original intention. This reflects in part Gadamer’s understanding of the text itself as something living and dynamic. Moreover, the text cannot be approached as if it were a math problem in which one and only one answer is correct. Nor should one attempt to come up with a method or formula that when applied produces the same result each time—such a model has more in common with scientific experiments than with a living, breathing textual dialogue. In addition, a hermeneutical theory that restricts the meaning of the text to the intention of the author is riddled with seemingly insoluble difficulties. “The basic difficulty with this theory is that it subjectifies both meaning and understanding, thus rendering unintelligible the development of tradition that transmits the text or art work to us and influences our reception of it in the present. When meaning is located exclusively in the mens auctoris, understanding becomes a transaction between the creative consciousness of the author and the purely reproductive consciousness of the interpreter. The inadequacy of this theory to deal positively with history is perhaps best seen in its inability to explain the host of competing interpretations of texts with which history is replete, and that in fact constitute the substance of tradition” (xxiv). Some try to explain away the multiplicity of interpretations by claiming that there is a kind “meaning-in-itself” which is univocal, yet its significance for interpreters over time varies. This, however, is unsatisfactory as it is clear that interpreters in different historical epochs have disagreed not merely in the significance or application of the supposed univocal meaning of a text but in what they thought they saw in the very same text (xxiv). Rather, than limiting the meaning of a text to the author’s intention, Gadamer understand the text as having an “excess of meaning” upon which tradition builds. Elucidating his position, Gadamer writes,

“Every time will have to understand a text handed down to it in its own way, for it is subject to the whole of the tradition in which it has a material interest and in which it seeks to understand itself. The real meaning of a text as it addresses the interpreter does not just depend on the occasional factors which characterize the author and his original public. For it is also always co-determined by the historical situation of the interpreter and thus by the whole of the objective course of history … The meaning of a text surpasses its author not occasionally, but always. Thus understanding is not a reproductive procedure, but rather always also a productive one… It suffices to say that one understands differently when one understands at all (Wahrheit und Methode, p. 280).

Dru has an excellent post on Karl Rahner’s symbolism as found in Rahner’s Theological Investigations. Here is an excerpt from Dru’s post:

“From his Theological Investigations, Rahner begins the theology of the symbol with the suggestion that all beings are plural. Since we are plural, we are expressive because we must reconcile with our plurality. This is the ontological building block that allows him to show the fundamentally symbolic nature of reality. […]

Rahner starts with a statement about the essentially expressive nature of all bodies and our inability to relate to body qua body. For us, we have to even come to know ourselves symbolically. […] The “richness of reality”, as Esther Meek would say, is the starting point for Rahner’s sacramentology. I think this is correct. I also find it disturbingly interesting that in our imago dei-ness we are plural, as the Triune God is plural (yet One, according to the shema).

So the trick is, it seems, to figure out what is symbol/sign/code versus the symbolically expressive plurality of being. For instance, the scripture does not obtain or contain the Word of God, but rather is symbolic of that transcendent reality, immanence-wroughten, if you will. I imagine Barth would not be far off from this conclusion. In the sacrament, the wine is not the blood, but plurally symbolic of the real blood of Christ, the sacramental blood of the former covenants, the atoning efficaciousness of Christ’s blood, the present reality of spiritual identification and purification, etc. transcending the symbolically plural being as the participant through the symbol.

This epistemological approach, although stated metaphysically by Rahner, helps to avoid the problem of multifarioiusness of meaning as a matter of “truth obtaining”. When couched this way, it is an experience of the fullness of our experience of reality. So that, a particular objective experience of art or sacrament can and should really mean something different to different participants. Although the objects that transcend that present experience have a real, though plurally symbolic existence apart from the experience of the thing.”

To read the entire post, click here.

Below is an excerpt from the recent paper that I presented at Baylor. I would be interested in your feedback (positive and negative)—specifically, I would love to hear ideas as to how what I suggest might be brought into conversation with the hermeneutical insights of Gadamer [whom I have just begun to read this week and am thoroughly enjoying] (or others who have done work in philosophical hermeneutics). Any suggestions regarding primary literature on Gadamer other than Truth and Method and Philosophical Hermeneutics, as well as secondary literature on Gadamer would be appreciated as well.

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I offer the following analogy as a way to explore the possibilities that jazz might offer as to how we as Christians read the “text” of creation, as well as the text of Scripture. The analogy runs as follows. First, God’s revelation, both natural and supernatural, might be understood to play a similar role to what jazz musicians call “lead sheets.” Second, our various and multi-layered understandings of this revelation would then be similar to the different ways that jazz works can be performed and interpreted. Before proceeding further, let me explain what a jazz “lead sheet” is by way of comparison to a classical score. A jazz lead sheet is similar to a notated score for a classical piece; however, only the melody is written out in standard musical notation. In other words, in contrast to the classical score in which the bass line, the chords, and more or less every note that will be played is written out in full notation, a lead sheet allows for much more flexibility. For example, above the melody one simply finds chord symbols, as opposed to chords displayed in standard notation with specific voicings. Writing the chord symbols in this manner affords the pianist or guitarist, as well as the bassist, a significant amount of creative freedom in performing the piece. However, we should be clear that this freedom does not swallow up the form or structure, as one must choose harmonies and bass lines that fall within a certain trajectory of the specified chord symbol that will support the melody and mark out the general harmonic structure of the piece. Thus, with a jazz lead sheet, one is in a sense “tied to” the “score,” i.e., one must agree to submit to the “givens” that make the piece to be what it is and respond accordingly.[1] Yet, in other sense, one’s own personality, skill level, and creative sensibilities also come through making each performance something unique. One might even say that the flexibility that lead sheets afford, coupled with the distinctly human traits and personal idiosyncrasies that manifest in improvisation, in a sense engenders greater intelligibility and appeal to the piece itself. That is, the built-in flexibility of lead sheets aids in preserving the piece through the passage of time while simultaneously allowing and even expecting various re-articulations because it “has room for” the creative expansions that inevitably come with temporal progression.

Keeping with Christianity’s desire to uphold the traditional doctrines of God’s incomprehensibility and yet knowability in light of his condescending to reveal himself to us, perhaps our understanding of the created order given the ultimate “Signified” to which both the created order and Scripture point, indicates that our approach to understanding and interpreting these signs should not be a quest to attain the closest “copy” of the original archetype as God knows and understands it. After all, how could we as creatures know creation or Scripture as God knows them? Instead of trodding down the path of univocity, a more fruitful way to conceive our role as interpreters may be to think of ourselves more like jazz improvisers. That is, as those who are called to creatively re-interpret God’s various “lead sheets,” which themselves were never meant to produce a one-to-one, univocal meaning for us but rather a multi-layered analogico-symbolic meaning that reflects the inexhaustible nature of the Author.

Anticipating possible objections, viz., does this not lead to relativism and render the text more or less superfluous? On the contrary, just as in no way is it the case that when a jazz piece is performed and interpreted by various musicians from different time periods, a kind of free-for-all takes place in which the “original” melody is somehow destroyed, neither would it be the case that our interpretations have no strictures whatsoever and no relation to God’s archetypal ideas. Though it is the case, that each jazz performance is distinctive,[2] there is a common, yet dynamic range that “grounds” each performance such that the melody is recognizable when played in a wide range of styles (from traditional to more “out” styles). If one simply ignored the melody and harmonic structure or distorted either such that they become completely unrecognizable, then clearly one has “gone astray.” Certainly, I am not suggesting that, but I am wondering whether the analogy might help us to conceive anew a more dynamic and historically “friendly” approach to interpreting and understanding creation, as well Scripture.

Regarding the latter, a reading of the New Testament’s use of the Old Testament indicates that both Jesus and the Apostle Paul were quite comfortable citing Greek translations of the Old Testament and in no way felt compelled to quote a pristine original. Here we might interject that perhaps the drive to get back to a “pure” and “untainted” text is connected with deeply modernist expectations and assumptions regarding history, the belief that diversity of text types are somehow inherently bad, and that moving closer to the original will necessarily bring greater clarity.[3] Rather than discuss each of these in detail, for brevity’s sake, I simply point out that with translations, of course, we do not have one-to-one exact replicas of the original; however, this does not mean that God’s word fails to be communicated. After all, translations such as the Septuagint(s) and others harmonize well with the mission of the Church to make disciples of all nations. Just as Christ came and incarnated Himself to save His people, so too the written word of God is incarnated via translations so as to be intelligible to numerous peoples of diverse languages and cultures. Becoming incarnate of course involves complications, inconveniences, ambiguities and various other distinctively human challenges, yet our Lord so valued humanity that He willingly took on flesh and not simply for His time on earth, but for eternity. In light of our Lord’s, as well as St. Paul’s contentment with what we might provocatively call “imperfect” yet incarnational translations, perhaps such examples teach us something of God’s comfort with the “messiness” of an historical revelation as well as pressing us to continually question and submit our expectations and presuppositions as to the nature of Scripture to Scripture itself.

In other words, what I suggest is that in jazz improvisation instead of seeking to replicate a piece in a univocal fashion, producing in a sense a “zerox” copy of the original within strict (literal) confines of the (human) author’s intention, we should instead become like jazz improvisers who creatively re-interpret the original melody such that it is clearly recognizable, yet it speaks to the culture of the day. Moreover, allowing for multi-layered, symbolic, re-creative interpretations that arise out of the Christian metanarrative of creation, fall, redemption in Christ, and final consummation in Christ, is yet another expression of a harmonious unity-and-diversity bringing forth a dynamically rich display of the infinitely diverse ways in which God can be imitated, participated and hence worshipped.

Notes
[1] The communal aspect of jazz performance is an important factor here as well. For example, if the pianist simply decides to play chords that have no relation whatsoever to the chord symbols, the rest of the group or ensemble will be affected (not to mention thoroughly frustrated) as their parts will not correlate at all with the random harmonic superimposition on the part of the pianist.
[2] One might argue that even with classical music where all the parts are strictly defined and written out, the same piece played by the same group or musician is strictly speaking never played the same way twice.
[3] On the contrary, what if moving closer to the original actually moves one more deeply into the realm of mystery and thus requires in a sense more “graced” faith (at least in this life)?

Since I recently finished my last exam and need a few days to “unwind” before attempting any “serious” posts, I thought that I would inquire as to some of your favorite films/movies. I am always seeking thought provoking films and am continually disappointed by most of what I am able to find at local video rentals. Any suggestions that you might send my way would be greatly appreciated. I am a big fan of foreign films (with English subtitles)–some of my favorites include: The Return (Andrey Zvyagintsev), Andrei Rublev, and Les Choristes. The film suggestions do not have to be foreign–anything with a good story, character development, and philosophical or theological themes would be ideal.

With this [see Part II] background in place, we are now ready to examine what Marion means by the “white theology” of Descartes. A good place to begin is with a brief glance at the work’s table of contents, whose basic twofold structure offers a helpful way in to the question. Book One of Théologie blanche focuses on the loss of analogy, whereas Book Two is centered on the need to establish a foundation. The two books of the work are structured as correlatives; that is, once analogy has been lost, the need to establish a foundation arises. What causes the loss of analogy? To answer this question, Marion examines with great care a peculiar Cartesian doctrine that the majority of an earlier generation of scholars had always considered marginal or anomalous. For Marion, however, it is the fundamental teaching of Descartes, for apart from it none of his other teachings can be properly understood. In 1630 Descartes wrote a series of letters to Mersenne in which he puts forth this doctrine, namely, the doctrine of the created “eternal truths.” The doctrine holds that the eternal truths in the mind of God that render the world intelligible are in fact created—the truths are eternal and created, which sounds like a contradiction. Even if it is not an outright contradiction, it is certainly a departure from the traditional teaching that goes all the way back to Augustine. To claim that the eternal truths are created is undeniably an innovation, so the question becomes, Why does Descartes innovate in this way? The teaching is a departure from the prior tradition because according to the traditional understanding, especially in its classic Thomistic formulation, the divine ideas of possible creaturely essences in the mind of God are identical with God’s very essence, differing from it only in reason. Similarly, the truths of which the essences form components are “within” the mind of God only insofar as they are indistinguishable from the mind of God itself. Descartes wants to say that the eternal truths concerning creatures are just as much creatures as the creatures themselves. In Descartes’ novel teaching, the truths are therefore as radically different from God as the creature is from the Creator.

Why does Marion regard this peculiar doctrine as “the” central teaching of Descartes over all others? After all, Descartes only mentions this doctrine explicitly in a handful of letters. In his 1630 letter to Mersenne, Descartes begins a certain passage in French but then in mid‑sentence switches into Latin. So why the switch? Latin is the language of scholastic philosophy, and perhaps Descartes wanted to be precise, or it could be that he is quoting someone—but whom, as he doesn’t name the person? Marion suggests that Descartes is in fact quoting someone, and he adds that Descartes likely assumed that Mersenne would recognize the quotation, so it was unnecessary to identify its source. So who is the quoted author in question? None other than the Doctor Eximius of the Jesuit order, Francisco Suárez. Marion contends that Descartes is quoting Suárez every time the 1630 letter shifts into Latin, and that he does so precisely in order to contradict Suárez. For example, Descartes declares in Latin that the truth of the eternal truths is completely dependent on God’s knowledge of them, not the reverse—but the reverse is just what Suárez holds. Descartes says that the eternal truths are dependent on God’s knowledge of them for their truth, whereas Suárez holds that the truths are true regardless of whether God knows them or not. Descartes denounces this assertion as blasphemous, since it maintains that the eternal truths are independent of God and that he is therefore subject to them. By announcing that the eternal truths are created, Descartes re‑asserts God’s transcendence by refusing to admit the existence of any autonomous principles to which God must submit.

By Derek Morrow

[Part I can be accessed here].

So why does Marion place Descartes’ “white” theology in the middle of the trilogy? To answer this question, we first need to take a step back and look at what is meant by the “gray” ontology of the first book. In that book, Marion examines The Rules for the Direction of the Mind, an early work of Descartes that was never published during his lifetime, not least because he left it unfinished in 1628. Given these peculiarities, even today the significance of the work and the relation it bears to the published corpus remains a hotly contested question among scholars. Marion argues that the Rules should be read as though Descartes were conducting a silent and unacknowledged polemic against a philosopher whose authority is still too great to risk confronting directly. On this assumption, Descartes has a distinct audience in mind as he draws up his Rules, but he never identifies this audience by name. For if he were to name the adversary, Descartes would then be required to mount an explicit refutation of the adversary’s thought, which is something he is not interested in doing for various reasons. Who is this unnamed adversary? None other than Aristotle, the hidden interlocutor of the Rules.

At first glance, this thesis may seem a bit too imaginative or far‑fetched. After all, isn’t the entire claim of a hidden interlocutor built on an argument from silence? What warrant does Marion give for this interpretation? First, by a very close textual analysis, he demonstrates that the characteristic teachings of the Rules, many of which turn up later in the published writings, take on a greater intelligibility on the assumption that they are intended to replace various corresponding teachings in Aristotle. Marion’s demonstration consists, then, in lining up the Rules of Descartes, one rule at a time, against its opposite number in the Aristotelian corpus, and then showing that Descartes contradicts Aristotle by using his own words with a meaning that Aristotle would not recognize. Through the course of this exacting comparison, which Marion carries out in extensive and convincing detail, it becomes apparent that whenever Descartes advances a characteristically “Cartesian” claim, he has Aristotle in mind—without ever naming him as such. Marion thus shows that in the Rules Descartes is conducting a dialogue with Aristotle in which he contradicts him without ever acknowledging that he is doing so. The contradiction, as such, remains forever unstated.

So Descartes’ ontology is “gray” because in the doctrine of the Rules he uses traditional Aristotelian vocabulary (thus giving the impression that he is not contradicting Aristotle), but he invests it with a meaning not found in Aristotle (which enables Descartes to contradict Aristotle without acknowledging that he is doing so). Marion calls this process of linguistic reinvestment a process of “metaphorization”—and he intends this term to be taken in its literal etymological sense, as a “carrying over” (Gr. meta-pherein) from one linguistic domain to another. Aristotle’s words haven’t changed but their meanings have, and this tacit substitution enables Descartes to avoid constructing an argument that would refute Aristotle directly, even while he borrows from Aristotle what he needs for his own purposes. In the Rules, Descartes sets about constructing a new ontology that will replace Aristotelian substance ontology, but only by a kind of bait and switch. That is, Descartes never actually demonstrates that Aristotle’s view of substance is false; instead, he brackets the issue and then illicitly and unjustifiably takes what he needs from Aristotle’s ontology in order to construct its replacement. The new Cartesian ontology is therefore “gray” because it is neither black nor white, neither Aristotelian nor unabashedly anti‑Aristotelian, but somewhere in‑between. Its lack of specificity, its parasitic relation to Aristotle, and its rhetorical avoidance of any direct confrontation with him all conspire to make the gray ontology of the Rules an implicit ontology, implicit because it promotes an anti‑Aristotelian epistemology that paradoxically lacks the fully developed ontology it needs at its core to sustain it. As its title proclaims, in this work Descartes presents “rules” that direct the mind in the search for truth; these rules draw on Aristotelian ontology and epistemology, but only to contradict them tacitly or to make use of them in ways that are incompatible with their principles. Thus while not denying the existence of substance, for example, Descartes pirates that structure and abstracts as many of the features of substance as he needs for his gray ontology. Accordingly, in the Rules Descartes transforms traditional Aristotelian ontology into an epistemology without being, into an intentionally ambiguous but new ontology—a “gray ontology” in that it is not fully Aristotle nor does it refute Aristotle.

The following is a three-part series on Jean-Luc Marion based on a recent lecture presented at the University of Dallas by Derek Morrow. Though I have been at UD for two years, this was my first semester to met Derek, and it has been my great pleasure to get to know him and become friends. Derek is currently a doctoral candidate in philosophy at the University of Dallas and expects to receive his PhD in May, 2007. He recently contributed a chapter to a volume on Marion’s work in phenomenology (Givenness and God: Questions of Jean-Luc Marion, Fordham University Press, 2005). He has also published a number of peer reviewed articles in the Heythrop Journal and the International Philosophical Quarterly.

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Jean-Luc Marion is arguably one of the most important figures in continental philosophy and theology today. In the world of contemporary academic research and publication, it is rare indeed that a scholar should manage to establish himself as a leading authority in his field; only a select few ever manage to do so, and then only after a lifetime of careful research. Amazingly, Marion has done so not only once, but twice, and in two separate areas of philosophy, first in Descartes studies and then subsequently in phenomenology. In France, where he is professor of philosophy at the University of Paris, Sorbonne (Paris, IV), Marion is best known for his magisterial trilogy on Cartesian metaphysics, Sur l’ontologie grise de Descartes (1975), Sur la théologie blanche de Descartes (1981), and Sur le prisme métaphysique de Descartes (1986; Eng. trans.: On Descartes’ Metaphysical Prism, 1999). In addition to this trilogy he has also published two volumes of collected essays on Descartes, Questions cartésiennes: méthode et métaphysique (1991; Eng. trans.: Cartesian Questions: Method and Metaphysics, 1999) and Questions cartésiennes II: Sur l’ego et sur Dieu (1996). For this extraordinary contribution to Descartes studies he received the prestigious Grand Prix de Philosophie de l’Académie Française in 1992. Such an impressive body of work would already have been achievement enough, but Marion has gone on to publish a second trilogy of studies, this time in the field of phenomenology, Réduction et donation (1989; Eng. trans.: Reduction and Givenness, 1998), Étant donné (1997; Eng. trans.: Being Given, 2002), and De surcroît (2001; Eng. trans.: In Excess, 2002). His most recent book, Le phénomène érotique: Six méditations (2003), examines the phenomenology of love. This more recent research comprising his numerous groundbreaking studies in phenomenology is that for which he is most well known in the United States, where he holds a second academic appointment as the John Nuveen Professor of the Philosophy of Religion and Theology in the Divinity School at the University of Chicago, teaching there as well in the Committee on Social Thought and the Department of Philosophy. Several international conferences in the past few years have been organized and dedicated exclusively to an examination of Marion’s work in phenomenology and its relation to theology. The first of these took place in Dublin, Ireland, in January 2003; a second conference entitled “Jean-Luc Marion and the Horizon of Modern Theology” was held at the University of Notre Dame in May 2004. Finally, beyond his extensive writings in Descartes and in phenomenology, Marion has also published a number of influential studies in theology. The most notable of these is Dieu sans l’être (1982; Eng. trans.: God Without Being,, 1991), which created an uproar among Thomists and Heideggerians alike for its commendation of Christian love (agape, or charity) as the preeminent phenomenological category, superior at once to the being of traditional scholastic metaphysics and to its supposed overcoming in Heidegger’s phenomenology of Being. Marion has not shied away from controversy, for he understands himself as a Christian philosopher who does not hesitate to appropriate the insights of postmodern thought whenever he finds it useful or necessary to do so. Most recently, he has expressed a desire to resume his work in theology, but whether in doing so he will continue to use the conceptual tools he has developed in phenomenology remains to be seen.

In this three part series of posts I will offer a brief introduction to the argument of Marion’s second book on Descartes, Sur la théologie blanche de Descartes (On the “Blank/White” Theology of Descartes). First, a word of explanation about the title: Why write a book on the “white” theology of Descartes? Marion is very fond of puns and wordplay (a fondness that reveals, at least on the level of style, some of his debt to postmodern modes of discourse), often incorporating them into the titles of his books. The present instance is no exception to this general rule. In French, “blanche” literally means “white,” but it also bears the idiomatic sense of “blank,” meaning unwritten or without content, as in the expression, “I gave him a blank check.” In the book’s title, Marion is using blanche in that idiomatic sense because he wants to stress that Cartesian metaphysics operates against the background of a blank theology, a theology without content. In addition, however, Marion also wants us to hear resonances of the more literal rendering, “white theology,” simply because the argument of Théologie blanche, his second book on Descartes, complements that of the first book on Descartes, which examines Cartesian “gray” ontology. Marion’s third book in the series, On Descartes’ Metaphysical Prism, “refracts” the colors of the gray ontology and the white theology through its “metaphysical prism,” and so completes the argument as well as the metaphor elaborated by the first two books.

In a section entitled, “Towards a Theology of History,” Murray A. Rae highlights the Bible as a theological account of history “that is shaped by the conviction that all that takes place does so within the context of God’s providential care for the created order” (p. 283). That it is a theological account in no way renders it illegitimate, but rather acknowledges that, as is the case with every writing of history, it involves a selection of this set of “facts” over others and it is not a mere collection of brute facts but involves the historian’s interpretation of those “facts.” “There is no good reason to suppose that a purely secular account of history, in which divine action is dispensed with as an explanatory category, brings the historian closer to truth. Western historiography, however, in most of its variant forms, has typically been founded on just this assumption. In quest of a status and supposed legitimacy comparable to that of the natural sciences, historical inquiry in the modern era has been undertaken […] without recourse to the ‘God hypothesis.’ For all the epistemological challenges involved in discerning the work of God in history, however, the truth or falsity in principle of theological versus secular accounts of history depends not at all on such difficulties as may be involved in a theological account, much less upon the agnostic or atheistic predilections of the age, but solely on whether God has or has not acted. There is no a priori basis upon which that matter can be determined. The conviction of Israel, therefore, that its own history as a people is inaugurated by God and is shaped throughout by God’s action, is an account to be reckoned with. It cannot by dismissed in advance” (pp. 284-285).

Rae then notes two conditions that shape the Hebraic view of history: (1) God’s creation of the world ex nihilo; and (2) God’s direction of history towards its telos (p. 284). Drawing from Colin Gunton’s book, The Triune Creator, Rae three unique aspects of the Christian doctrine of creation. First, he begins with the idea that creation is ex nihilo (out of nothing). Here he stresses that God’s act of creation was free and in no way necessary—an act of divine sovereignty and an expression of his freewill. Moreover, it speaks against the Greek idea of matter as eternal and suggests that God creates purposefully. “The principle of creatio ex nihilo implies that the world is invested with a telos. There is a reason for its being; and history, in consequence, is to be understood as the space and time opened up for the world to become what it is intended to be” (p. 285). A second implication (following Gunton) of the creatio ex nihilo teaching is that the world belongs to God. Thus, history is not a succession of ‘one damn thing after another,’ but “has an overall coherence under the creative, providential and redemptive care of God” (p. 285). Third, the doctrine is that which is believed—it is an article of faith and is neither that which reason apart from revelation shows us, or is it a self-evident truth. How this relates to our understanding of history is as follows: “the purpose of history is not given up to [mere] rational inquiry without recourse to revelation; nor is that purpose reducible to a set of laws so that everything must fall into analogous conformity with what has gone before. It is neither within the limits of reason alone, therefore, nor within the limits of historical inquiry alone, that the purpose of history is disclosed. This has decisive implications for all our efforts to investigate the historical reality of Jesus Christ. The reality of his person cannot be treated as merely an object for human interpretation, a brute fact which it is our task not to interpret. The study of Christ cannot begin, as Kierkegaard nicely puts it, by letting him be dead. The fact of Christ is rather an event […] which in its pneumatological extension through time, itself gives to a community of interpretation, a body of faith and witness constituted by the headship of the risen Christ. […] It is through the action of God himself in the community of faith that the true reality of Christ comes to light” (p. 285). Lastly, the doctrine of creation is a Trinitarian affair. Because God did not have to create—lacking nothing and existing in a perfect love relationship with the Son and the Spirit—we understand creation as a gift and outflow of God’s love. God freely gives the (contingent) world it being and graces it with value “in its own right,” just as he gives human action a dignity and worth of its own as well. Consequently, God invites human beings to participate as (to use Tolkien’s phrase) “sub-creators” in the drama of history. “God entrusts to the precarious stewardship of human beings a measure of responsibility for the way that history takes shape. […] History and human responsibility go hand in hand. […] God enlists human participation in the working out of his purpose” (p. 286, 287). In other words, we are an exceedingly important “part” of the story—a story that is still being written.

Murray A. Rae. “Creation and Promise: Towards a Theology of History,” as found in ‘Behind’ the Text: History and Biblical Interpretation. Eds Craig Bartholomew, C. Stephen Evans, Mary Healy, Murray Rae. (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2003), pp. 267-299.