By Cynthia R. Nielsen
As Balthasar observes, both the Old and the New Covenant manifest a “prophetic language,” that is, “the language of decision.” The formal unity shared between the two testaments is found in the articulation of a covenant between God and human beings. In light of the fact that this covenant involves both blessings and cursings, coupled with the fact that humans can abuse God’s love, we also find language in both testaments expressing the possibility of (ultimate) rejection for those who will not accept God’s love. Though the Old Testament is often characterized as presenting us with a God of wrath in contrast to the New Testament’s God of love, Balthasar seems to reject such a sharp dichotomy, as he describes beautifully the wrath of God that Jesus willingly experienced on our behalf—wrath that is intimately tied up with God’s unfathomable love.
“[T]he opening of the flaming abyss of God’s wrath depends on the opening of the fiery abyss of divine love, which poured itself out in the Heart that hung broken on the Cross and in the descent into the shadows on Holy Saturday. The supreme threat—coming from God the Father, who as it were gives sinners his supreme love, God the Son—swathes the broken heart like a sheltering cloak; it is a threat not to abuse this supreme gift, because, behind it, there is no greater love to call upon and to turn to (Heb 6:4-8; 10:26-31). And once again, the Spirit of Love cannot teach the Cross to the world in any other way than by disclosing the full depths of the guilt that the world bears, a guilt that comes to light on the Cross and is the only thing that makes the Cross intelligible. Indeed, it is in the God-forsakenness of the Crucified One that we come to see what we have been redeemed and saved from: the definitive loss of God, a loss we could never have spared ourselves through any of our own efforts outside of grace.
But the insight we gain through the Cross can never bring us beyond the Cross: the moment we see our sins objectified before us on the Cross, it becomes all the more impossible to leave the One who died for us to his fate; so loveless a thought reveals our whole evil heart to us, love awakens fear in us, and the terrifying reality of being left behind by God (which is timeless as far as the one abandoned is concerned) shows us vividly that hell is no pedagogical threat, it is no mere ‘possibility’. Instead, it is the reality that the God-forsaken one experienced in an eminent way because no one can even approximately experience the abandonment by God as horribly as the Son, who shares the same essence with the Father for all eternity” (Love Alone is Credible, pp. 93-94).
***
A quick note to my readers: As of Saturday (June 2) I will be out of pocket for about a week with little or no internet access. Since I moderate my comments, any comments posted after Friday will not appear until I return and am able to read and then post the comments.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
God’s love, though never changing, is yet active and dynamic as perceived and received by us. One of the many aspects to which I am drawn in Balthasar’s work is his appeal to concrete experiences of human relationships in order to help us see the mysterious and yet very real connection between loving God and loving others. For example, I find Balthasar’s analogy of a mother’s smile awakening love in her child to be extremely helpful in expanding my own apprehension of God’s active, transforming love toward and in me. Along the same lines and hopefully to the same end, I would like to share a Balthasarian analogy from my own life. On February of last year, my husband and I were given the greatest gift of our marriage—our daughter, Ashley, who literally came to us as gift from God. I am not Ashley’s biological mother, but Lord willing, in a few months I will officially be her mother. Ashley’s biological mother suffers from a mental illness such that she was and is unable to properly care for Ashley. As a result, Ashley was removed from her former home when she was 9 months old, and we were given the wonderful opportunity to adopt Ashley. In light of the fact that the process is not yet complete, I cannot go into the details, but suffice it to say, it has been a long, winding, and at times frustrating road with regard to the legal proceedings due to the fact that this is a state adoption. We have been in and out of court hearings for well over a year now with very little progress. After a number of frustrating events in the legal proceedings, we were strongly advised to hire a lawyer. Our lawyer has been a huge help, but things continue to move very slowly, and we are still waiting for the biological father to be served with papers that would terminate his parental rights, as maternal rights have already been terminated. Hopefully, by the end of the summer, the needed papers will be served and Ashley will finally legally be our daughter—though she is most definitely our daughter in our hearts now. [We invite you to pray with us to this end].
With this background in place, let me return to my Balthasarian inspired analogy. In his writings, Balthasar observes repeatedly that Jesus’ great commandment to love God and neighbor reveals the intricate and mysterious bond that we have with God and one another. The reciprocity of this bond has been made more real to me through my relationship with Ashley, whom God has used to open my heart to experience God’s love in new ways. For example, one of the things that Ashley and I do in the evenings is to sit in a rocking chair together and sing three or four songs before I put her to bed. When I first started doing this with her, she let me hold her, but it was understandably a kind of distant holding. Eventually, she began to bury her head in my neck and would allow me to hold her close when we sang. Then after several months had passed, one night as I was singing a song to her, she spontaneously starting humming parts of the melody with me and it absolutely melted me—she would stammer and sing in and out of tune, but her singing was a heartfelt response to my gestures of love toward her. It was beautiful and surreal moment, and I began to cry. Instead of singing the melody properly, I began to sing what she was singing—the out of tune syllables. As you can imagine, we sang together for an extra long time that evening. This experience made the idea of God condescending, and as Calvin says “lisping” to us, real to me in a way that it had never been before. Not only does God condescend and reveal himself to us in ways that we can understand and receive, he delights in our out of tune mumblings and, holding us close in Christ, joyfully mumbles with us.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
“It is always the dogma of the removal of guilt through representative substitution that shows most decisively whether an approach is merely anthropologically or truly christologically (that is, theologically) centered. Without this dogma, it always remains possible to interpret everything in rational terms as an expression of human possibility, no matter how much historical mediation one wishes to build in. Our inability to resolve this dogma into gnosis is the true scandal; it is a signal and a warning that this is where genuine faith begins. For it is precisely here, in this deed, that genuine divine love begins and ends, a love that overwhelms us and exceeds all capacity to think it—and thereby becomes completely evident as love. Ultimately, there can be absolute faith only in this deed, because only such a deed, if it should happen, is absolute love, love as the absolute, as the ungraspable epitome of the wholly-other God: ‘We believe the love God has for us’ (1 Jn 4:16).
If I am not mistaken, I think that Balthasar has Kant in mind in the first part of this passage. In Kant’s “anthropological approach,” he found the idea of sinning through another irrational. Consequently, he was also unable to accept the idea of being saved through another and posited the more “rational” notion of Jesus as the great exemplar. Balthasar continues his thought, adding,
“If this is true, then ‘the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me (Gal. 2:20). Faith in this case, means the fundamental response to the love that has offered itself up for me. A response that always comes too late because the deed God carried out in Christ, the bearing away of my sins, has already taken place, before my response was possible, before a response could even be considered. Occurring thus in pure gratuity, the deed demonstrates pure and absolute love: ‘God shows his love for us in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us…While we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son’ (Rom 5:8). How can an enemy be reconciled while he is still an enemy? Apparently, with God, such a thing is possible; and from this the unheard-of idea, St. Paul infers that, after our justification through Christ’s death, which has made us his reconciled friends, we will all the more certainly have peace with God through his life (Rom 9-10).”
Once an enemy of God, now friends who have been brought into the inner circle of Trinitarian love because of the self-giving love of Christ shown forth in his death and resurrection life. If we really believe this, then Balthasar’s claim that nothing surpasses love is no exaggeration. Faith will pass into sight, and hope will be satisfied, but love, the greatest of them all, remains, continually overwhelms us, and draws us ever nearer to the heart of God.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
Concluding Thoughts
As I mentioned in an earlier post, one weakness of Oberman’s essay is that he is not in dialogue with the most current Roman Catholic documents on the relation of Scripture and tradition, viz., Dei Verbum. I recently read this document and have quoted below a few relevant (and lengthy) passages for reflection. The document is very eloquent and in many respects I see a tremendous amount of continuity between the Reformed Protestant and Roman Catholic views on Scripture and tradition, particularly from a T1 perspective. This is not of course to say that there would be full agreement, but it is to acknowledge how much the two traditions share in common. Since this is my first time to read the document, I do not feel qualified to give extensive commentary on the passages below. I have ordered a commentary on Vatican II documents with notes from Roman Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox scholars. In addition, I have ordered a book by Yves Congar, The Meaning of Tradition (I am aware of Congar’s larger work on the subject, but I doubt that I will have time this summer to read through that massive work).
The first passage of Dei Verbum that I would like to highlight states that in sacred scripture “the marvelous ‘condescension’ of eternal wisdom is plain to be seen, ‘that we may come to know the ineffable loving-kindness of God and see for ourselves the thought and care he has given to accommodating his language to our nature’ [St. John Chrysostom, In Gen 3, 8 (homily 17, 1)]. Indeed the words of God, expressed in human language, are in every way like human speech, just as the Word of the eternal Father, when he took on himself the weak flesh of human beings became like them” (section 13, chapter III, DV). I find this passage quite beautiful—particularly the Christological analogy—and see no areas of disagreement here. Although the next passage on the magisterium would be problematic for a Protestant (perhaps not so much if the infallibility aspect were not attached), it is interesting to note the way in which the magisterium is described, viz., as the servant of the word of God. “The task of giving an authentic interpretation of the word of God, whether in its written form or in the form of tradition, has been entrusted to the living teaching office of the church alone. Its authority in this matter is exercised in the name of Jesus Christ. This magisterium is not superior to the word of God, but is rather its servant. It teaches only what has been handed on to it. At the divine command and with the help of the holy Spirit, it listens to this devoutly, guards it reverently and expounds it faithfully. All that it proposes for belief as being divinely revealed it draws from this sole deposit of faith” (section 10, chapter II, DV; emphasis added).
Speaking in Oberman’s categories, this seems to harmonize with a T1 view; however, given that this is my first read of the document and in light of the fact that I do not wish to make hard and fast conclusions about this document apart from being in dialogue with Catholic authors and texts, I look forward to reading the commentary that I mentioned earlier so as to better understand how a well-trained Roman Catholic theologian would explicate this passage. A few sections prior to the passage above, the document reads,
“God graciously arranged that what he had once revealed for the salvation of all peoples should last for ever in its entirety and be transmitted to all generations. Therefore, Christ the Lord, in whom the entire revelation of the most high God is summed up (see 1 Cor 1:20; 3:16-4:6), having fulfilled in his own person and promulgated with his own lips the Gospel promised beforehand by the prophets, commanded the apostles to preach it to everyone as the source of all saving truth and moral law, communicating God’s gifts to them. This was faithfully done: it was done by the apostles who handed on, by oral preaching, by their example, by their dispositions, what they themselves had received—whether from the lips of Christ, from his way of life and his works, or by coming to know it through the prompting of the holy Spirit ; it was done by those apostles and others associated with them who, under the inspiration of the same holy Spirit, committed the message of salvation to writing. In order that the full and living Gospel might always be preserved in the church the apostles left bishops as their successors. They gave them ‘their own position of teaching authority’ [St. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. III, 3, 1]. This sacred tradition, then, and the sacred scripture of both Testaments, are like a mirror, in which the church, during its pilgrim journey here on earth, contemplates God, from whom it receives everything, until such time as it is brought to see him face to face as he really is (see Jn 3:2). Thus, the apostolic preaching, which is expressed in a special way in the inspired books, was to be preserved in a continuous line of succession until the end of time. Hence the apostles, in handing on what they themselves had received, warn the faithful to maintain the traditions which they had learned either by word of mouth or by letter (see 2 Th 2:15), and to fight for the faith that had been handed on to them once and for all (see Jude 3). What was handed on by the apostles comprises everything that serves to make the people of God live their lives in holiness and increase their faith. In this way the church, in its doctrine, life and worship, perpetuates and transmits to every generation all that it itself is, all that it believes. The tradition that comes from the apostles makes progress in the church, with the help of the holy Spirit. There is a growth in insight into the realities and words that are being passed on. This comes about through the contemplation and study of believers who ponder these things in their hearts (see Lk 2:19 and 51). It comes from the intimate sense of spiritual realities which they experience. And it comes from the preaching of those who, on succeeding to the office of bishop, have received the sure charism of truth. Thus, as the centuries go by, the church is always advancing toward the plenitude of divine truth, until eventually the words of God are fulfilled in it. The saying of the church Fathers are a witness to the life-giving presence of this tradition, showing how its riches are poured out in the practice and life of the believing and praying church. By means of the same tradition, the full canon of the sacred books is known to the church and the holy scriptures themselves are more thoroughly understood and constantly made effective in the church. Thus God, who spoke in the past, continues to converse with the spouse of his beloved Son. And the holy Spirit, through whom the living voice of the Gospel rings out in the church—and through the world—leads believers to the full truth and makes the word of Christ dwell in them in all its richness (see Col 3:16) [sections 7-8, chapter II, DV, emphases added].”
Here it seems to me that this passage could also be read as compatible with a T1 position. For Protestants, it is the possibility of a T2 reading that is problematic; yet, it is my understanding that some Catholics—those employing a Cardinal Newman type argument—would argue that even if one read the passage above as supporting a T2 view, both T1 and T2 are acceptable positions for a Catholic to hold. One could then claim that in light of the fact that Trent went with the more flexible “et” over the more restrictive “partim-partim,” it left room for T1 to re-emerge at a later date. Catholics supporting this line of argumentation might then claim that T3 is in fact not a re-writing of history, but is rather a making explicit what was already implicit and allowing for the development of dogma in light of changing historical circumstances. Personally, (yet with no disrespect meant to my Catholic brothers and sisters) I am not convinced that this approach does not involve a very sophisticated re-writing of dogma, while at the same time I welcome the charitable tone of the Vatican II documents and am particularly encouraged by what I have read in Unitatis Redintegratio—a work that I would recommend to all of my Protestant friends. Moreover, I do believe that there is progress in dogma via the work of the Holy Spirit through the Church in dialogue with tradition and birthed from prayerful meditation of Holy Scripture. In fact, this series has brought to mind an analogy that I would like to work out in more detail at a later date. The analogy runs something like this: the task of the Church since the closing of the canon might be understood as the task of a writing the final movement to a symphony. The first three movements of the symphony have already been written (Holy Scripture); thus, the main melody, the important themes, and the overall structure have been given. The final movement then must show continuity with what has gone before—e.g., the main melody must reappear and be clearly recognizable; however, it may appear in a completely different key than it appeared in the opening movement, or it may be harmonized differently (thus reflecting new historical circumstances etc.). The Church as a whole is involved in this corporate act of composing. Unlike the apostles, who we might say, possessed the gift of perfect pitch, those who hold teaching offices in the Church have been gifted with an extremely high degree of relative pitch (and thus remain fallible). Yet, by the grace of God and the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, no one who is a member of Christ’s body is completely tone deaf. Consequently, all who are in union with Christ are able not only to identify the main melody (Christ himself) but are also able to sing it, and hence to participate in and contribute to the actual music itself!
My hope is that this series has been helpful both to Protestants and to Roman Catholics and to any others who have interest in these sorts of topics and wish to better understand the Protestant (both Lutheran and Reformed) teaching on the relation between scripture and tradition. In the spirit of Unitatis Redintegratio, which encourages dialogue between Protestants and Catholics in which each representative “explains the teaching of their communion in greater depth and brings out clearly its distinctive features. Through such dialogue everyone gains a truer knowledge and more just appreciation of the teaching and religious life of both communions (chapter 1, section 4, UR). I have tried to represent to the best of my ability and in the most charitable way (yet of course from a critical perspective) the Catholic position. This is not an area of expertise for me, so I have much to learn not only about my own tradition but also about the Roman Catholic position. Lastly, I would greatly appreciate any recommendations from both Protestant and Catholics as to current scholarly literature on the relation of Scripture and tradition.
With the hope of being more and more conformed to the image of Christ (and even in spite of myself),
Cynthia R. Nielsen
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In the fourth section of his essay, Oberman concludes his historical survey with a discussion of the developments in Roman Catholic theology on the relation of Scripture and tradition from Trent to the present [1]. According to Oberman, the T2 view as espoused by Trent has been preserved through the “authority of the Roman catechism and the wide influence of Peter Canisius and Robert Bellarmin” (p. 289). In addition, through the Tübingen School the idea of “living tradition” has come to the fore and can been seen in Johann Adam Möhler’s work, Symbolik (1832), where he describes “tradition as the Gospel living in the Church, not simply as a conservation of the original deposit of faith, but as a development of it. Holy Scripture is for Möhler the matter, the Church, the life-giving form” (p. 289). Oberman also mentions that Vatican I cites formulations given at Trent, which as we have seen supports a T2 view. Oberman then lists a number of dogmas that were declared in the 19th and 20th centuries that have led to a “reconsideration of the relation of the Magisterium as active tradition to the so-called sources of Revelation as the objective tradition” (p. 290). Given the new papal pronouncements and the contributions from theologians such a Cardinal Newman and Jos. Scheeben, a new understanding of tradition began to develop—what Oberman labels as Tradition III (T3). This T3 concept, which was in process of being developed when Oberman wrote his essay, is supported by “those who tend to find in the teaching office of the Church the one and only source for revelation. Scripture and tradition are then not much more than historical monuments of the past. In any case the papal encyclical of Humani Generis of 12th August 1950 can still be understood in terms of Tradition II. According to this authoritative document, the teaching office of the Church is the regula proxima or immediate rule for faith” (p. 290).
This brings us to the final section of Oberman’s essay. Having completed his historical survey, Oberman turns to discuss three systematic observations from what he has said up to this point: “(1) The significance of Tradition I for the Protestant understanding of canon and canonicity; (2) The basic contrast between Protestant and Roman Catholic scholarship; (3) The implications of the development from Tradition II to Tradition III in Roman Catholic theology” (p. 290). Regarding (1), Oberman emphasizes that the sola scriptura principle speaks of the sufficiency of Scripture and expresses both a “doctrinal quantitative perfection” and a “spiritual qualitative perfection.” These quantitative/qualitative distinctions correspond to the Church’s twofold response in terms of fides quae and fides qua —a correspondence which T1 strongly affirms. In addition, the Reformers were more cognizant than their T1 precursors that drawing the material/formal distinction in relation to the sufficiency of Scripture “may carry the dangerous connotation of contrast between the dead matter of Holy Scripture and the life-giving form of the Church. But they [the Reformers] have always emphasized that the sufficiency of Holy Scripture in both its material and formal aspects can only function when Scripture is opened, that is Scripture is seen as the Book given to the Church, which is gathered and guided by the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit as the principal Doctor uses the Church to lead the faithful into all truth, that is, from implicit to explicit truth, to open the Scriptures by his internal testimony; by the drawing up of confessions; but primarily and centrally by the preaching of the kerygma, which is the very Word of God” (pp. 290-291). Though it should be clear by now, nonetheless, I shall insert it anyway—T1 operates with a closed canon, whereas T2 operates with an open canon. Moreover, T2 views the formation of the canon as having been approved or created by the Church. T1, in contrast, accents the reception of the canon by the Church. “Indeed the Church thus acknowledged the necessity of an unambiguous authority amidst the confusing claims of pseudopigraphic literature and oral traditions. Those writings which we now know as the canonical books were received as sharing in the uniqueness of God’s revelation in Jesus Christ. It is this unique character which is expressed and respected in the concept of the closed canon” (p. 291).
Regarding (2), Oberman states that in light of the contrast between T1 and T2, both Protestants and Roman Catholics must be aware of and acknowledge the differing “doctrinal bases” so that fruitful interchanges can occur. Here Oberman points to the difference between a Protestant and Roman Catholic conception of the task of theology (this is not the only task of course). “Humani generis declared in 1950 that it is the task of theology to show in what way a doctrine defined by the Church is contained in the sources of faith: Scripture and Tradition [A.A.S., 42.568]. The task of the doctor, be he biblical scholar or Christian historian, is to read the latest doctrinal decisions back into his sources” (pp. 292-293).
Next, Oberman turns to J. Scheeben, who at the end of the 19th century acknowledged that not all catholic truths are contained in Holy Scripture, and whose distinction between analytic and synthetic interpretation helps us to better understand the differences between Protestant and Roman Catholic scholarship as it relates to our present inquiry. To illustrate his point, Oberman reminds us of his argument against Geiselmann’s thesis which was done via the analytical approach. As Oberman has also brought to our attention, it is the prerogative of the Roman Catholic Church to interpret its own sources. More specifically, the magisterium is charged with interpreting its past documents in light of the fact that the teaching office is the “authoritative centre of the living tradition. By adding now to the traditional analytic method the synthetic method of interpretation, the Tridentine decree cannot constitute for the Church an obstacle for accepting officially the thesis that everything is simultaneously contained in Scripture and tradition. Once such a doctrine would be officially defined which is not, or at least, not yet, it would instantly become the task of the Roman Catholic theologian to support Geiselmann’s interpretation of the Tridentine decrees” (p. 294). This difference in interpretative procedures must be kept in mind if one hopes for a productive and intelligent dialogue between the two parties.
Lastly, Oberman addresses (3) and asks whether T3 is a movement toward T1 and hence a drawing nearer to the Protestant position. According to Oberman, it is not, but rather indicates that T2 has developed into T3. [Keep in mind that Oberman’s essay was written prior to the completion of Vatican II documents, which is a point I will address in my final post in this series]. As Oberman has explained things, T1 gave rise to T2 due to the fact that theologians and canon lawyers realized that “all the truths actually held by the Church could not be found explicitly or implicitly in Holy Scripture. Especially due to the mariological dogmas of 1854 and 1950, theologians have concluded once again, that not only Scripture, but now also Scripture and tradition taken together are materially insufficient to support by simple explication these authoritative definitions. Scripture and tradition are still held to be the sources, and the Teaching office of the Church, the norm which preserves and interprets the sources [Apostolic Constitution Munifecentissimus Deus. Nov. 1, 1950, A.A.S. 42 (1950), p. 757]. But in as much as this interpretation is synthetic, the norm takes on the function of the source. The Apostolic Constitution in which the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary is defined refers to the unique consensus, not of the Church of all ages, but of the present-day Church. Not as an argument for, but as part of this authoritative definition it is announced that this divine truth is contained in the deposit of faith” (p. 294).
In his essay, Oberman has traced the movement from T1 where the material sufficiency of Scripture is maintained, to T2 in which both Scripture and Tradition constitute two sources requiring equal respect, to T3 in which, from a Protestant perspective, the magisterium is not only too highly exalted, but it also seems to be able to re-write its own official (infallible) dogma. [In my concluding post, I will attempt to give a possible Catholic response to the charge made in my last statement, and I welcome other possible Catholic responses as well].
Notes
[1] Oberman’s essay was published in 1962, which means that it predates Vatican II. Given that Oberman did not interact with V2 documents and especially with Dei Verbum, one would want to continue this dialogue with the most current Roman Catholic pronouncements on the relation of Scripture and tradition. I will return to this point in the concluding section of this series.
[2] A.A.S., 42, p. 567, ‘Totum depositum fidei…et custodiendum et tuendum et interpretandum concrederit (Magisterio)’, as cited in Oberman, p. 294.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
Oberman begins section three by distinguishing between “Tradition I” (T1) and “Tradition II” (T2). T1 stands for what has been described as the “exegetical tradition of interpreted scripture,” whereas T2 represents the “two-sources theory which allows for an extra-biblical oral tradition” (p. 280). As we have seen, both T1 and T2 have their medieval supporters. Moreover, as was mentioned previously, the canon lawyers in the Basilean line follow the two-sources theory with both sources requiring equal respect. The doctors, in contrast, begin to develop the oral tradition in a more subtle fashion. “In theory the material sufficiency of Holy Scripture is upheld long after it has been given up in actuality. The key term of this development is the word ‘implicit’ and the history of this term is one of increasing loss in content. When then finally the two propositions—‘Holy Scripture implicitly says’ and ‘Holy Scripture silently says’—are equated, the exegetical concept of Tradition I has fully developed into what we called Tradition II” (pp. 281-282).
With this history in mind, Oberman suggests that we will better understand the Council of Trent and later Roman Catholic theology [pre-Vatican II]. In light of everything that has been said up to this point, we see the difficulty of tracing T1 to the early part of the Middle Ages because in this period T1 and T2 cannot be sharply separated. This conflation or blurring of lines between the two has to do with the fact that those adhering de facto to T2 continue to claim to support the material sufficiency of scripture. Yet, according to Oberman, after the nominalists (e.g., Ockham, Gerson, d’Ailly and Biel) pave the way for Trent’s reception of T2, the historian can begin to gain a clearer understanding of the differences on both sides of the argument—an argument which is not one of Scripture verses tradition (p. 282). For example, Wyclif, Hus, and Gansfort do not oppose Scripture to tradition, rather they argue for T1 over T2. “True to Vincent’s five restrictive requirements for an authoritative tradition, they defend along with the material sufficiency of Holy Scripture the authority of the exegetical tradition whenever there is a common and explicit witness of the Fathers, in particular of the four great doctors of the Church: Augustine, Jerome, Ambrose and Gregory” (p. 282). Nor do the adherents of T1 deny the importance of episcopal succession for the purpose of preserving the truth. “They indeed regard tradition as the execution of the custodian’s task of the Church. But in contrast to those holding to Tradition II, the emphasis falls rather on the successio doctorum than on the successio episcoporum” (pp. 282-283).
As Oberman argues, Trent represents T2, and the Reformers represent T1. Oberman again reiterates that just as was the case in the later Middle Ages, so too is it the case in the period of Reformation and Counter-Reformation that the conflict is one of a clash of between two concepts of tradition (T1 and T2). Luther of course taught what is known as the sola scriptura principle. However, one should not understand this principle as denying the coinherence of Church and Scripture, but rather as operating within the context of T1, not T2. Throughout the many theological changes that Luther underwent, he never denied the importance of and need for T1.
With regard to the historical details of Trent, Oberman states that in its fourth session, the Council of Trent endorsed T2. In other words, by sanctioning the two-source theory, the extra-scriptural apostolic tradition is to be esteemed on the same level as Holy Scripture. “This implies not only that the successio fidei coincides with the successio episcoporum, but also an elevation of the authority of the Church above the authority of the canonized apostolic kerygma. Due to the restrictive localization of the testimonium internum of the Holy Spirit in the teaching office of the Church, Holy Scripture can only have a mute authority” (p. 286).
Oberman next cites two scholars, Joseph Geiselmann and Father George Tavard who have argued that the main post-Tridentine theologians have misinterpreted Trent as promoting a two-sources theory. Geiselmann and Tavard claim that the Council implicitly accepted the sufficiency of Scripture, and that they viewed tradition as the viva vox evangelii—which would in effect reflect a T1 position. Oberman, however, disagrees with Geiselmann’s thesis (which implicates Tavard as well) for the following reasons, which I will quote in toto:
(a) “The partly-partly (partim-partim) formula of the original draft of the Tridentine decree on the respective authorities of Scripture and tradition cannot be explained away as a product of nominalistic philosophy as Geiselmann suggests. Though one has to cede to the nominalistic theologians the honour of having made the two-sources theory ripe for its official reception at Trent, the formulation ‘partly-partly’ as such is rare and has not yet been traced to a nominalist theologian. The more current translation of the Basilean passage, ‘some—and others’ (quasdam-quasdam), is used by Gabriel Biel but can be traced back to the early medieval canonists. In view of such textual history, one would be well advised not to give too much weight to the change of the initial ‘partly-partly’ to the copulative ‘and’ (et). All three formulations render satisfactory St. Basil’s own choice of words (ta men, ta de).”
(b) “This conclusion is borne out by the statement of the cardinal legate Cervini who announces on 6th April 1546 after a night spent on the revision of the original draft that the final version is ‘in substance’ the same. This would hardly seem compatible with the idea that the Council changed its mind.”
(c) “The energetic protest against the ‘partly-partly’ formulation which Geislemann cites as the cause for the alleged change proves to be limited to two representatives, Bonacci and Nacchianti, of which the first stands under suspicion of heresy on points related to Scripture and tradition and the second was once called ‘avid for novelties’.”
(d) “The Catechismus Romanus (1566) quite clearly interprets ‘and’ (et) as ‘partly-partly’ (partim-partim) when it states that the Word of God is distributed over scripture and tradition” (pp. 287-288).
The bottom line is that according to Oberman, the Council of Trent clearly teaches a two-sources theory in its admission that all doctrinal truths are not found in Scripture. Tradition is a second source that “by adding its own substance complements Holy Scripture. The gradually eroded connection between explicit and implicit truths has been snapped; the exegetical tradition has been transformed into Tradition II” (p. 288). Oberman ends this section by noting that Geiselmann’s thesis has exercised much influence on a large segment of contemporary Roman Catholic theology. Moreover, though Geiselmann desires to demonstrate the error of the two-sources theory, this does not mean that he moves us to a T1 position.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In the second section of his essay, Oberman moves into a discussion of the concept of tradition that characterized the fourth and fifth centuries. First, however, he summarizes two important points of the pre-Augustinian concept of tradition: (1) “The immediate divine origin of tradition together with the insistence on a clearly circumscribed series of historical acts of God in the rule of faith or the rule of truth;” (2) “The rejection of extra-scriptural tradition.”
Oberman begins by appealing to the work of Father George Tavard. In his book Holy Writ or Holy Church, Tavard claims that a seamless continuity of the organic relation of scripture and tradition existed between patristic and medieval theology until the 14th century. However, two new currents of thought began to threaten this understanding: (1) “one which opposes the Scriptures to the Church in admitting the possibility that only a remnant in the visible Church would be obedient to Scripture;” (2) “one which introduces the concept of post-apostolic and oral traditions and raises the Holy See to the dignity of judge of post-apostolic revelation” (p. 276). With the canon lawyers, according to Tavard we see a break with “medieval classicism. Living authority replaces both Scripture and its traditional interpretation” (Holy Writ or Holy Church, p. 39, as cited in Oberman, p. 276). Yet, Tavard also points out that the opposing group, viz., those who claimed that Scripture alone was the sole standard of truth for the Church, were also responsible for destroying the patristic-medieval unity—“from this to the doctrines of the Reformation there is only a difference of degree” (Holy Writ or Holy Church, p. 40, as cited in Oberman, p. 276).
According to Oberman, the shift away from the coinherence of Scripture and Church as maintained by the patristic-medieval vision that Tavard highlights can be traced back to the early Middle Ages—specifically to Basil the Great (c. 330-370) whose views on the subject where later propagated by Augustine. A new concept of tradition is set forth in Basil’s work, On the Holy Spirit. “We meet here for the first time the idea that the Christian owes equal respect and obedience to the written and to the unwritten ecclesiastical traditions, whether they are contained in the canonical writings or in the secret oral tradition handed down by the Apostles through succession” (p. 277). A number of canon lawyers (e.g., Ivo of Chartres and Gratian of Bologna) circulate Basil’s ideas in their writings and thus help to establish the two-sources theory for canon lawyers. For the medieval doctor of theology, however, Scripture remains the “authoritative source which stands in judgment over the interpretation of later commentators. The term ‘sacred page’ for theology is indicative for this close relationship” (p. 277). Such a view can be seen in St. Thomas Aquinas’ work. In the Summa Theologica, Thomas writes, “sacred doctrine makes use of these authorities [those of the philosophers] as extrinsic and probable arguments; but properly uses the authority of the canonical Scriptures as an incontrovertible proof, and the authority of the doctors of the Church as one that may properly be used, yet merely as probable. For our faith rests upon the revelation made to the apostles and prophets who wrote the canonical books, and not on the revelations (if any such there are) made to other doctors. Hence Augustine says (Epis. ad Hieron. xix, 1): ‘Only those books of Scripture which are called canonical have I learned to hold in such honor as to believe their authors have not erred in any way in writing them. But other authors I so read as not to deem everything in their works to be true, merely on account of their having so thought and written, whatever may have been their holiness and learning’” (ST I, q. 1, art. 8, ad 2).
Turning to Augustine, Oberman notes that although Augustine asserts the primacy of Scripture, he did not set this in opposition with the authority of the Catholic Church, “…I would not believe the Gospel, unless the authority of the Catholic Church moved me” [Contra ep. fund., 5], (p. 278). Disagreement soon ensued over the nature of the moving power (commovere of the Church. Some argued that the Church has a practical and instrumental authority (Gregory of Rimini), while others toward the end of the 14th century argued that Augustine’s statement points to a metaphysical priority. That is, in contrast to the idea that the Church’s authority over Scripture had a practical priority in a way similar to the function of Jesus’ miracles, viz., to urge his hearers to believe His words, the “moving authority of the Church becomes in late medieval versions the Church’s approval or creation of Holy Scripture” (p. 278). In distinction from Irenaeus’ and Tertullian’s emphasis on the sufficiency of Scripture, Augustine promotes an authoritative extra-scriptural oral tradition. “While on the one hand the Church ‘moves’ the faithful to discover the authority of Scripture, Scripture on the other hand refers the faithful back to the authority of the Church with regard to a series of issues with which the Apostles did not deal in writing” (p. 279).
Oberman then asks whether the Commonitorium of Vincent of Lerins written in the 5th century has contributed to furthering the two-sources theory. Vincent’s famous thesis is that the Catholic Church must hold to that which has been believed everywhere, always and by everyone—a thesis which seems to permit the idea of an authoritative extra-biblical tradition. Oberman, however, argues that when read in context we find that Vincent accepts the material sufficiency of scripture but rejects its formal sufficiency. “He [Vincent] insists that Holy Scripture needs to be interpreted by the Church since the heretics from Novation to Nestorius all advanced their own exegeses of biblical passages” [Commonitorium II.2], (p. 277). Vincent sees the task of interpretation as preservation and protection against the possibility of perverting what the Apostles have handed down. For Vincent, proper biblical exegesis is not safeguarded “in a secret oral tradition traceable to the Apostles themselves, but in the explicit consensus of the Fathers which provides a safeguard against arbitrary interpretation” (p. 279). Vincent seems to follow St. Thomas in that he does not want the interpretation of the Church to effectively become a second source apart from Holy Scripture. For Vincent, as was the case for Thomas, the “Fathers are in principle magistri probabiles, teachers whose utterances are probable but do not yet constitute proof (seeST I, q. 1, art. 8, ad 2; emphasis added). In fact, the statements of the Fathers come to represent the deposit of faith only when the following five requirements are satisfied: (1) all the Fathers must be of one mind on the issue (non unus aut duo tantum sed omnes pariter; (2) “the consensus has to be exactly the same ( uno eodemque consensu); (3) their opinion should be openly and explicitly formulated (aperte); repeatedly advanced (frequenter); and (5) continuously held, written and taught (perseveranter tenuisse, scripsisse, docuisse)” (p. 280). Oberman concludes the section by noting that though it is often taught (and may very well be the case) that Vincent directs his Commonitorium against Augustine’s strong teaching on predestination, nonetheless, “one does not tax the sources too heavily when one concludes that Vincent here directs his concept of authoritative exegetical tradition primarily against a two-sources theory” (p. 280).
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Greek Fathers,
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Tradition,
Vincent of Lerins,
two-source theory
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In chapter twelve of his work, Dawn of the Reformation, Heiko Oberman discusses the issue of the relation of Scripture and tradition. As Oberman observes, the 16th century was marked with “bitter polemics concerning the source and norm of the Church’s knowledge of God’s revelation. Traditionally this is described as the clash of the sola scriptura-principle with the Scripture and tradition-principle” (p. 270). Both Protestants and Catholics were eager to uphold the purity and authority of God’s word, yet each believed that the other’s view was detrimental to maintaining this purity and authority. The Reformers pointed to ways in which ecclesial traditions had come to distort the Gospel, while proponents of the Counter-Reformation decried the Reformers for breaking with tradition and promoting private interpretations. “In both cases reliance on human authority is said to interfere with the rule of obedience to Holy Scripture” (p. 270). Oberman then highlights what in my opinion is often glossed over or completely ignored in this discussion, viz., that the debate before us is not one of Scripture or tradition. Until this misconception is deconstructed, the conversation will continue to stagnate. Rather, what we have in these competing claims is “the clash between two concepts of tradition” (p. 270). In order to more fully explicate these two concepts, Oberman begins by examining the gradual reception of the canon in the early Church.
Upon examining the writings of the early Church Fathers, scholars have come to formulate a position called the “coinherence of Church and Scripture.” That is, for the early Fathers, kerygma, Scripture, and tradition fully coincide (p. 270). Oberman then enumerates the following as characteristics of the coinherence position. First, Scripture and tradition coinhere in the “living, visible Body of Christ, inspired and vivified by the operation of the Holy Spirit” (p. 271). Here one must understand that the coinherence is not merely on the level of source (Scripture) and interpretation (tradition), but that Scripture and tradition flow from the same source, viz., the Word of God. Second, both find their common basis in the work of the Holy Spirit through whom both the fides quae creditur (the content of faith; faith objectively considered) and the fides qua creditur (the faith of the believer; faith subjectively considered) are held together (p. 271). Third, “tradition is not understood as an addition to the kerygma contained in Scripture, but either as the handing down of that same kerygma in living form, or as Revelation itself. This implies for the Fathers the explicit denial of extra-scriptural tradition” (p. 271). Moreover, this proclamation can only be safely handed down within the Church. For Irenaeus, the handing down of the truth is identified with episcopal succession (…qui cum episcopatus successione charisma veritatis certum secundum placitum Patris accepereunt,” Adv. Haereses 4.26; p. 271). However, Irenaeus understands the episcopal witness as a derived witness whose “function is to preserve the integrity and totality of the original Apostolic witness. To this end the canon was formed” (p. 271). Oberman adds that the coinherence of Scripture and Church does not equate to an “amorphous organism.” In other words, the Church is distinguished by her instrumental role of receiving and preserving the Apostolic deposit—a deposit which was understood as containing the original kerygma in toto (pp. 271-272). Lastly, Oberman mentions briefly the relation of oral and written tradition with a view as to how modern Roman Catholic theology understands this relation. Form criticism has of course brought to our attention the fact that the scriptures which the Church received as canonical are “the product of a geographically differentiated and complex interplay of oral and later, written traditions.” Given these findings, Oberman highlights two observations made by modern Roman Catholic theologians: “(1) The canon constitutes a snapshot of a multidimensional living tradition. (2) This document from the early Church has the drawback of being only two-dimensional.” In other words, it represents an ossified part of the living tradition and therefore cannot communicate the fullness of the living Church. Current contemporary Roman Catholic theologians employ the distinction real and verbal in order to make this observation explicit (p. 272).
Next, Oberman focuses on two of the earliest Latin Fathers, who wrote near the end of the second century, Irenaeus and Tertullian. According to Irenaeus, the rule of faith (regula fidei or regula veritatis) “is faithfully preserved by the apostolic Church and has found multiform expression in the canonical books (Adv. Haeres. II.41.4). Here we have an unbroken stream in the movement from preached kerygma to the written Scriptures or what we might call the inscripturated apostolic proclamation. This written proclamation then serves as the foundation of the faith (Adv. Haeres. III.1.1). Though Irenaeus no doubt places great emphasis on episcopal succession, at this stage of church history one should not interpret Irenaeus as suggesting that episcopal succession “constitute[s] a channel of oral tradition which would stand alongside Scripture as a second source of revelation” (p. 273, emphasis added). The task of these successors to the Apostles was to faithfully preserve the kerygmic proclamation until canonization was complete. For Irenaeus, there is complete identity between the rule of faith received by the Apostles and the rule of faith received in his own day in the apostolic writings as handed down by the bishops. In addition, recent scholarly findings have made manifest that the regula fidei as employed by Irenaeus, Tertullian, and Clement of Alexandria is not to be interpreted as rule for faith. “The regula fidei is the rule constituted by faith or truth: the historical facts of God’s action in creation and redemption” (p. 273). Neither is the regula fidei to be understood as an authoritative interpretation of Holy Scripture, nor should it been seen as identical to the Creed. The regula fidei is revelation itself and forms the structure of Holy Scripture, whereas, “the Creed is a confession of the historical reality of the acts of God in creation and redemption” (p. 273).
According to Oberman, the distinction made by contemporary Roman Catholic theologians between real and verbal tradition cannot be maintained here since Irenaeus “identifies truth and reality. The reality which we perceive with our eyes is the same as the reality to which the kerygma pertains” (p. 273).
When we turn to Tertullian (and Cyprian) we find a strong distinction made between tradition as preserved in the canon and human traditions (consuetudines). Tertullian, of course, is often pictured as one with a strong anti-intellectual bent, who made it his mission to condemn philosophy. However, as Oberman points out, Tertullian’s vitriolic remarks against e.g., Aristotle as a heretic, is not a wholesale rejection of reason or even philosophy, but of philosophy used as a second source of revelation. For Tertullian, nothing need be added to the apostolic deposit of faith. Oberman closes this section by stating that, “[f]or this period it is not relevant to insist on the usual distinction between active tradition, the act of handing down, and passive tradition, the content of what is handed down. Tradition corresponds at once with fides quae, the articles of faith and fides qua, the act of faith. Tradition is not only divine in content and origin but also in its providential path through history. This can be stressed to the degree that we are forced to translate tradition with ‘revelation’ and tradere with ‘to reveal’” (p. 275).
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
“The sign of Christ is legible only if we read his human love and self-gift unto death as the manifestation of absolute love. Seeing this relationship would prevent us from putting his humanity on a pedestal, making him a hero or superhuman demigod [...] and thereby obscuring the real manifestation of love. What most decisively draws our attention to Christ is not that he is more powerful that other human beings [...] but that he seeks to be so ‘meek and humble of heart’ (Mt 11:29) and therefore so ‘poor in spirit’ (Mt 5:3) that absolute love might shine through his human love and become present in it. Indeed, such an attitude of love can ultimately be determined (conceived and carried out) only on the basis of this absolute love. Christ’s act of creating space in himself for God is not self-mastery, but is itself already obedience, an obedience willing to take on whatever task the ‘ever greater Father’ gives. The task, however, consists in letting the sins of the world into the same space he had allowed the Father to fill, and to do so out of the love that God also fills, as the ‘Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world’ (Jn 1:29), and therefore takes away mine” (Balthasar, Love Alone is Credible, pp. 99-100).
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
The following is taken from a lecture given by Dr. Michael Foley at the University of Dallas (March 8, 2007).
***
Dr. Foley addressed the various ways in which one might respond to a common criticism of the Confessions, viz., it is unorganized, lacking in cohesion, and more or less without any sense of structure or unity. Of the many possible chiastic structures that unify the Confessions, I will share one in particular that Dr. Foley discussed. Upon deeper reflection, one can discern a chiastic pattern in books I-IX, which draws our attention to two snapshots of the human soul via images of descent and ascent. In book I, Augustine is characterized by a dis-ordered soul and is ruled by his passions. By the time we reach book IX, Augustine has been converted and is characterized by a well-ordered soul in submission to Christ. In book II, concupiscence and lust are the dominant themes, while conversely, book VIII illustrates how his lusts have been subdued by God’s grace and put to rest. Curiositas or an improper desire for knowledge grips Augustine in book III, and as a result, he becomes a Manichee. In book VII, Augustine reads the Platonists and gains an understanding of the mind as immaterial, which then allows him to break through the materialism that he imbibed for nearly a decade with the Manicheans. Consequently, he is better able to apprehend God’s nature, and his curiositas is replaced with a more accurate understanding of reality. In book IV, selfish ambition drives Augustine and he is most concerned with furthering his career as a rhetor. In contrast, in book VI, Augustine gains humility and begins to see a need to listen to others not only for the purposes of increasing his skills in rhetoric, but for a content that has something more than a fleeting significance (e.g., St. Ambrose). Book V is the center of this chiastic structure and is where Augustine encounters both Faustus and St. Ambrose. Faustus, of course, completely disappoints him, whereas Ambrose helps him to read Scripture with a new hermeneutic and many of his (Augustine’s) former difficulties with Scripture fall away.
One might also summarize the Confessions by saying that in books I-IX, Augustine learns to read the enigma of his past. To do this he must be converted to the good (book VII), to time (book XI), and to Christ (book VIII). Hence, we have a manifold conversion. Having been brought this far (by the end of book IX), he can then look back on his life properly. As mentioned above, from Ambrose Augustine learns to read Scripture in multiple senses. He then takes what he has learned from Ambrose about interpreting Scripture, and applies it to the interpretation of his own life. He tells of his past in order to help us to learn to read our pasts properly. In book X, we have something more than an abstract account of memory—we have as well the reading of our own memory. Lastly, in books XII-XIII, we have the reading of reality in two texts, the book of nature and the book of Scripture. In the final book of the Confessions, Augustine gives an extended meditation on Genesis 1 and brings us full circle back to our origin and telos, the Triune God in whom we live and move and have our being, and in whom, along with Augustine, we can find rest for our restless hearts.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In chapter five of Love Alone is Credible, Balthasar observes that in order for God to reveal his love for the world, this love—even in its wholly-otherness—must be recognizable by the world. Paradoxically, from the (humanly speaking) grandest to the most selfish lover, each must in some inchoate way already have at least a taste of love in order to recognize true love. As the Christian tradition confesses, God is our Creator, and if he is our Creator, he can no doubt create us with a capacity to love him and can implant within us the seeds of such love which he himself can then (non-violently) bring to fruition. To illustrate how such love might be awakened, Balthasar offers the following analogy.
“After a mother has smiled at her child for many days and weeks, she finally receives her child’s smile in response. She has awakened love in the heart of her child, and as the child awakens to love, it also awakens to knowledge: the initially empty-sense impressions gather meaningfully around the core of the Thou. Knowledge (with its whole complex of intuition and concept) comes into play, because the play of love has already begun beforehand, initiated by the mother, the transcendent. God interprets himself to man as love in the same way: he radiates love, which kindles the light of love in the heart of man, and it is precisely this light that allows man to perceive this, the absolute Love: ‘For it is the God who said, “Let light shine out of darkness”, who has shown in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ’ (2 Cor 4:6). In this face, the primal foundation of being smiles at us as a mother and as a father. Insofar as we are his creatures, the seed of love lives dormant within us as the image of God (imago). But just as no child can be awakened to love without being loved, so too no human heart can come to an understanding of God without the free gift of his grace—in the image of his Son” (p. 76; emphasis added).
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
“God, who condescends graciously to his creature, does not want to lay hold of him and fulfill him in an external manner, but rather in the most intimate way possible. Historical revelation in the Son aims at a transformative subjective appropriation; its goal is the revelation of the Holy Spirit of freedom and adoption within the human spirit. The Church Fathers already insisted that all objective redemption would be useless if it were not relived subjectively as a dying and rising with Christ in the Holy Spirit; this truth echoes over and over throughout the Middle Ages … and the Baroque period.
Wird Christus tausendmal zu Bethlehem goboren
Und nicht in dir, du bleibst doch ewiglich verloren…
Daz Kreuz zu Golgotha kann dich nicht von dem
Bösen,
Wo es nicht auch in dir wird aufgericht’, erlösen[1].
Notes
[1] “If Christ were born a thousand times in Bethlehem, but not in you, you would remain lost forever…The Cross on Golgotha cannot redeem you from evil if it is not raised up also in you” (Angelus Silesius: Cherubinischer Wandersmann, 1:61; cf. 5:160; 2:81; 5:325). As found in Balthasar, Love Alone is Credible, p. 42.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
A guest post by Mike Vendsel
A further Reformed criticism of Lutheranism has to do with the intelligibility of the ascension and the parousia. If the body of Christ is currently omnipresent, then in what sense is Christ no longer with His disciples? And in what sense does His future parousia represent a break with the present situation? Farrow quotes Calvin at this point: “When Scripture speaks of the ascension of Christ, it declares, at the same time, that He will come again. If he now occupies the whole world in respect of His body, what else was His ascension, and what will his descent be, but a fallacious and empty show?”(Inst. 4.17.27; p. 178) To put this succintly, in its zeal to advocate a real presence Lutheranism does violence to Christ’s real absence. (One might also ask whether the Lutheran conception actually serves to trivialize the eucharist – rather than being the pinnacle of Christ’s presence with His people, it becomes one place among many where His body is manifest.)
Having looked at these difficulties, Farrow concludes the article by suggesting that the Reformed view does an admirable job of avoiding them. “By pointing to some of the pitfalls…” he writes, “I have only been preparing to say this: that perhaps Calvin was not so hasty, after all, in wanting a radical reworking of the medieval framework.”
For Calvin, there is an undeniably real presence of Christ in the meal. To quote Calvin, “it would be extreme madness to recongize no communion of believers with the flesh and blood of the Lord” and “I leave no place…for the sophistry that what I mean when I say Christ is received by faith is that he is received only by understanding and imagination” (Inst. 4.17.11; p. 180) However, as mentioned above, Calvin is insistent that Christ retain His humanity full and intact, with the result, as Farrow puts it, that “Christ is in heaven and we are on earth.” The difficulty, then, is to explain how there is a genuine union of believers with Christ in their humanity without denying Christ’s presence in heaven or the fullness of His humanity. “The separation between us,” Farrow writes, “is overcome in the eucharistic meal by the incomprehensible power of the Holy Spirit, so that what is signified by the physical eating of bread and wine (effective signs, not empty symbols) is actualized for the believer in ‘a great mystery.’ There is a real participation in the ’substance’ of the body and blood of Christ, together with all His experience, accomplishments, and life-giving virtue” (p. 180). As mentioned above, the idea can be expressed in terms of the Spirit relocating believers into heaven, where Christ is present in His fully human form. Rather than Christ’s humanity being diluted so that He can come down in some ethereal way, believers are lifted up to heaven in an unseen way, where they have communion with the ascended Christ through the Spirit as surely as they injest the physical elements which signify His body and blood.
This, Farrow suggests, does an admirable job of giving full credit to Christ’s real presence and His real absence. “It insists on our need for a ‘heavenly nearness of Christ’, and without abrogating mystery reaches out for a relational, christocentric, and pneumatological concept of space as an alternative to an illusory ubiquity…and to a de-eschatologized local presence”(p. 181). His one criticism of it is that it ought to do with time what it so effectively does with space. “Calvin handled the dialectic of presence and absence almost exclusively in spatial terms, and to that extent in a non-eschatological fashion. Only in the Spirit can we hope to ‘leap the infinite spaces’ separating earth from heaven. But is there no equally formidable barrier raised by time?” (p. 182). Not only do we live centuries after Christ’s ascension, but, more significantly, we live in the present age, separated from the heavenly glory of the future age for which we are destined. In the eucharist, however, this gap in time is traversed as well, as the ascended Christ makes Himself present through the Spirit. Not only are we drawn up, in short, but we are also drawn forward. Communion with Christ is a foretaste of the eschatological age in the here and now, on this side of it. As Farrow puts it, “the terminus of eucharistic conversion is in the resurrection, that is, in the eschaton, inasmuch as the consecrating Agent himself exists, spatially and temporally, in the freedom of the Spirit which constitutes the eschaton” (p. 183). The article concludes by discussing advantages to this way of looking at the eucharist, particularly ecumenical advantages.
On the whole, then, Farrow does a commendable job outlining the place of Reformed sacramental theology among its alternatives and surveying what may be some of its strengths. The one place I can imagine Reformed readers taking exception, particularly those with thorough knowledge of Calvin, is as to whether Calvin’s doctrine of the eucharist is genuinely without an emphasis on time. Whatever the historical case may be, however, Farrow’s suggestions as to how to improve on Calvin’s understanding are surely in keeping with what twentieth century Reformed scholarship (particularly Vos and Ridderbos) has come to see about the controlling place of eschatology in all the various loci of theology.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
A guest post by Mike Vendsel
Farrow begins with Catholicism and does so by going back to Thomas, or rather to Catherine Pickstock’s defense of Thomas’s doctrine of transubstantiation. Significantly condensing her argument, he suggests that the weakness of her defense is its tendency to “regularize or normalize the church’s eucharistic situation in which the ontological dialectic of fulfillment and desire…replaces the eschatological dialectic of the departure and return of Jesus” (p. 172). His concern, in short, is that Pickstock begins to see the eucharist as a way of solving a problem that is endemic to created reality – that of the transcendence of God and the temporality and finitude of humanity – rather than solving the problem of Christ’s absence as that problem is brought about by the ascension. Put differently, the problem is that the eucharist is seriously decontextualized – indeed, it becomes almost a-historical in the sense that it is mandated by a situation that is fundamental to the relationship between God and created reality. “The historical setting of the eucharist recedes into the background,” Farrow writes, “as it is forgotten that the problem of the presence and the absence is not addressed by the eucharist but created by it” (pp. 172-173).
In addition to that difficulty, however, there is also the challenge of understanding exactly how our humanity can be united to Christ’s when His is present through transubstantiation. Since the bread and wine retain their external appearance, transubstantiation will always involve qualifications about the precise way in which Christ’s body and blood are present. Those qualifications, however, run the risk of making his presence a cold, unfelt abstraction. To prevent this, there is an effort to make the presence of Christ full and palpable by emphasizing the assembled church as His body. This, however, can cause eucharistic focus to shift unhelpfully from Christ Himself to the church. As Farrow puts it, “the ontological approach inevitably carries the temptation to…elide the distinction between the corporeal and the corporate, so that to speak of the risen Christ’s body is, without further or prior qualification, to speak of the church” (p. 173). To put this another way, one’s Christology begins to reduce to one’s ecclesiology. While it is true, of course, that the implications of Christology for ecclesiology are legion, Farrow argues that “where Christ is distinguished from the church as its head – where it is allowed that He, as the ascended one, stands over against us in order also to stand for us in God’s presence and to give his own body to us – Christology can and must control ecclesiology.”
This latter criticism, he suggests, holds equally for Lutheran views of the eucharist. Luther had many reasons for objecting to the Mass, foremost among them being the conception of it as a meritorious sacrifice. Luther’s alternative to Zwingli’s memorialism, however, was to suggest the omnipresence of Christ’s humanity by virtue of the communicatio idomatum. One of the Reformed criticisms of this was that if Christ’s humanity acquired an attribute so uncharacteristic of our own humanity, it would make the relationship of His humanity to ours nearly inconceivable. Farrow suggests it is actually ironic in light of this that the Reformed understanding of eucharist has come under attack for failing to do justice to the union of our humanity with Christ, for it was precisely the drive to do justice to that union over against the Lutheran treatment of it that motivated the Reformed conception . “What we have here is a nice example of spoiling the Egyptians,” he writes. “For the charge of mythology and gnosticism is of course the charge Calvinists have traditionally leveled at Lutherans (and sometimes Catholics) in order to point out that what is most at risk in their construct is the concrete humanity of Jesus, including His bodily specificity and self-identity, which he retains for the sake of priestly ministry to his church and as a divine affirmation that finite creaturely being can be the recipient of eternal life. It was in order not to dehumanize or mythologize that Calvin insisted on the ascension and parousia in the flesh….” (pp. 177-178). Farrow suggests this Reformed concern is well-founded. There truly is, he suggests, a “tendency..to regard the ‘whole Christ’ as constituted by the divinity of the Word and the humanity of the church, rather than by the God-man and those who are liberated by him to become children of God with him” (p. 175). He underscores that the Lutheran tradition attempts to avoid such confusions. “But do they succeed?” he asks. “Among Luther’s heirs, we increasingly encounter the thesis that the church itself is the true and only body of…Christ. Sometimes we even hear talk of a universal incarnation. Thus we are brought back around to the elision or conflation of which we have already spoken….” (p. 175). He goes on to argue that this tendency appears in the writings of Graham Ward.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
A Guest post by Mike Vendsel
In an article entitled “Between the Rock and a Hard Place: In Support of (something like) a Reformed View of the Eucharist” Douglas Farrow evaluates the Reformed understanding of the eucharist (specifically Calvin’s) and along the way interacts with Catherine Pickstock and others within Radical Orthodoxy [1]. What follows is a short review of the article with some evaluation mixed in.
The article begins with the oft made observation that the Reformed view of the eucharist positions itself against both Lutheran and Roman Catholic understandings “by maintaining that the glorified body of Jesus Christ exists in its own place, that its place is other than ours, and that it remains in this place exclusively until the parousia….” (p. 169). Of course, this is one of the very points at which such theology is open for criticism. For construed this way, there is an enormous gap between Christ’s humanity and ours. “All that is left to us, then, as genuinely present here and how, is the divinity of Christ. This is a presence which does not so much affirm and enable our humanity as overpower it….”(p. 170). Some go so far as to say that this understanding is gnostic. “The body of the worshipper,” Farrow writes, “unlike his or her soul, appears to be uninvolved in the secret union and communion with Christ in the heavenlies, and…Christ himself, in Luther’s sarcastic phrase, is made like ‘a stork in a nest in a treetop’, detached from any genuinely human existence” (p. 170). This tendency is ultimately responsible for the “privatizing of religion later witnessed in Europe and America and the sundering of ‘nature’ and ‘culture’ from one another and from human participation in the life of God” (p. 170). While admitting that such generalities scarcely do justice to the intricacies of Reformation and post-Reformation treatments of the eucharist (a criticism that is probably fair, especially in the wake of Richard Muller’s scholarship), Farrow also claims that “the charge laid is not entirely groundless” (p. 170). However much such caricature may fail to capture the best of the Reformation, “must we not confess…that certain branches of the Reformed church have, by whatever means, developed nature/grace dualisms with disastrous consequences for human life?” (p. 170). And to his credit, Farrow denies that any such understanding has the right to maintain itself simply because of a lengthy historical precedent: “Let it be said clearly respecting this or any other element of the Reformed tradition that it need not be preserved simply because it is already there. Reformed churches, not because they are reformed but because they seek reform, may entertain the suggestion that what is needed today, if they are to encourage a Christianity the humanity (and humaneness) of which is not in doubt, is to return to a more catholic conception of the eucharist than that offered by Calvin” (pp. 170-171 ).
Now admittedly, he says, Calvin does attempt to sidestep these difficulties – indeed, he goes so far as to stand Thomas Aquinas completely on his head. For Thomas, “by virtue of His divine omnipresence and omnipotence as the Logos, Jesus is able to provide on earth a eucharistic form of His humanity under the accidents of bread and wine, making present (albeit non-spatially) the actual substance of His exalted body and blood” (p. 171). Calvin, however, “postulates rather a secret relocation of the worshipper through faith and the ministry of the Spirit” (p. 171) In other words, rather than Christ coming down in a barely recognizable human form, the worshipper is transported to heaven by the Spirit, where Christ in the full integrity of His humanity is seated. But “is it really possible to reverse…the eucharistic picture with which the medieval church was working? If we are not permitted to appeal to the miracle of transubstantiation, how are we to conceive of a real union of soul and body with the heavenly Christ? How…are we to maintain a true solidarity between Christ and the Christian….?” On the face of it “… it is by no means apparent that a simple appeal to the Spirit can justify such claims….” (p. 171)
In spite of those questions, Farrow ultimately suggests that what Calvin is doing here has much to be said for it. Before suggesting that, however, he considers the alternatives and notes difficulties for each of them.
Notes
[1] It is my understanding that Farrow wrote this article prior to his conversion to Roman Catholicism. Hence, his current views on the topic would most likely reflect a different understanding. Nonetheless, the article is still extremely helpful and does a good job of articulating various nuances of a Reformed view of the Eucharist.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
The kind folks at Pontifications have tagged me as part of a new meme called “thinking bloggers” currently making its way through the blogworld. To play along, I must list five blogs that I consider thoughtful and which I read regularly. Below are my picks—all of which are now officially tagged:
1. The Church and Postmodern Culture
5. Evangelical Catholicism
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
I recently read an excellent article by Catherine Pickstock entitled, “Thomas Aquinas and the Quest for the Eucharist,” (Modern Theology Vol 15 [April 1999]). I wish that I had time to summarize and comment on the entire article, but given that the semester is quickly coming to its end, the following lengthy excerpts will have to do. Hopefully, they will be enough to encourage you to read the article in its entirety.
Among the many intriguing aspects of her essay, one that caught my eye was Pickstock’s comparison of our desire for the Eucharist with the medieval allegorical linking of the Eucharist and the quest of the Holy Grail. “The allegory of the Grail helped to ensure that the seemingly most commonly available thing in every Church in every town and village was made the object of a difficult quest and high adventure, a quest indeed so difficult that it was almost impossible to attain, as if it were scarcely possible even to locate and receive the Eucharist. Nonetheless, the ultimate vision accorded Sir Galahad ensures that the postmodern fetishization of pure postponement is also here avoided” (p. 177). [Pickstock expands this discussion at the end of her article, and I quote that section in full at the end of this post].
Earlier in the article, Pickstock explained in great detail how even though the Eucharist is situated between presence and absence, it neither allows for pure presence to cancel the indeterminacy of meaning (e.g., hoc, “this” has a world of indeterminacy built in), nor does it deny presence and promote a forever absent scenario with no stable meaning. Pickstock acknowledges that “[o]utside the Eucharist, it is true, as postmodern theory holds, that there is no stable signification, no anchoring reference, and no fixable meaning. This means that there is no physical thing whose nature one can ultimately trust. We have seen how the Eucharist dramatizes this condition, pushes it to an extreme, but then goes beyond it. The circumstance of the greatest dereliction of meaning is here read as the promise of the greatest plenitude of meaning. However, if we do trust this sign, it cannot be taken simply as a discrete miraculous exception, if we are true to a high medieval and Thomistic construal of the Eucharist. First of all, we have seen how Aquinas sees bread and wine as the most common elements of human culture. Hence, if these become signs of promise, they pull all of human culture along with them” (pp. 177-178). Then Pickstock makes an interesting connection with Saussurean theory, viz., that the phrase, “This is my body,” just as any other linguistic phrase cannot be taken in isolation, as [following Saussure] “every phrase of language in some sense depends for its meaningfulness upon the entire set of contrasts which forms the whole repertoire of language. […] For this reason, if this phrase is guaranteed an ultimate meaningfulness, it draws all other phrases along with it” (p. 178).
Pickstock then emphasizes that the words [“This is my body”] and events [celebrating the Eucharist] take place exclusively in the Church and involve not only the saints of the past but also the reception of an entire historical tradition. “[A] trust in the Eucharistic event inevitably involves trusting also the past and the future of the Church. In receiving the Eucharist, we are in fact receiving an entire historical transmission which comprises the traditions of the Church and then those of Greece and Israel. This tradition includes the Bible in which it is declared that God is in some fashion manifest to all traditions and in the physical world as such. Thus, trust in the Eucharist draws all historical processes and then every physical thing along with it. One could even say that just as the accidents remain, so the supreme event of the Eucharist, which other things anticipate, is only present in a kind of dispersal back into those very things. [1] One is referred back to a primitive trust in the gifts of creation. For all people, these things have enabled a beginning of trust in the divine, even if it is only the incarnation, the Passion and the gift of the Eucharist which ensure that this trust does not run into an ultimate nihilistic crisis” (p. 178).
Pickstock then returns to the Holy Grail/Eucharist theme mentioned at the beginning of this post. The Quest of the Holy Grail was a medieval allegorical text that “reach devotion to the Eucharist in terms of a search. […] On their way to the Grail castle, the knights in the story are led to a mysterious ship which has been voyaging since the time of King Solomon. This ship has a mast made of the Tree of Life from the Garden of Eden and other insignia which foreshadow Christ. It had been built by Solomon’s wife who was concerned that future times should know that Solomon had prophesied Christ’s coming. […] The ostensible concern in the story is that we should recognize the prophetic power of our ancestors, but surely the deeper point is that if there were no record of the anticipation of Jesus and the Eucharist, we would not recognize them as significant at all, nor discern them, for they are only meaningful as fulfillment; with the record of Israel, there could be no manifest incarnation. It follows that Jesus and the Eucharist are in some way a ship, just as the Tree of Life was read allegorically in terms of the God-man. The ship is already the Church and the Eucharist, as a tentative human construction, whereas the fulfilled Eucharist is perfect human and yet divine art. Inversely, one can say that the Eucharist remains the ship because it persists as quest despite fulfillment. This allows us to link the notion of non-cancelled desire with the idea that trust in the Eucharist points us back towards a trust in everything, and especially the ordinary and the everyday. For if we are to go on questing, then all the things pointing towards the Eucharist retain their pregnant mystery without cancellation. We are still knights looking for the Grail, just as we are still Israel on pilgrimage. Since knowledge consists in desire, we must affirm that the aporia of learning is resolved all the time in the promise of everyday human practices. We are usually unaware of this recollection, and yet in a way we do have a certain inchoate awareness of it. Thus we can see that what the Eucharist is is desire. Although we know via desire, or wanting to know, and this circumstance alone resolves the aporia of learning, beyond this we discover that what there is to know is desire. But not desire as absence, lack and perpetual postponement; rather, desire as the free flow of actualization, perpetually renewed and never foreclosed” (pp. 178-179).
Notes
[1] Pickstock had earlier explained that the fact that the accidents of bread and wine remain indicates that they are beyond the accident/substance division and now manifest the more fundamental essence/existence composition of all creation. In other words, the Eucharist directs us back to the more basic, yet nonetheless miraculous ontological situation of all creation both receiving its being from God who is the act of being, and being sustained in being by God. Again, the goodness of creation is affirmed in the use of the most ordinary items of bread in wine for a most extraordinary purpose, viz., to serve as means for the revelation of God.
