As I mentioned in a previous post, I have been preparing for an upcoming conference on Christian friendship and have been contemplating the possible ways in which Christian friendship and claims specific to Christianity are superior to claims found in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.
Below is a new possibility that I am considering addressing in my paper.
As John 15 declares, Christ informs his disciples of a radical change in their relationship with Him, viz., they are no longer called servants, but are now called friends because they have been brought into the circle of intertrinitarian love. With this claim, we encounter a concept of vertical and horizontal friendship that is not possible on Aristotle’s view. Not only has a way been opened up for the most intimate communion between God and human beings-a relationship in which Aristotle’s god (noesis noeseos) has no interest-but also on the horizontal level, those who accept the Trinitarian God’s invitation of friendship are proclaimed both as equals with reference to one another ontologically speaking and with regard to their status before God. If we compare St. Paul’s claim in Galatians 3:28[1] with Aristotle’s view of the moral superiority of men over women in book VIII of the Nicomachean Ethics, the contrast is striking. According to St. Paul, “[t]here is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus (Gal 3:28, ESV).”[2] Whereas Aristotle, although placing the husband/wife relationship under a type of virtuous friendship, he nonetheless further qualifies this relationship as unequal because the male is taken to be the superior partner, who confers a greater benefit on the female, and therefore, ought to be loved more than he loves (1158b13-29).[3] As John M. Cooper explains,
Aristotle’s idea seems to be that men as such are morally superior to women, so that a friendship between the absolutely best man and the absolutely best woman, each recognized as such, would be an unequal friendship. In such a friendship the disparity in goodness does not imply any deficiency on the side of the lesser person with respect to her own appropriate excellences; she will be perfect of her kind, but the kind in question is inherently lower (emphasis added).[4]
In other words, for Aristotle, female qua female is in some way inherently deficient and the assumed human standard of perfection is the male. On St. Paul’s view to assert that either a male or a female believer is somehow intrinsically lacking or that one is superior in nature to the other would involve serious soteriological, anthropological, and Christological problems. After all, the Christian claim is that fellowship with the Father comes only through union with the Son by way of the Spirit. To suggest, for example, that female Christians are deficient because they are of an intrinsically lower kind would be in some significant way to downgrade their status as human beings, and consequently, to deny that both male and female are created in God’s image. Such a position seems to entail at least the following rather unpleasant theological consequences. For example, being less than human, how could women fully partake in the redemption effected by Christ who became everything that human beings are excepting sin? In addition, such a degraded view of women would no doubt have serious ramifications in connection with a proper understanding of the importance of Mary’s role in the history of redemption.
Up to this point, I have only addressed the equality between genders with relation to friendships among Christians. As one would expect, this exclusivity naturally raises the question of how or whether this equality translates to non-Christian females. Although an honest Christian would have to admit that the Church has been inconsistent and has often failed to recognize that by virtue of their creation imago Dei, which is essential to human beings qua human beings, all men and women (whether Christian or not) are created equal in nature and possess an intrinsic value. From a Christian perspective, one would also have to affirm that male/female friendships between Christians and non-Christians, though genuine and often long-lasting are in a significant sense incomplete because the two do not share faith in Christ. However, that which is found wanting in such friendships has nothing to do with a putative gender deficiency, but everything to do with whether or not one has by grace through Christ entered into intimate fellowship with the Triune God. And as St. Paul makes emphatically clear, entrance into such a relationship with God is not the result of any intellectual, moral, or other alleged superiority on the part of the Christian (Eph 2:8-9; 1 Cor 1:20-31).[5]
Notes
[1] N.T. Wright argues that it is significant that Paul in Gal 3:28 says, “no male and female,” rather than the common mistranslation, “neither male nor female,” because he is actually quoting Gen 1:27. With this Wright is emphatically not suggesting that Paul is advocating an undoing of the creation order, or that we adopt of a kind of gnostic perspective so as to deal with gender differences, or that we have moved into a kind of enlightened, sexless, genderless view of humanity. Rather, Wright’s argument “is that Paul’s main point in this passage is that God has one family, not two, and that this family consists of all those who believe in Jesus, that this is the family God promised to Abraham, and that nothing in the Torah can stand in the way of this unity which is now revealed through the faithfulness of the Messiah” (p. 5). Wright goes on to say that Paul “is controverting in particular those who wanted to enforce Jewish regulations, and indeed Jewish ethnicity, upon Gentile converts. Remember the synagogue prayer in which the man who prays thanks God that he has not made him a Gentile, a slave, or a woman. I think Paul is deliberately marking out the family of Abraham reformed in the Messiah as a people who cannot pray that prayer, since within this family these distinctions are now irrelevant.The presenting issue in Galatians is male circumcision. We sometimes think of circumcision as a painful obstacle for converts, as indeed in some ways it was; but for those who embraced circumcision, it was a matter of pride and privilege. It not only distinguished Jews from Gentiles; it also distinguished them in a way that automatically privileged males. By contrast, imagine the thrill of equality brought about by baptism, the identical rite for Jew and Gentile, slave and free, male and female. And that’s not all. Though this is somewhat more speculative, the story of Abraham’s family did of course privilege the male line of descent: Isaac, Jacob, and so on. What we find in Paul, both in Galatians 4 and in Romans 9, is careful attention-rather like Matthew 1, in fact, though from a different angle-to the women in the story. If those in Christ are the true family of Abraham, which is the point of the whole story, then the manner of this identity and unity takes a quantum leap beyond the way in which first-century Judaism construed them, bringing male and female together as surely and as equally as Jew and Gentile. What Paul seems to do in this passage, then, is rule out any attempt to perpetuate male privilege in Abraham’s family by an appeal to Genesis 1, as though someone were to say, ‘But of course the male line is what matters, and of course male circumcision is what counts, because God made male and female.’ No, says Paul, none of that counts when it comes to membership in the renewed people of Abraham” (p. 6). N.T. Wright, “The Biblical Basis for Women’s Service in the Church,” Priscilla Papers Vol. 20, no. 4 (Autumn 2006): 5-10. (This article is available online at: http://www.cbeinternational.org/new/pdf_files/wright_biblical_basis.pdf).
[2] This is not to suggest that maleness and femaleness are eradicated and that what remains is a kind of genderless individual. One possible way that a Christian might begin to successfully navigate the commonness and difference between males and females is to proffer a Trinitarian analogy. That is, just as the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are equal in nature, they exhibit different functions.[3] Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (VIII.7), p. 152.
[4] Cooper, “Aristotle on Friendship,” p. 307, as found in Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics.
[5] “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, 9 not a result of works, so that no one may boast” (Eph 2:8-9, ESV). “Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe. For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men. For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God. And because of him you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, righteousness and sanctification and redemption, so that, as it is written, “Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord” (1 Cor 1:20-31, ESV).
“Philosophy can speak of the Cross in many tongues; when it is not the ‘Word of the Cross’ (I Corinthians I, 18), issuing from faith in Jesus Christ, it knows either too much or too little. Too much: because it makes bold with words and concepts at a point where the Word of God is silent, suffers, and dies, in order to reveal what no philosophy can know, except through faith, namely, God’s ever greater Trinitarian love; and in order, also, to vanquish what no philosophy can make an end of, human dying so that the human totality may be restored in God. Too little, because philosophy does not measure that abyss into which the Word sinks down, and, having no inkling of it, closes the hiatus, or deliberately festoons the appalling thing with garlands:
The Cross is thick bestrewn with roses: who has joined roses to the Cross?
[Goethe, 'Die Geheimnisse']
in place of Jerome’s ‘naked, to follow the Naked One’. Either philosophy misconceives man, failing, in Gnostic or Platonic guise, to take with full seriousness his earthly existence, settling him elsewhere, in heaven, in the pure realm of spirit, or sacrificing his unique personality to nature or revelation. Or, alternatively, philosophy forms man so exactly in God’s image and likeness, since man in his suffering and overcoming of suffering shows himself God’s superior. Here God only fulfills himself and manages to satisfy his own desires by divesting himself of his essence and becoming man, in order, as man, ‘divinely’ to suffer and die. If philosophy is not willing to content itself with, either, speaking abstractly of being, or with thinking concretely of the earthly and worldly (and no further), then it must at once empty itself in order to ‘know nothing…except Jesus Christ and him crucified’ (I Corinthians 2, 2). Then it may, starting out from this source, go on to impart a secret and hidden wisdom of God, which God decreed before the ages for our glorification (ibid., 2, 7). This proclamation, however, rises up over a deeper silence and darker abyss than pure philosophy can know” (Hans Urs von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale, pp. 65-66).
In my preparation for a paper that I will be presenting at Baylor this Fall on von Balthasar and Christocentric friendship, I have been thinking about the ways in which the claims of Christianity with regard to love and friendship go beyond the possibilities offered in classical philosophy, viz., the philosophy of Aristotle. Though my paper focuses on von Balthasar’s view of friendship, I mention in my introductory paragraph that whether we consult Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics or St. Augustine’s Confessions, we find the affirmation that human beings are social beings and that friendship plays a crucial role in shaping a person’s moral development. After discussing a number of topics in von Balthasar (e.g., the relation of originary, Trinitarian love to human love, being awakened to love by Love, etc.), my plan is to return in the concluding paragraph to briefly discuss the ways that Christian claims with regard to love and friendship in the broadest terms offer something beyond that which is possible in classical philosophy (again, primarily with Aristotle in mind). Below are a few of the ideas that I am tossing around, and about which, I would love your interaction (be it critical or positive).
In Aristotle’s Ethics, as he unfolds his account of the vicious or dissipated person, that is, the person who was deprived of a virtuous upbringing in which good beliefs were fashioned, and consequently, whose corrupt desires and opinions form a perfect harmony in which no resistance is present, it seems that such a person is in an utterly hopeless situation. In other words, a person in this condition is, as Aristotle says in book VII, paragraph 8, incurable.[1] The vicious person is doomed to his fate with no possibility of breaking free from destructive cycles which may have been part of his family line for generations. Having grown up in an injurious environment, a person in such circumstances has experienced and in turn acts out perverse versions of love and friendship. From this perspective, Aristotle’s view that the dissipated person acts with a kind of necessity rings true. Yet, when we bring the Christian tradition into the conversation, whether appealing to St. Augustine or Balthasar, we find that there is hope for the vicious person, as well as any person who has experienced being bound and fragmented by his or her own will. Turning briefly to St. Augustine, in book VIII of his Confessions, Augustine provides a kind of phenomenology of the will in which he vividly describes his own inability to choose the good, which was the result of many years of debauched living.[2] However, for Augustine, as is the case with Balthasar, the Trinitarian God via the Christ event can and does overcome the power of destructive habits and heals not only the will but the whole person. In his taking on of flesh and giving of His Spirit, Christ, so to speak, works from the inside, and thus, is able to effect a transformation that far exceeds any extrinsic solution or mere modification of one’s behavior.
This transformative healing of course comes at a great cost, and the cost was the life of the Son by way of the Cross in which His experience of utter abandonment has never been surpassed. The giving over of Himself to death and willingness to be forsaken by the Father, brings us to a second point of departure with Aristotle’s philosophy. Would, for example, Aristotle’s magnanimous man or his contemplative philosopher voluntarily relinquish a state of perfect bliss and give his life for his enemies? Would such an act be perceived as virtuous or foolish? Yet, this radical self-donation and self-surrender to the Father’s will are constitutive of the Christ event. Not only did He die for those who hated Him, but He offered (and still offers) His adversaries an unfathomable inheritance—i.e., He is willing to bestow upon them all that His Father has imparted to Him. As St. Paul says, perhaps one would die for a good person; however, Christ’s love exceedingly surpasses the possibility of dying for an upright person, which when said and done leaves us with little cognitive dissonance. Christ’s act, on the other hand, as far as the Greeks are concerned, is difficult understand as anything but the apex of foolishness.
Speaking more directly to the implications of Christ’s radical self-giving in relation to friendship, in John 15:12-16, Christ instructs his disciples to keep his commandments, and specifically highlights that they are to love one another as He self-sacrificially loved them. Furthermore, He says that his disciples are now called friends because they have been brought into the circle of intertrinitarian love (see John 15:5ff). Then in verse 16, in the exhortation to live fruitful lives, there is an implicit invitation to participate in Christ’s ongoing mission, a mission that is characterized by loving God and loving one’s neighbor. Here we see that in Christocentric friendship the vertical and the horizontal are inseparable with the latter flowing out of the former, and by implication, serve as a necessary conduit for the full actualization of the self. This Godward/manward nexus highlights the essentially communal and social nature of Christian philia—a philia that has been and continues to be transformed by divine agape. In other words, in Christocentric friendship, the “I” and the “thou” are seen neither as a threat to one another nor is the other instrumentalized (as is the case with some forms of modern and contemporary philosophy, e.g., Sartre). Rather, the relationship between the “I” and the “thou” is a dynamic, reciprocal encounter of love in which both are brought closer to the realization of the particular person that God desires them to be. Since both share a love for Christ and a common mission, they are aware of the fact that human love is a reflection of a more originary, perfect love shared among the members of the Trinity. This divine love, manifested to us in the Person of Jesus Christ, is itself not static, but dynamic because it is the love of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.[3] Or to use Balthasar’s words, “the archetypal identity which we discover in creatures within a clear separation of persons who are held together by love, is a creaturely imago trinitatis, veiled and yet not wholly visible.”[4] As Balthasar gathers together the stones of his mosaic of friendship, the final form takes on a distinctively Chirstocentric and hence Trinitarian shape in which the love held out to us in the Christ event is a gift—a gift that involves no less than an invitation to participate in the love of the Trinity, and in so partaking, one naturally engages in a vertical expression of love that is friendship.
Notes [1] Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, p. 133 [Sachs translation]. [2] Augustine, Confessions, p. 200 [Boulding translation]. [3] Bonnici, Person to Person, p. 36. [4] Balthasar, Unless You Become Like this Child, pp. 17-18.
[As stated in part I, this series of posts was inspired as the result of a dialogue with my friend, Mike V. The substance of the posts is taken from several lectures given by Dr. Gaffin at WTS in a New Testament course focusing on Acts and selected epistles of St. Paul. Thus, the tenor of the posts is more conversational and less polished given that they are for the most part the notes that I took from Gaffin’s lectures].
***
In post II, we discussed Gaffin’s take on John 14:18-19, “I will not leave you orphans. I will come to you,” and his rejection of the interpretations that this refers to Christ’s second coming or to His post resurrection appearances. Instead, Gaffin argues that the situation in view pivots around Jesus going to the Father and correlatively the coming of the Holy Spirit. In other words, it is a situation determined by the resurrection/ascension at Pentecost. This is the setting in which we encounter the “I will not leave you orphans but come to you.” Hence, there is a dynamic between ascension and Pentecost, and the point of John 14:18 is that in the course of redemptive history, Christ must leave bodily in order that the Spirit may come. He must ascend to the Father and this is a personal/bodily ascension so that the Spirit may come. This bodily departure also indicates that He will return and share His life with believers. “Because I live you also will live” (John 14:19). Likewise, in John 14:28, we read, “You heard me say to you, ‘I am going away, and I will come to you.’ If you loved me, you would have rejoiced, because I am going to the Father, for the Father is greater than I (ESV).” Also in 14:18 where the return of the Spirit is truly a return and presence of Christ as well. Likewise, in John 16:10 and 16:16, Jesus says, “Because I go to the Father you will see me no longer,” and “A little while, and you will see me no longer; and again a little while, and you will see me.” As was pointed out previously, these verses employ the present tense with a future meaning. The disciples were of course asking, “what is the ‘little while?’” Then in chapter 16 Jesus addresses this uncertainty and brings clarity to the situation. However, the point here is that for the Spirit to come is for Christ to come. The balance that we find coming to expression here is the balance between the bodily absence and the spiritual presence of Christ. That balance between bodily absence and Spiritual presence is what Reformed theology has tried to maintain in its view of the real presence of Christ in the Lord’s Supper—it is not just a memorial.
The Father’s Involvement
Here we focus on the Father’s involvement in that Pentecost is the fulfillment of the Father’s promise. It is not simply a matter of promise but of the promise that is specifically connected to the Father. It comes from the Father (Luke 24:49; Acts 1:4; Acts 2:33); God as heavenly Father gives the Spirit. Identifying the Spirit as the promised one of the Father opens the widest possible perspectives on Pentecost. That is, this identification marks out Pentecost as the fulfillment of that promise which is at the core of the Old Covenant expectation—it is basic to the architecture of the Old Covenant promise that is at the foundation of covenantal history and that has shaped the course of this history from the beginning. In Gen 12:3, God tells Abraham that in him all nations of the earth will be blessed. Thus, to identify the promise of Pentecost as the promise of the Father is to bring into view the ultimate perspective on that promise. St. Paul expresses this in Gal 3:13-14, when he wrote, “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us—for it is written, “Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree”—so that in Christ Jesus the blessing of Abraham might come to the Gentiles, so that we might receive the promised Spirit through faith (ESV, emphasis added).
The hina clauses (“so that”) are correlative; they link the blessing of Abraham to the Gentiles, and what correlates that is that the New Covenant people of God, the Gentile as well as the Jew now receives the promise of the Spirit. This opens up the widest possible perspectives that Pentecost brings to God’s people in that the nexus of what we are seeing now is not only linked to Luke 3 or Joel 2 but is even more comprehensive as brings Genesis 12 and Acts 2 into conversation. Interestingly, Gen 12 follows the account of Babel in Gen 11 where we read of the confusion of language imposed as judgment. What happens at Pentecost with the universalizing of the Spirit is a reversal of Babel and a counter to the effects of that curse.
In John 14:26, we are told that the Father will send the Spirit in Jesus’ name. Jesus had earlier stated in 14:23 that He and the Father will come and make their home with the believer. Thus, what is effected at Pentecost is not only the presence of Christ in the Spirit but the Father’s presence as well. We ought not to see these two aspects (the Christological and the Pater-logical) in a simply parallel fashion. Rather, the Christological has a certain priority or mediatorial distinctiveness. That is, there is an instrumental indispensability of the Christological for the Pater-logical. Think of John 14:9 where Jesus says, “whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” The point being that this statement is not reversible. Thus, there is a mediatorial necessity or instrumental indispensability in John 14:9. Also, in John 14:20, “in that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you.” It is only as Jesus is indwelt by the Father that He indwells believers and the Father indwells believers.
In sum, Pentecost involves the (initial) fulfillment of the ultimate design and expectation of the covenant. And what is that ultimate expectation? That God Himself will dwell in the midst of his people in Triune fullness. Or put another way, Pentecost is the (initial) realization of the Emanuel principle on an eschatological scale—the Triune God is with us and has not left us as orphans.
[N.b. As stated in part I, this series of posts was inspired as the result of a dialogue with my friend, Mike V. The substance of the posts is taken from several lectures given by Dr. Gaffin at WTS in a New Testament course focusing on Acts and selected epistles of St. Paul. Thus, the tenor of the posts is more conversational and less polished given that they are for the most part the notes that I took from Gaffin’s lectures].***
Though there is a central place of the Spirit at Pentecost, this should not cause us to overlook the important involvement of the Father and the Son. In other words, we must recognize Pentecost as a fully Trinitarian event. On the day of Pentecost, Peter preaches an exceedingly Christocentric sermon. He notes the remarkable events that have just happened and connects this to the promise of the Spirit, but this material functions as the introduction to the sermon, as the main theme is Christ and his resurrection and ascension/exaltation (Acts 2:24-33). In verse 33, we read of the outpouring of the Spirit and the intricate connection between this event and Christ’s exaltation—the outpouring of the Spirit is the inevitable result of the exaltation. Moreover, verse 33 indicates that Christ is the active one at Pentecost, particularly in his action with regard to the Holy Spirit. Though Christ Himself in His exaltation has just climactically received the promise of the Holy Spirit from the Father as the result of His ascension, Christ is the one who is doing the outpouring, the baptizing (with the Holy Spirit and fire), just as John the Baptist had proclaimed! Hence, from the sermon preached on day the of Pentecost we see that there is never to be a pneumatology independent from Christology. Christology and pneumatolgoy must be carried on together and cannot be separated. Turning again to verse 33, we read, “Being therefore exalted at the right hand of God, and having received from the Father the promise of the Holy Spirit, he has poured out this that you yourselves are seeing and hearing,” some that the first clause is a reference to Christ’s ascension, whereas the second clause looks back to the Jordan event. Gaffin, however, rejects this interpretation, arguing that what is in view is a reception of the Spirit by God’s people that is attendant on Christ’s ascension-reception of the Holy Spirit. In other words, what is expressed here is that idea that Christ has such a permanent and complete possession of the Spirit (as one of the climax points in the redemptive drama), and as a result, He has been so transformed and eschatologically indwelt by the Spirit, that St. Paul go so far as to say that Christ as the last Adam has become the Spirit. Before anyone shouts “heresy,” we must draw a distinction between an ontological identity and an economic identity. Gaffin’s claim is that the incarnate Christ and the Spirit are equated in their redemptive function (economic function). He reiterates that this has nothing to do with a confusion of the ontological status of Trinity. The Son and Spirit are equated functionally; there is an economic oneness—not an ontological oneness. By making this qualification, Gaffin is staving off any charges of a kind of modalism. Viewed from this perspective, when on the day of Pentecost Jesus baptizes we may say that He baptizes with Himself—He baptizes with His own indwelling presence. At Pentecost the exalted Jesus sends the promise of the Father in the presence of the Spirit by coming Himself in the demonstrable power and presence of the Spirit.
Gaffin goes on to make the following connection. In the closing sanction of the Great Commission in Matt 28:20 where we have the resurrected Jesus, who is on the verge of ascension, giving the promise, “I am with you always until the end of the age.” As Gaffin points out, this is a statement that is not merely to be understood in terms of referring to the divine omnipresence of Jesus, but rather it is an affirmation to be understood in terms of the power and activity of the Holy Spirit. There is a parousia aspect at Pentecost—a return of Christ at Pentecost. We can reinforce this if we look outside of the Luke/Acts material to other material (e.g., John 14:18-19, 28; also 16:7; here Jesus stresses the advantage for the disciples of His departure and the coming of the Spirit. So in giving this promise that the Spirit will come, the disciples are assured that they will not be left as orphans. With this said, Jesus adds, “I will come to you” (John 14:18). Then in verse 19, He says, “Yet a little while and the world will see (θεωρεῖ) me no more, but you will see (θεωρεῖτε) me.” Here the present tense is being used for an impending future which is reflected in the ESV translation above. The passage continues, “In that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. Whoever has my commandments and keeps them, he it is who loves me. And he who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I will love him and manifest myself to him.” Judas (not Iscariot) said to him, “Lord, how is it that you will manifest yourself to us, and not to the world?” Jesus answered him, “If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” (John 14:20-23, ESV). So Jesus’ promises to be present with his disciples are tagged temporally, and this raises the question of how we are to understand the force of these adverbial expressions (“for a while,” “in that day” etc.). That is, how do we understand their temporal reference? We can say that what is not in view is a reference to the second coming. This is the case even though in 14:2-3, Jesus’ talk of preparing a place for his disciples does in fact refer to second coming. Why? Because in 14:19 we are told that the world is going to be excluded from beholding the coming of which Jesus is speaking. Elsewhere in the New Testament, the second coming is said to be visible and evident to all (Rev. 1:7). Nor do we have in mind the proposal of Jesus’ post resurrection appearances prior to ascension. For the problem then would be how can these temporal appearances be described in terms of the mutual indwelling of believers? Thus, Gaffin argues that what is in view here is not the second coming, but rather the resurrection, ascension and Pentecost complex.
This series of posts was inspired as the result of a dialogue with my friend, Mike V., regarding the relationship between Christ and the Holy Spirit in the unfolding plan of redemptive history. The substance of the posts is taken from several lectures given by Dr. Gaffin at WTS in a New Testament course focusing on Acts and selected epistles of St. Paul. Thus, the tenor of the posts is more conversational and less polished given that they are for the most part the notes that I took from Gaffin’s lectures. The content, however, is in my opinion quite good.
The Parallel Between Pentecost and Jesus’ Baptism at the Jordan
In a formulaic way, what the Jordan was to Jesus, Pentecost is to the Church. When we grasp this connection, then a specific aspect of the redemptive historical significance emerges. We can highlight the analogy between the Jordan/Christ event and Pentecost/Church event as follows. On the one hand, what took place at the Jordan was a confirmation of Jesus in his Messianic ministry—it was his endowment with the Holy Spirit for his unique kingdom task in ministry. So correlatively, we can say that Pentecost was the constitution of the Church as the Messianic community, and, as was the case for Christ at the Jordan, it was an empowerment for the Church’s kingdom task of gospel ministry. Thus, we note a pattern that cuts across this analogy: at the Jordan Jesus receives the Spirit for the fulfillment of the mission that is before him. In his resurrection and ascension (Acts 2:33), Jesus now receives the Spirit as a reward for the work completed. This Spirit is then poured out on the Church, for in the ascension Christ received the fulfillment of the Father’s promise of the Holy Spirit, and He now shares the Messianic reward of the Spirit with His people.
We can say then that in a redemptive historical sense the Church as the New Covenant community comes into existence on Pentecost. In Ephesians 2:22, St. Paul speaks of the Church as the dwelling place of God in the Spirit, the habitation of God in the Spirit. So Pentecost constitutes the Church as the dwelling place of God in the Spirit. By affirming that the Church in a special way comes into existence at Pentecost, we are not in any way denying that there is only one people of God saved by grace through faith and destined to walk in good works. There is a continuity in the people of God in both testaments, and we can talk about the church in the Old Testament. However, what takes place at Pentecost is something new, yet not disconnected with the past. It is a new community—the New Covenant Church is a matter of fulfillment.
In John 7:39, we read, “the Spirit had not yet been given, because Jesus had not yet been glorified.” So in a sense, the Church is not yet because Jesus is not yet glorified. In a related manner, biblical metaphors speaking of church as a spiritual building in process can be connected to Jesus’ promise to Peter—“upon this rock I will build my church.” In other words, the immovable rock upon with Christ is building His Church is the foundation of Spirit. It is what the resurrected Christ poured on the day of Pentecost—a foundation that is firm and abiding. Thus, in Peter who is a central actor in the beginning of Acts, we encounter a person speaking with amazing boldness, and, consequently, we find this fulfillment of the Spirit’s power. In addition, the significance of Pentecost is not first of all experiential, yet there is a derivative experiential aspect. Rather, it is first of all significant in terms of redemptive history. In other words, it is not the model of a conversion plus an experience of the Spirit; it is a climactic event in redemptive history along with the resurrection, and is by no means of secondary significance. It is constitutive of the Church and so bears on the experience of all who are in the Church—all believers.
Regarding the questions, what exactly is the newness of Pentecost, and how are we to account for what is true because of Pentecost and not otherwise true without Pentecost? Two things above all else should be highlighted. First, what Pentecost means more than anything else, is that the Spirit is now present and at work among God’s people as a result of the finished work of Christ. Pentecost means that the Spirit present in Church is there because of the work of the exalted Christ is completed (John 7:39). Of course the Spirit is at work throughout the Old Covenant and works among the remnant/elect in Israel, but this was a work of the Spirit ahead of time. In other words, it was a proleptic work of the Spirit in terms of unfolding of redemptive history. Thus, the saving benefits that are given to God’s people in the Old Testament are based on what took place in the resurrection and ascension of Christ and the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. Hence, a Christological significance must always be in focus when we consider the redemption of God’s people in both Covenants. To say that the Spirit is now present as the result of the exalted Christ is to say that Spirit is now present and at work in an eschatological fashion, i.e., the newness of Pentecost is that the Spirit is now an eschatological Spirit. Second, the Spirit is now poured out in all flesh—all people. Pentecost brings into existence the people of God as a fellowship of the Spirit made up of Gentile as well as Jews. The circle of fellowship is broadened to include all believers from every nation, tribe and tongue. So the Spirit of Pentecost is a spirit of missions. In the matter of Pentecost, the watchword of the Church is not back to Pentecost, as this would involve us in a redemptive historical anachronism (i.e. the Church is not to be caught up in a back to Pentecost nostalgia in order to attempt to recapture the Pentecost experience of the 120 on the day of Pentecost). Rather, the watchword of Pentecost should be forward (not backward) from Pentecost until Christ returns.
The focus of this concluding post is Balthasar’s hermeneutical practice of interpreting the Bible as a Christocentric narrative. Here again Balthasar’s conviction regarding the canonical integrity of the Bible comes to the fore. For Balthasar, the Bible as a whole speaks of Christ, who is the climax of the one unfolding story from Genesis to Revelation. Stated slightly differently, both the Old and New Testaments must be read in light of the cosmic significance of the resurrection. As one would expect, Balthasar welcomed the ancient and medieval view of a fourfold sense of Scripture, but here too he stressed Christ as the hermeneutical center through which these four senses must ultimately pass. According to Balthasar, the literal or grammatical-historical sense is the basis for the allegorical, tropological, and anagogical senses. “But the literal sense is not a verbal shell above or behind which lie the so-called spiritual senses. Reading the Bible as though the literal and spiritual senses were thus related would, of course, sever the indissoluble bonds uniting its form and content.” Rather than construing Balthasar’s understanding of the relation between the literal and other senses of Scripture in spatial metaphors (though Balthasar did at times speak of layers of meaning), “it is more consistent to think of the relation, as he did, in terms of different applications or uses of a given text by the Spirit, who seeks thereby to bring humanity through Christ into the divine life” (p. 182).
Moreover, for Balthasar, the Bible is neither “a script, which the faithful must slavishly follow in order to secure their heavenly reward. Nor does it contain a fixed set of propositions or ‘fundamentals’ to be believed. And it is not the historical record of events now long past whose impact gradually attenuates with the passage of time. From Balthasar’s perspective, the Christological or spiritual sense of the Bible is neither static, nor time-bound. It mediates the resurrected Christ, who did not ascend into a timeless eternity, but is present in every time as a living event that is ‘always taking place in an ever-new “now”’ [TD2, 102; Balthasar’s emphasis] (p. 183). As one would expect, Balthasar rejected the idea presented by a number of modern biblical scholars and theologians that the goal of biblical hermeneutics is to find a “fixed, original meaning, which then is contrasted to a contemporary perspective [TD2,103]. It is not the transposition of one horizon to another that bothered him about this standard approach, for […] he believed such transpositions are necessary, but rather the presumption that the Bible is an inert object whose meaning can be laid hold of once for all” (p. 183). By this, Balthasar is in no way dismissing the importance of seeking to understand the original authorial intention. It is, however, to insist that the meaning of a text cannot be exhausted by human authorial intention. “Balthasar believed that at the time of a given biblical text’s composition and first reception, the Spirit was already at work opening up the text’s superabundant range of meanings” (p. 183). Relatedly, Balthasar was extremely critical of the idea that a text’s meaning can be summarized in brief formulas in which the summary is presented as articulating the text’s meaning more perspicuously than the text itself. “Once we step into that boat, […], we inevitably cut the mooring lines to the text and are sure to drift wherever our own culture’s winds happen to blow us. The standard approach, therefore, fails to appreciate the Bible’s surplus of meaning as it participates in the theodrama” (p. 183).
In light of the fact that Balthasar accepts multiple meanings in Scripture, does his position necessarily result in a kind of hermeneutical relativism? According to Dickens, (and I tend to agree), absolutely not. There are two constraints that limit the range of acceptable meanings: (1) authorial intent and (2) the regula fidei. Regarding the first, though Balthasar did not limit the meaning of a text to human authorial intent, he did view the human author’s (or redactor’s) intent as being a necessary but not sufficient condition for proper interpretation. “For Balthasar, trying to discern the human author’s intention is, in part, a straightforwardly historical-critical undertaking, involving the identification of the various conditions attending the creation and reception of the original text. Such investigations do not yield meanings, however, since […] tracing the genesis of a text [i.e., relying solely on the diachronic approach] is not the same as understanding it. But this research does limit the number of plausible authorial intentions” (p. 184). Secondly, part of understanding the human author’s intention involves what Balthasar calls seeking a “fellow-feeling” with the author. [I hear echoes of Gadamer here]. Because the goal of “sharing a fellow-feeling with the author is to apprehend more accurately the text’s subject matter, interpreters trying to cultivate this feeling must take their cues from the texts themselves. Putting the point differently, a reader must not allow his or her pre-understanding of love to control the way he or she interprets, say, John’s claims about God’s love for the world. Rather, the interpreter must let the evangelist’s (and redactor’s) uses of this term and its philological relatives guide the inquiry” (p. 184).
The second constraint that restricts the range of acceptable meanings is the regula fidei, which Balthasar understood as a “sense for the radiant integrity of the whole form of revelation as that is mediated by the Scriptures. This is a theological aesthetic sensibility, a capacity to hear when a proposed interpretation distorts the harmonies that Balthasar believed resonate throughout the Bible” (p. 184). Examples of such harmonies include the (consonant, yet in some instances paradoxical) relation between mercy and judgment, Christ’s humiliation and exaltation, the distance of the Father and the nearness of the Son, the dual nature of the one Person Jesus Christ and so on. “For Balthasar, the theological aesthetic fittingness of these relationships, and the beauty of the whole to which they belong, is objectively demonstrable to the eyes of faith. These demonstrations, however, are not based on a comprehensive overview of revelation in its finished totality, for such a vision would undermine the theodramatic quality of God’s dealings with creation. Rather, the rule of faith is a graced capacity to detect when one aspect of revelation’s dynamic relationships has been thrown out of balance by exaggerating or unduly minimizing its significance, or by omitting it altogether” (pp. 184-85).
Notes
Dickens’ essay is found in The Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs Von Balthasar. Eds by Edward T. Oakes, SJ and David Moss. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004): 175-186.
As mentioned in Part I, Balthasar desired to reintroduce into the biblical hermeneutical project of his day, a number of premodern practices so as to attempt a recovery of theologico-aesthetic sensibilities that had been lost with certain modernist interpretive currents. In this post, I shall focus primarily on the first of two premodern hermeneutical practices that Balthasar viewed as crucial, viz., (1) understanding the Bible as self-interpreting and self-glossing and (2) interpreting the Bible as a Christocentric narrative. In part III, I shall discuss (2).
As Dickens points out, Balthasar was somewhat critical of diachronic readings of the Bible, though at times his own readings seem to depend on diachronic analyses. Balthasar’s burden it seems was not to establish the intelligibility of the Bible on the basis of certain similarities to non-biblical forms of life, but rather to emphasize the ways in which the biblical authors transformed what they had taken from non-biblical worldviews to communicate God’s purposes (p. 178). Moreover, Balthasar rejected the idea that the interpreter should “assume that all biblical concepts and images are so time-and culture-bound as to be unintelligible to the modern reader. He recognized that interpretation requires transposing horizons, but refused to countenance any comprehensive, programmatic summary thereof” (p. 178). For Balthasar, events like the Virgin birth are particular, historical events “that God has invested with universal theological significance. Each is a ‘supertemporal expression of the living revelation’ [TD2, 98]. In such cases, it is not the biblical author’s view of creation, or of God’s identity and will, that must be transformed, but the interpreter’s” (p. 178). In other words, Balthasar took seriously the Bible’s claim on one’s life and its ability via the Spirit to radically change a person. Scripture, in other words, is not simply another fascinating subject to study, but is a medium through which we hear a call to follow Christ and die to self. “The Holy Spirit enables such dying and rising in Christ by shattering the interpreter’s anthropological and cosmological horizons of interpretation [TD2, 91]. Hence another implication of Balthasar’s claim that the Bible is self-interpreting is that the Spirit leads the faithful to understand the Bible as God would have them do. The hermeneutics that constitutes theology’s task is therefore sustained by God’s own hermeneutics. Wanting to be known and loved by creation, God provides the conditions that make this possible. The most important of these are the incarnation, death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ. This proves to the eyes of faith both that God is freely self-emptying trinitarian love, and that, as such, God communicates through creaturely forms without destroying them. Part of the Son’s self-emptying involves handing over to the Spirit the responsibility of interpreting the mutual love of Father and Son, which, according to Balthasar, the Spirit both is and exhibits [GL7, 255] (p. 178). In addition, according to Balthasar, the two most important ways in which the Spirit interprets the Son are “enabling the biblical authors to fashion a salvifically adequate image of the Spirit’s own vision of the event of Jesus Christ—and through him of the Father—and initiating the faithful into the triune love of God [GL1, 3; TD2, 106]. These two actions of the Holy Spirit imply each other. On Balthasar’s view, interpreting the Bible as God intends requires an in-spiration in the interpreter that analogously corresponds to the inspiration of the biblical authors” (pp. 178-79). In sum, Scripture is not merely an academic affair but lays a claim on the life of the interpreter. Thus, to interpret Scripture properly involves a noetic and existential transformation of the self that is accomplished by an active cooperation with and submission to Holy Spirit.[1]
Another dimension of Balthasar’s understanding of Scripture as self-interpreting is what we today speak of as intratextuality. The medievals used the term self-glossing to describe this same idea, viz. that the various parts of Scripture are interrelated and can be read as commenting and illumining each other in a polyphonic manner. For example, “Balthasar frequently used verses from the Gospel or epistles of John to solve interpretative riddles that he believed were evident in other texts. Sometimes the intratextual melodies that Balthasar heard were more complex, involving several different texts, from both Testaments. For instance, when discussing the identity of the Church, he used the Deutero-Pauline imagery of Christ being the Head of his Body, the Church, to interpret the ecclesiology of the Letter to the Hebrews, which itself, he maintained, provided a theological corrective to the Old Testament image of Israel as the people of God [GL7, 92]. By listening for such melodies, Balthasar did not mean necessarily to imply that a given biblical author or editor had read the texts with which Balthasar put him in conversation. Rather than making a historical claim about the likely reading list of various biblical authors, Balthasar was contending that contemporary interpreters are more likely to avoid interpretative pitfalls and dead ends if they are alert to the theological interaction among texts that the canon brings together. Otherwise, a certain note will be allowed to sound too loudly, distorting the symphony that he believed the Spirit performs by means of the whole Bible” (p. 181). Clearly, viewing the Bible as self-glossing presupposes its canonical integrity, which Balthasar of course firmly believed. Though the Bible was composed over hundreds of years by numerous authors and consists of diverse parts, Balthasar emphasized the received or final form of the canon as the standard for Christian life and thought (p. 178). Consequently, in interpretative endeavors one must keep the biblical drama in its entirety in mind when attempting to interpret any of its parts, just as one must keep the entire symphony in mind when analyzing one of its movements or smaller melodic fragments.
Notes [1] Though I have not discussed this point here, for Balthasar, proper biblical interpretation is nourished through regular participation in the liturgy.
W.T. Dickens in his essay, “Balthasar’s Biblical Hermeneutics,” notes that according to Balthasar the vast majority of modern theologians and biblical scholars (both Roman Catholic and Protestant) had thrown theological aesthetics to the wayside and as a result a distorted view of Scripture prevailed (e.g., seeing the Bible as a principally a set of propositional truths). This is not to say that Balthasar believed that modern biblical scholarship as a whole was a completely unfruitful project. Rather, for Balthasar, a recovery of certain premodern hermeneutical conventions was needed to reintroduce a lost theologico-aesthetic sensibility to the biblical hermeneutical project and such conventions were not incompatible with the positive discoveries of modern biblical scholarship. These premodern hermeneutical practices include “viewing the Bible as a self-glossing, christologically focused story, the proper interpretation of which is enabled by the Holy Spirit and nourished by regular liturgical worship” (p. 175).
As mentioned above, one of the problems arising when theological aesthetics is discarded is a tendency to view the Bible as primarily a set a propositional truths. Such a view presupposes a kind of dualism between sign and referent in which the sign becomes disposable once that which is signified is affirmed; hence, the mediation of revelation is rendered somewhat superfluous (p. 175). By reintroducing the medieval view of the transcendentals in which beauty, goodness, and oneness are understood as mutually dependent aspects of created being, not only can the sign/referent dualism be overcome, but one also gains a more integrated view of the relation between nature and grace. As Dickens explains,
“in redeeming creation, God does not destroy it in order to create it anew, but surpassingly fulfils it. From this perspective, creation’s unity, truth, goodness, and beauty are seen to be perfected in the life, death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Created being’s determinations are not identified with God; they are believed to participate in the divine beauty, truth, goodness, and unity.
When beauty is conceived as a transcendental attribute of being that participates in the glory of God, then the natural and historic forms it takes are regarded in significantly different ways from those followed by most modern theologians. Rather than merely pointing to or dissolving in a transcendent ground or depth, Balthasar claimed that beautiful forms embody and reveal this transcendence, while simultaneously veiling it (GL 1, 151). This is because they are indissolubly united with the transcendence they mediate. Although a form’s content transcends its mediation, it is available only in and through the form. It does not lie behind, above, or in front of it—regardless of whether those spatial metaphors are construed historically, morally, spiritually, or otherwise. Form and content, therefore, can be distinguished only provisionally. Breaking the bonds that unite a beautiful radiant form with its transcendent content destroys the one and renders the other inaccessible” (pp. 176-177).
Notes
Dickens’ essay is found in The Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs Von Balthasar. Eds by Edward T. Oakes, SJ and David Moss. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004): 175-186.
In chapter 2 of his book Presence and Thought: An Essay on the Religious Philosophy of Gregory of Nyssa, Balthasar discusses two forms of becoming. In the previous chapter he had set forth that idea that time constitutes the foundation of material being. He then adds that if this is the case, then “physical movement is itself founded on a primordial movement, a metaphysical movement, so to speak, which is common to all creatures: namely, the passage from nothingness to existence” (p. 37). Only God as uncreated is not subject to change, whereas created beings are essentially becoming beings. As Gregory states, “[s]ince it possesses the beginning (ἀρχη) of its being by way of change, it is impossible that it should not be entirely variable (τρεπτός)” [Catech. 21; II, 57 D]. Speaking to the different varieties of created being, viz., material and spiritual, Balthasar notes that if we consider time as category of created being, the continuance in change for material being is precisely time. Alternatively, for the spiritual being, continual becoming “is a participation in the cause of being not only insofar as it is source but also insofar as it is end” (p. 37). This participation in God is described by Gregory as follows: “Creation stands within the realm of the beautiful only through a participation in that which is the best. It has not begun merely at one point or another to exist, but at every moment it is perceived to be in its beginning stages on account of its perpetual growth toward that which is the best” [C. Eunom. 8; II, 797 A]. Both material and spiritual (created) being displays a kind of infinity—the former, in the horizontal realm of the quantitative and of number, and the latter, in an unending vertical ascent given the infinity of the source to which it seeks to be united, viz., God. As Gregory explains, “[n]ever will the soul reach its final perfection, for it will never encounter a limit, … it will always be transformed into a better thing.” […] “Since the First Good is infinite in its nature, communion with it on the part of the one whose thirst is quenched by it will have to be infinite as well, capable of being enlarged forever” [C. Eunom. I; II, 340 D]. All of this leads Balthasar to the following conclusion:
“there are two forms of becoming, the two of them together yielding the total formula for the analogy of being. One of these two is the horizontal movement of created being, which is to say, its foundation of nothingness, which separates it eternally from God, inasmuch as pure potentiality (time) is in itself κένωμα καὶ οὐδέν [emptiness and nothingness]. The other expresses the ascending movement of becoming, which is the innate idea and desire for God in the creature” (p. 38)[1]
Notes [1] In footnote 9, Balthasar adds, “we are not dealing here with innate ideas in the sense of modern philosophy […] but rather in the sense of the Stoics (Cicero: De nat. deor. II, 12)” [p. 38].
As Balthasar explains, the “matter” or res to which Christian dogmatic formulations refer is Christ—His Incarnation, crucifixion and resurrection. In Christ, the Son of the Father, we are given a revelation of the innermost nature of the Christian God, viz., the Trinity as love. The Christian of course in his/her act of faith embraces not merely the formula or theological expressions of the “matter”, but the res. As St. Thomas says, “actus credentis non terminator ad enuntiabile, sed ad rem”, “the act of belief is not limited/confined to the proposition/expression, but to the thing” (ST, II-II q 1, a 1 ad 1). However, if expression is required in order to encounter the res, then in which expressions is encounter impeded and in which is it made possible? (Truth is Symphonic, p. 65). Balthasar answers this question as follows:
“For the encounter to take place, the expression must cause the act of God’s love for us to appear more divine, more radical, more complete and at the same time more unimaginable and improbable. The criterion is that of maximality, which succeeds (in a way that is beyond our grasp) in incorporating aspects that human reason would like to regard as incompatible with the res. In fact, we can say this: wherever, in our elucidation of the mystery, some aspect appears really lucidly clear from a rational point of view, causing the mystery quality (which announces the ‘greater dissimilarity’ of God, his distinctive divinity) to retreat at that point and opening up a wider spiritual landscape—there heresy is to be found, or at least the boundary of permissible theological pluralism has been overstepped. For when this happens, the intellectus fidei has been eclipsed, and only human reason is operating; instead of man’s total act, responding in faith to the ever-greater, incomprehensible love of God, we have an act that has rationally domesticated this love, at least in part. This almost always involves taking one of two or more apparently contradictory statements of the word of God and making it absolute, and then this isolated proposition (which is an enuntiabile and not the res) is used as the basis for further logical deduction.
A classical example of this is the doctrine of double predestination [e.g., as hyper-Calvinism teaches] […] According to this, God’s sublime foreknowledge has from the outset appointed a number of men to eternal bliss and a number to eternal damnation. People can adduce God’s absolute sovereignty in support of this, but also man’s freedom. They can quote passages such as Matthew 25. They can do all this without noticing that they have clearly moved away from the central message of revelation and, having reduced the mystery of God’s dealings with us to a logic, they have robbed him of his divinity. Does this mean that we are forced to adopt the converse teaching of the ‘restoration of all things’ and the abolition of hell? By no means. For that too would be to rationalize the love that is only encountered where it actually takes place, a love that demands our participation. We cannot man on observation post over and against this love. The Christian hope for the world is something quite different from rational reportage.
Our theme is the maximality of God’s love, but as it encounters us in Jesus Christ, that is, in a divinely willed poverty and humiliation” (pp. 65-66).
In a little section entitled, “Joy and the Cross,” near the end of Balthasar’s work, Truth is Symphonic, he briefly describes an insoluble paradox of Marxism and Hegelianism and then presents Christianity as that which alone weds transcendence and immanence in triune love revealed in the shape of Jesus Christ. Turning first to Marxism, he writes:
“the joy of self-surrender for this eschatological ideal (which I personally shall not live to enjoy) is actually greater than the envisioned happiness of a humanity that will no longer have any need to go beyond itself in such a heroic manner. In the same way, for Hegel, ‘absolute knowledge’ was of less moment than the joy of collaborating, through self-sacrifice, in its discovery. For modern man, struggling and suffering man, who is more significant than God the spectator; painful yearning for the Absolute is more significant than the painless, self-enclosed ‘knowledge of knowledge’. The difference is that in modern times there is also an awareness of the process itself (evolution). No doubt that is why every day we calmly accept reports of ever-intensifying war and famine, and the threat of total destruction of mankind at all levels, as the inevitable public sacrifice that must be offered to a transcendent ideal that increasingly disappears into the mist. Once we realize, however, that in practical terms this ideal is unattainable, it is a fact that the genuine sacrificial joy that could have sustained us during the early stages fades away. It becomes clear, from the secular standpoint, that the path on which we have set out (and there is no other) cannot be followed to its completion.
A miracle needs to take place: the most unyielding categorical imperative of self-transcendence must coincide with the most blissful inclination of love. And this is only possible in Christianity, where God is not ‘thought thinking itself’ [Aristotle] and ‘absolute knowledge’ [Hegel] but triune love—a love that comes to us from its origin in the shape of the incarnate Son, taking upon himself, on his Cross, our ultimate failure and hence our loss of joy, and in himself transforming our attempts to go beyond ourselves into new joy through a ‘hope that does not deceive’” (pp. 160-161).
In his reflections on Job 4, Reardon provides some helpful background and commentary on Eliphaz, the first of Job’s “comforters.” Eliphaz is the eldest of the three men who interact with Job, and unlike the other two interlocutors, explicitly appeals to his own religious experience in his engagement with Job (4:8, 16; 5:3). Eliphaz’s deep sense of God’s absoluteness, birthed out of his religious experience, created in him a strong conviction of God’s justice and purity. Formally speaking, what Eliphaz says about God is correct and one has difficulty finding fault with the content per se. However, as Reardon points out, “[t]his profound certainty in his soul became the lens through which Eliphaz interprets the sundry enigmas of life, notably the problem of human suffering. But this perspective is too narrow, because it does not permit Eliphaz to discern the difference between punishment and trial” (p. 25). Because Eliphaz and his fellow comforters fail to distinguish between these two categories, they automatically find fault with Job so as to vindicate the justice of God. However, we as readers are aware of the conversation between God and Satan that took place in chapter 1, and, thus, are able to sympathize with Job in a way that his interlocutors were not in light of their rigid, either/or view of suffering. God was not punishing Job, but He was testing Job’s faith, just as Abraham and thousands of other saints have been tested.
As the story progresses, Job’s dialogue partners become increasingly un-wise and particularly uncompassionate. I close with a longish quote from Reardon that is as prophetic as ever.
“Eliphaz begins the discussion by invoking his own direct spiritual experience, his ‘vision,’ his veda. As we shall see, however, the second comforter, Bildad the Shuhite, can appeal to no personal experience of his own, but only to the experience of his elders, so what was a true insight in the case of Eliphaz declines to only an inherited theory in the case of Bildad. Living mystical insight becomes merely an inherited moral belief. True vision declines into theoretical dogma.
The same line of decline progresses further in the case of Job’s third comforter, because Zophar the Naamathite, unlike Bildad, is unable to invoke even the tradition of his elders. We shall see that Zophar is familiar with neither the living experience of Eliphaz nor the inherited learning of Bildad; his is simply the voice of established prejudice. That is the line of declination: real vision, accepted teaching, blind prejudice.
In these three men, then, we watch an insight decline into a theory, and then the theory harden into a settled, unexamined opinion. Thus do the voices raised against Job throughout this book become ever less persuasive or even morally serious” (p. 26).
Notes
Patrick Henry Reardon. The Trial of Job: Orthodox Reflections on the Book of Job. Ben Lomond: Conciliar Press, 2005.
“God’s presence in and absence from the world are a mystery that is impenetrable to thought and even more so to man’s senses and experience. It would seem that we can only think and speak of it in propositions that are dialectical, that is, which cancel each other out. For if we construct the idea of God as its content demands, God is both everything (to pan estin autos: Sir 43:27)—for nothing can be outside God, nor can anything be added to him—and ‘exalted above all his works’ (para panta to erga autou: Sir 43:28). For none of these works is God: indeed, each of them is separated from him by the infinite distance and opposition of absolute and relative. The more God has to be in all things if they are to ‘be’ at all, the more his presence in them reveals him to be utterly different from them: the more he is immanent, the more he is transcendent. This dialectic is correct in its own particular way, but it sounds empty; religious experience finds it hard to follow, with the result that the images of God in the religions manifest a pluralist diversity.
No one has ever seen the Father, but the Son has ‘interpreted’ him (Jn 1:18) in human form. As the Word-made-flesh, he has clothed the ineffable in human categories, but in such a way that the essentially incomprehensible God can be discerned shining through and beyond all these categories of comprehensibility. […] God, ever incomprehensible, approaches us as a ‘God at hand’, yet he would not be God if he were not also a ‘God afar off’ (Jer 23:23)” [Truth is Symphonic; pp. 122-123].
Along with Alastair, apparently I use the words “death” and “dead” too often. But what really put me over the top is the fact that I use the word “hell.”
Feeling a bit better today–out of 100%, I’m at about 50%, which is a great improvement from last week. The new antibiotics seem to be working much better, and I can actually eat food again. Thanks so much for your prayers–I definitely feel them and ask that you please continue to pray for my full recovery.
Before jumping into this essay, I have a special request for my readers. I have been ill for the past week, running a pretty high fever. For whatever reason, I did not respond to the first round of antibiotics, and have had to return to the doctor for additional tests and new antibiotics. I still feel pretty lousy and am more or less confined to the bed. Your prayers would be greatly appreciated for my full recovery. The summary below was written before I became ill, but I haven’t had the strength to post it. Please feel free to leave comments as to the essay, but it is likely that my responses will be delayed.
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Fergus Kerr’s essay, “Balthasar and Metaphysics,” begins with a quote from Balthasar stating the Christian must not ignore metaphysics but rather is called to be its guardian. Yet, Balthasar no doubt believes that there are right and wrong ways of doing metaphysics, and points to St. Thomas as setting forth a metaphysic worth following. In contrast with other interpreters of Thomism, Balthasar takes Thomas’ distinction between essence and existence in creatures to be real and not merely conceptual. Consequently, Balthasar rejects the idea that Aquinas’ doctrine of analogy was simply a semantic theory. Rather, the analogia entis “refers to the creature’s real participation in the divine life, anticipated in the here and now by faith” (p. 226). Though the relationship between Creator and creature must be understood as analogical, Balthasar affirmed that with every similarity between God and his creation there exists simultaneously a greater dissimilarity. As Kerr observes, there is a strong apophatic thrust to Balthasar’s interpretation of Aquinas, as well as a desire to uphold God as Wholly Other. Yet, according to Balthasar, Thomas’ analogy of being saves negative theology from certain undesirable consequences, as were played out historically in, e.g., John Scotus Eriugena (p. 233). Balthasar’s read of Thomas also gives us insight into how he viewed the relationship between philosophy and theology. Although the Greeks were attuned to the mystery of being, according to Balthasar, they were unable to properly distinguish being from God. Aquinas, on the other hand, by reflecting on divine revelation—particularly, the doctrine of creation—was able to rethink the mystery of being as inherited from his ancient and medieval predecessors with a new appreciation for it immanence and transcendence. In sum, for Balthasar, Aquinas’ crucial move was his “conception of the real distinction, the ontological difference, in every and all created being, between existence and essence; this is what allows us to see the radical difference between creatures and God, and thus to respect each, letting creatures have their own reality and letting God be God, collapsing neither into the other” (p. 234).
The concluding section of Kerr’s essay is devoted to a discussion of Balthasar’s revamping of Heidegger’s conception of the fourfold. Though Kerr thinks that the first of Balthasar’s fourfold difference, viz., “the intersubjective difference of the awakening child’s ‘I’ from its mother,” warrants further reflection, he seems to question whether the claims of Balthasar’s fourfold are sufficiently supported (p. 235).
Notes
Kerr’s essay is found in The Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs Von Balthasar. Eds by Edward T. Oakes, SJ and David Moss. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004): 224-238.
John Webster, in his essay, “Balthasar and Karl Barth,” discusses Balthasar’s friendship with Karl Barth and the various ways that Barth influenced Balthasar’s theology. As is well-known, Balthasar, was an avid reader of Barth, lectured on Barth’s works, and even devoted an entire book to Barth’s theology, The Theology of Karl Barth: Exposition and Interpretation . As Webster points out, Balthasar’s book on Barth was by far the best of the Roman Catholic responses to Barth, as it “did much to lay to rest a conventional and ill-informed Catholic presentation of Barth which, on the basis of a very partial knowledge of his Romans commentary and a few other early writings, dismissed him as an ‘occasionalist’” (p. 243). Balthasar’s acquaintance with Barth was by no means superficial, as he meticulously engaged Barth’s mature writings, viz., the Church Dogmatics, and took very seriously the need for and mutual benefit to be gained from a charitable dialogue with his Protestant brother in Christ. In his presentation of Barth for Catholic consideration, Balthasar argued that Barth had abandoned the conceptuality that characterized his early work and had moved over the course of the 1930’s and 1940’s to an analogical understanding of the relation between God and creation. According to Balthasar, this shift allowed Barth to affirm a significantly more positive view of the “twofoldness” of Creator and creation. Thus, creation as that which is not God was understood vis-à-vis God as good in itself. “And the shift from dialectic to analogy is christologically driven: ‘Word of God’ (abstract, interruptive, atemporal) is replaced by ‘Jesus Christ, God and man’ such that Barth affirms an incarnationally grounded ‘compatibility between God and creatures’” [KB, 114] (p. 243). Webster, however, disagrees with Balthasar’s schematization of Barth’s development and argues that Barth never completely discarded his dialectical thinking and that even in his early work, Barth was concerned “with the fellowship between God and humankind which Balthasar” thought only came about with Barth’s later discovery of analogy. Regarding the latter, Webster believes that Balthasar tended to blur the distinctions between the Lutheran and Reformed influences on Barth, and, in particularly, Balthasar overlooked the impact of Calvin and the Reformed tradition on Barth’s theology during the period of his professorship at Göttingen in 1921-25. During that period, Barth devoted himself to the study of Calvin and the Reformed confessional writings. “As he lectured on these topics […], Barth very early came to an account of the magisterial Reformation according to which Luther emphasizes the ‘vertical’, soteriological axis in God’s relation to the world, whereas Calvin complements this by stronger humane, moral concerns, a concern with the ‘horizontal’. […] The center of gravity of Barth’s early years as a theological professor was thus not—as Balthasar believed—Luther and Kierkegaard, but the tradition which stemmed from Calvin” (p. 247). Though Webster is wholly unconvinced by Balthasar’s account of Barth’s development, he nonetheless praises Balthasar’s engagement with Barth and lists the following as the most important issues to have emeged from that engagement: “the analogical relation between God and creatures; Barth’s actualism; and his Christological constriction” (p. 248).
I close with the following question. Given the clear connection that Webster traces out between Barth and Calvin, coupled with the suggestion that I made in a previous post regarding the possible link between Balthasar’s view of the self-authenticating nature of divine revelation and Barth’s view of the same via Calvin, perhaps the Balthasar/Calvin connection via Barth is a fertile and hitherto unexplored area of study?
Notes Webster’s essay is published in The Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs Von Balthasar. Eds by Edward T. Oakes, SJ and David Moss. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004): 241-255.
In my personal/devotional reading of Scripture, I have recently begun reading the book of Job and am using as a supplement, Patrick Henry Reardon’s, The Trial of Job: Orthodox Reflections on the Book of Job. I plan to post my reflections on Job intermittently as my reading progresses.
In the introductory chapter, Reardon explains that there are two kinds of wisdom books in the Bible. One kind reflects what Plato called prudence or practical wisdom and is paradigmatically represented by the Book of Proverbs. This kind of wisdom tends to be more traditional or conservative and focuses not on the speculative or “why” questions, but rather on the “how” questions (e.g., how should I live). As Reardon somewhat provocatively puts it, practical prudence says that when you are confronted with the various problems of life “just keep the commandments, respect the tradition handed down from your parents, work hard, be careful, don’t be a scoffer, and everything will turn out just fine” (p. 11). The second sort of wisdom literature is exemplified by the Books of Ecclesiastes and Job. These books, on the other hand, are speculative and question the traditional, inherited answers. “They make a point of addressing difficult and thorny questions about the meaning of human existence itself. They address such difficult questions as how to reconcile the existence of evil and suffering with the existence of an all-good, all-wise, and almighty God” (p. 11). [And aren’t we thankful that God has chosen such books to be part of his canon. That is, God seems to allow or even invite us to wrestle with these thorny, speculative issues].
Reardon goes on to point out the irony of the fact that Job was a man who embodied the virtues found in the Book of Proverbs, yet he did not meet with good fortune but with a tremendous amount of suffering. Job, as we would expect, wants to know why–if the Proverbs promise blessings to those who follow its wisdom, then why am I experiencing what seems to be cursings?
During the course of the story, Job is met with three so-called “comforters,” yet they do nothing but increase Job’s pain with their attempts to explain without remainder Job’s current sufferings. Eliphaz, one of the three men, is an important character, who becomes the voice of the first, more traditional kind of wisdom. As the various dialogues unfold, Job finds the answers given by his interlocutors’ for the most part sorely deficient. Here the speculative character of the book shines through, as the answers given are more tentative and probed than definitive or proved. “The book ends on the note of faith in God but, like Ecclesiastes, it permits the speculative thought of the believer to explore the darker, more mysterious dimensions of that faith” (p. 13).
In closing this section, Reardon makes an insightful observation. In the final chapter of Job, God reveals Himself to Job. Repeatedly in the book, Job makes the claim that he is a righteous man. “At the end, however, God shows something of Himself to Job’s inner vision, and no longer is our questioner able with confidence to call himself a righteous man. On the contrary, he falls down in humility and self-contempt: ‘I have heard of You by the hearing of the ear, / But now my eye sees You./ Therefore, I abhor myself, / And repent in dust and ashes” (42:5-6). This is the whole Bible’s definitive word, in fact, about the prospects of human righteousness: that it won’t work. One finds salvation only in faith, repentance, a healthy contempt of self, and a saving trust in God’s fidelity to His promises. One observes this same attitude repeatedly throughout the epistles of Paul the Apostle” (p. 13).
The Protestant Reformed tradition, would of course, wholly agree with Reardon’s comments on the “prospects of human righteousness.” On this point, given Reardon’s take on Job’s righteousness, I wonder whether Reardon (an Orthodox priest) would be in agreement with St. Augustine’s claim that our righteous deeds (apart from Christ) are simply polished sins (or something to that effect)? Also, I find Job’s answer above (42:5-6) incredibly interesting given the postmodern criticism of vision metaphors over hearing metaphors. Job seems to contrast his “hearing” of God with his “seeing” God and privileges the latter. Any thoughts?
