Per Caritatem

As mentioned in my opening post, Gadamer’s overall project in Truth and Method is plausibly understood as an attempt to work out the notion of identity-and-difference as manifest in hermeneutical experience.   That is, on Gadamer’s view the “being” of texts (and works of art and music) exhibit a flexibility which allows for multiple, true interpretations, as different communities of inquiry approach the text with new questions.  Yet, these multiple, true and very diverse (yet non-contradictory) interpretations are of the very same text or work or art/music and thus exhibit an identity through time.  In this view, interpretation is not mere re-production but involves a productive aspect given the new questions and new “horizon fusings” that take place as various communities of inquiry engage the texts of the tradition over time.  Here Gadamer speaks in phenomenological language, using terms like “aspects” (=the multiple, true interpretations) and “things themselves” (=the subject matter of the text).

As I’ve suggested on numerous occasions, a helpful way to understand what Gadamer has in mind with his view of the expansive “being” of texts is to consider  a musical analogy .  In jazz, the performer works with a “lead sheet” (something akin to a text) which contains a given melody and harmonic progression.  Thus, there certain givens/structures to which the performer must submit.  However, various performers interpret the (very same) piece differently and bring out new aspects not seen—or rather heard—up to that point.  This is not to suggest a kind of hermeneutical anarchy, as the interpretation/performance must be recognizable by particular musical community/tradition as a valid instance of that particular piece.  Likewise, the performer cannot simply impose onto the piece whatever harmony s/he chooses.  To do so would be to produce an illegitimate interpretation, just as imputing any meaning onto a text would likewise not count as a valid interpretation.  Because the “being” of musical works (like texts and works of art) contain this built-in-flexibility, multiple, true interpretations are not only possible but to be expected. However, in order to count as valid, legitimate, true interpretations, they must exhibit continuity with the tradition in that each (to use Gadamer’s term) “aspect” manifests the thing itself in its presentation, though no two aspects are exactly the same.  This flexibility allows the tradition to grow and continue its influence through time, as the “being” of texts and works of art show themselves differently in different historical epochs, yet they retain continuity with the tradition. (Though some scholars have begun to explore the ways in which Gadamer’s work might be brought into conversion with the development of religious traditions, including Christianity, there is certainly room for additional work in this area.  Those working in biblical hermeneutics have, of course, already enjoyed the fruits of his labors).

In Foucault’s essay, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” he emphasizes that history should not be guided by any overriding criteria from outside of history.  Hegel of course is an example of one engaged in the approach to history that Foucault condemns.    According to Hegel, history is the unfolding of Spirit in which Spirit becomes increasingly conscious of itself and increasingly more free etc.  A person operating under this methodology starts with a certain metaphysical assumption or theory and selects those events that support his/her theory.  We see this at work in Hegel’s read of history in which anything that happens to contradict his vision of the telos of history is simply not part of the account.  In other words, Hegel, while narrating history simultaneously and selectively erases and deletes history in order to substantiate his thesis.

Hegel isn’t the only one who falls prey to Foucault’s critique.  It seems that any philosophical or theological position that advocates a suprahistorical principle which guides history teleologically would likewise be guilty.  As Foucault explains, genealogy “rejects the metahistorical deployment of ideal significations and indefinite teleologies”[1] (“Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” 242).   In other words, Foucault’s genealogical approach to history rejects any factors or principles that come from outside of history or that are not rooted in history.  One the one hand, Foucault’s critique is absolutely valid and makes excellent sense.  For example, Hegel’s account of the unfolding of Spirit in history, his ridiculous (not to mention racist) accounts of Africans and other people groups and the ultimate realization of absolute Spirit in modern Prussia fails to do justice to the complexity of history and historical events.  On the other hand, is it not possible to incorporate Foucault’s warnings against contorting history into our theoretical molds while still allowing for a suprahistorical principle, or as Christians claim, a God who transcends the historical process (yet who also entered into that process in the Incarnation) and guides history to end?  In other words, perhaps the complexity and contrapuntal nature of our in-time, historical existence can be acknowledged without having to deny God’s involvement in and providential guidance over the course of history.  Is it the case that every aspect of both positions are mutually exclusive?  That is, from a Christian point of view, can we not mine some of Foucault’s “Egyptian gold”, while leaving the “dross” behind?  Of course Foucault would say, “no, you cannot and that is just my point.”

Yet, perhaps this mining activity is what biblical theology attempts to do by distinguishing between first (diachronic) and second (synchronic or synthesizing) readings of Scripture.  That is, Christian exegetes must to be careful not to allow second reading synthetic conclusions to flatten unduly the terrain of the first reading material.  In other words, we shouldn’t be too quick to harmonize the tensions in Scripture, as the diachronic dissonances might themselves be revelatory and instructive.  For example, as some scholars suggest, the NT itself shows us that there were differing and competing theologies among Christians (Paul and the Jewish Christians come to mind, also the different emphases in the synoptics); yet, these different and even opposing groups and theologies still found unity in the Christ-event (his death and resurrection) and were unified by means of the rituals connected with these events (as it the case for the Church throughout history).  If this is the case, then perhaps those communal tensions and differing doctrinal emphases have something important to teach us today not only about the nature of Scripture itself but also about the difficulties of ecclesial existence.  If dissonances existed then among God’s people and were not fully resolved (as the NT itself suggests) and in fact were needed as mutual correctives to one another, then why should we think that something analogous should not be the case today as we continue to struggle to “translate” the Gospel and all its implications for this-world-living in contemporary society?  This is not to say that we should not make every effort to pursue ecumenical unity (which also involves acknowledging genuine differences) and to pray that the Church would be one.  However, it is to suggest that jumping too quickly to resolves the tensions and harmonize the discordant voices of Scripture might be to miss the fact that God has purposed a-tonal moments in his symphony and that these aspects of revelation speak to us as well.  Reading Scripture diachronically (as well as eschatologically)[2] and connecting its time to our time and seeing ourselves as part of the narrative of salvation history, may, as Rowan Williams puts it,

encourage us to take historical responsibility for arranging and exploring how the gospel is going to be heard in our day.  It can do this because it shows us a history (inside and outside the text) of real and harsh divisions that is both taken up and “overtaken” by grace.  It suggests that what matters is not our ability to finish our business or to secure consensus, as if Christ would be “audible” only in this mode, but our readiness to decide, to take sides, as adult persons, and to live with the consequence and cost of that within the disciplines we share with other Christians of openness to the judgement of the Easter mystery.  These disciplines we share with both past and present, with those near and distant, those we agree with and those we resist, those who are congenial and those who are not”  (On Christian Theology, 59).

Notes

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[1] Lawrence Cahoone.  From Modernism to Postmodernism:  An Anthology. London:  Blackwell.

[2] None of this is meant to suggest that synthesizing should be done away with as something inherently evil.  The Church needs great minds like those of Thomas Aquinas and others who have helped move the Church forward by engaging in great synthesizing projects.  So too the  Church today must be willing to cautiously re-synthesize as history unfolds and new challenges arise.

For those interested, my recent article published in the Heythrop Journal (Vol 50, issue 1, Jan. 2009) is currently available online at the following website.  I believe the essay will be posted until the end of this month.

Here’s a brief synopsis:

The first section of my essay highlights a number of significant encounters with texts and persons at different phases of Augustine’s life. In the final section, I bring Augustine into conversation with Hans-Georg Gadamer in an attempt to draw attention to certain hermeneutical continuities shared by premoderns, Gadamarians and postmoderns.   After briefly comparing premodern and modern hermeneutical orientations, I conclude that Augustine’s approach to Scripture contrasts sharply with a (strict) modern grammatico-historical methodology (as instituted by Spinoza), whereas premodern hermeneutics share a number of continuities with Gadamarian and postmodern emphases.  Lastly, in light of Gadamer’s famous statement, “all of life is hermeneutics,” perhaps one could read Augustine’s life as affirming this claim.  In other words, a close look at Augustine’s life reveals the decisive ways in which pre-judgments, interpretative traditions, and a dynamic rather than a static understanding of text (and reality) affected Augustine’s spiritual and intellectual vision.

In chapter one of V. Phillips Long’s highly recommended book, The Art of Biblical History, he begins by asking whether the Bible is a history book.  If we mean by this label to define the essential character of the Bible, then surely this is not the case.  However, by answering in the negative, Long does not mean to suggest that history is not part of the Bible, for surely it is.  What Long wants to stress it that that Bible is made up of many diverse literary genres such that no single label is sufficient to capture its essence. In addition, Long highlights the importance of allowing the larger discourse unit to set the meaning trajectory for the smaller-scale literary forms within the larger entity.  To illustrate “the importance of considering the larger discourse before rendering the generic or form-critical verdicts,” Long provides the following example.  For some modern biblical critics, “common sense” and the “laws of nature” press us to conclude that since neither trees nor donkeys speak, Judges 9:7-15 and Numbers 22:28-30 must be fables.  However, Long questions whether such reasoning is sound given the Christian worldview.  “After all, according to the ‘laws of nature,’ bushes do not burn without being consumed, and dead people do not rise from the grave” (p. 49).  Long then argues in such a way that the Christian worldview in which the supernatural is operative and not rejected tout court as part of one’s presuppositional stance, yet Long is able, based on the literary clues of the text, to differentiate in a non-arbitrary way between the textual form that we have in the Judges 9:7-15 passage and the Numbers 22:28-30 passage.  As Long explains,

“In the case of Jotham’s speech, it is not the fabulous storyline but, rather, the larger context that makes it unmistakable that Jotham’s speech is a fable.  The verses that precede it introduce the historical personages and the point of tension reflected in the fable, and Jotham concludes his speech with direct references to the same:  ‘Now if you have acted honorably and in good faith when you made Abimelech king, and if you have been fair to Jerub-Baal [...].  But if you have not, let fire come out from Abimelech and consume you, citizens of Shechem and Beth Milo, and let fire come out from you, citizens of Shechem and Beth Milo, and consume Abimelech!’ (Judg 9:16, 20).  The phrase ‘let fire come out’ is a repetition of the phrase found at the end of the fable:  ‘then let fire come out of the thornbush and consume the cedars of Lebanon’ (v. 15).  This is clear evidence that Jotham’s final words in his speech (vv. 16-20) are an interpretation of this fable” (p. 49).

So what about the Numbers 22 passage?  It also contains “fabulous” aspects.  As Long makes clear, the approach to Scripture that he is advocating does not classify a passage or account as fable just because it presents us with a supernatural occurrence-Long fully embraces the supernatural claims of Scripture.  According to the approach that Long takes, the Numbers passage is not understood as a fable because

“the broader context apparently offers nothing that would mark it out as such; no interpretation, for example, is given. What one has, rather, is a story involving certain wondrous occurrences within the larger account of the book of Numbers with no indication that a new formal literary type has been introduced.  Thus, unless one is willing to argue that the book of Numbers as a whole must be characterized as fable, there appears to be no valid literary reason to label the Balaam stories as such” (pp. 49-50).

Historic Christianity, in line with the councils of Ephesus and Chalcedon, rejects both Nestorianism, which includes the idea that with the God-Man we have two persons, one of divine nature and one of human nature, and Eutychianism, viz., the idea that the divine nature absorbs the human nature in the Incarnation.  Thomas Aquinas, e.g., following Chalcedon, emphasizes a theandric acting of Christ, a God-Man acting.  Chalcedon is clear that the Incarnation involves not one nature, nor two persons in two natures, but one hypostasis, one Person, the Person of the Word, subsisting in two natures, divine and human.  I see no reason why the use of the Incarnational analogy as a way to understand the nature of Scripture has to be incompatible with Chalcedonian teaching.  In fact, it seems to me that such an analogy is an extremely helpful way to assist us in developing a doctrine of Scripture that steers clear of these ancient heresies.  For example, a strict dictation theory would be a kind of Eutychianism applied to Scripture (see Dr. Joel Garver’s comments regarding the ways that the incarnational analogy speaks to possible dictational elements of Scripture), whereas what we see in certain expressions of liberal theology is an exaltation of the human side of Scripture that more or less cancels out the divinity of Scripture. 

Why some Reformed thinkers are in such an uproar about the incarnational analogy applied to Scripture still baffles me.  Theologians within the Reformed tradition itself refer to ideas along these lines.  I recall reading an article by B.B. Warfield (“The Divine and the Human in the Bible”) in my student days at Westminster.  In the article Warfield says,  ”[o]f every word in the Bible it is asserted that it has been conceived in a human mind and written by a human hand” and “of every word in the Bible it is asserted that it is inspired by God and has been written under the direct and immediate guidance of the Holy Spirit.” (p. 57).  Again, I see no reason why the authoritative claim of the word of God in light of its divinity has to be diminished by our acknowledgement that it is simultaneously the word of human beings given in human language, by human beings, and as Dei Verbum says, “in human fashion” (III.12).   The broader Catholic tradition has no problem with this kind of approach as an aid or model for our understanding the nature of Scripture.  Again, in Dei Verbum, we read,

The fact is that truth is differently presented and expressed in the various types of historical writing, in prophetical and poetical texts, and in other forms of literary expression. Hence the exegete must look for that meaning which the sacred writers, in given situations and granted the circumstances of their time and culture, intended to express and did in fact express through the medium of a contemporary literary form [Cf. St. Augustine, De Doctrina Christiana, III, 18, 26].  Rightly to understand what the sacred authors wanted to affirm in their work, due attention must be paid both to the customary and characteristic patterns of perception, speech and narrative which prevailed in their time, and to the conventions which people then observed in their dealings with one another (DV, III.12, italics added).[1] 

The document then states that Scripture must also   be read and interpreted with its divine authorship in mind” and that equal attention must be given to the unity of Scripture as a whole, which involves of course a Christocentric understanding of all of Scripture, and “taking into account the tradition of the entire church and the analogy of faith” (DV, III.12). 

This, I take it, is not some version of Scriptural Nestorianism where we have two persons and two natures with no metaphysical or logical priority given to the divine, but rather is very similar to the trajectory of Enns’ work (perhaps minus a specifically Roman Catholic understanding of the two things mentioned in the final quote).  Yet, given Enns area of expertise, he wants to apply the analogy to the various issues and objections leveled at Scripture that he has encountered in his particular context of Old Testament studies.  At least one of the goals that Enns’ has in mind with the incarnational analogy is to, on the one hand, (1) avoid an inappropriate elevation of the human features of Scripture (as is often the case in extreme liberal theology), as well as to (2) resist so emphasizing the divinity of Scripture that we lose sight of the fact that the Bible was (a) written in an historical context and (b) communicated in various (human) languages, with the divine Author being quite cognizant of speaking into the cultural and socio-political practices of the day (and yet not limited to these cultural boundaries).  With regard to (2), Enns utilizes the incarnational analogy as a way to faith-fully understand the similarities between, e.g., Israel’s religious practices and those of the Ancient Near East.  That is, rather than simply denying these similarities or being threatened or embarrassed by them, we can appeal to the incarnational analogy of Scripture as affirming the degree to which God condescends to reveal himself via the cultural thought patterns and with a view to the religious and political practices of the day.  Yet, Enns is also quick to point out the differences between Ancient Near Eastern practices and views and those found in Scripture.  For example, God’s people in the Old Testament were announcing YHWH as the God and proclaiming all other putative “gods” to be false, mute, dead idols.  As a Christian philosopher, I see this as something akin to what I do in my study of various philosophers in the Western tradition.  That is, as I study Plato, Aristotle, Plotinus, Gadamer and others, I encounter numerous similarities and continuities with Christianity.  However, with St. Augustine, what I do not find in the (non-Christian) thinkers of the Western tradition is a God-made-flesh sacrificed for me. 

In closing, while I readily acknowledge that one’s application and explication of the analogy can always be refined and improved, I still see no reason why the incarnational analogy as a way to understand the nature of Scripture is unorthodox.  If the problem is with the particular way that Enns’ has formulated it or perhaps with the way that he applies it, then why not discuss those particulars and attempt to make adjustments.  Unfortunately, so many of Enn’s detractors fail to interact with Enns’ writings in a way that demonstrates that they have actually given the book a thorough read and are competent to summarize his claims such that Enns would say, “Yes, that is an accurate version of my position” (e.g., see the following reviews, here, and here, and Enns’ responses, here and here).  If Enns’ use or formation of the incarnational analogy is so heterodox that he, as a tenured professor, should be suspended or even dismissed, then it would seem only fair (not to mention charitable) to (1) at least present Enns and the rest of the faculty with a clear explication of Enns’ position, which Enns’ would recognize as his own, and (2) to give an equally clear and detailed analysis of that which is considered heterodox in Enns’ work.  From what I understand of the situation, neither of these has occurred. 

The one substantive objection that has somewhat frequently surfaced is that Enns’ analogy denies the supremacy of the divine nature of Christ in the Incarnation. Let’s call this the “SOSF” (i.e., the Standard Objection So Far). Even if the divine nature has a supremacy (which is, it seems true, provided we are careful about what we mean by that), that is irrelevant to Enns’ point – all it takes for his point to follow is that there is a human element present in Scripture and capable of influencing the form in which Scripture expresses itself. So far as I understand it, Enns’ position is not contingent upon assigning that human element any particular priority relative to the divine nature. If this is the case, then the SOSF is a kind of detractor that doesn’t really touch the issues that Enns is trying to address in his book and use of the analogy.

As a former student of WTS and one who benefited from Prof. Enns’ instruction, I am saddened by the current situation, and our family has asked that our names be removed from alumni mailing lists.  As I watch this drama enfold, I can’t help but to ask myself, “What happened to the Westminster that considered it part of our calling to engage the broader culture, including the academic culture, (particularly in light of the fact that we have so many “in vogue” atheists today churning out books to show the silliness and violence of the Christian tradition)?” 

Notes

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[1] Cf. also, “Hence, in sacred scripture, without prejudice to God’s truth and holiness, 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’ [Cf. 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” (Dei Verbum, III.13). 

Lastly, we have Hobbes discussion of miracles.  In this section, as in the previous ones, Hobbes begins by defining his terms and then interacts with various biblical texts.  As Hobbes explains, miracles arouse wonder and admiration in humans for two reasons: (1) they are exceedingly rare and unusual events, and (2) they are thought to be done by the immediate activity of God.  However, if we were able to come to a natural explanation of what was thought to be a miracle, we would of course be forced to abandon our original belief.  This tendency to mistakenly call something a miracle is due to our ignorance of natural causes and is in fact what Hobbes claims to be the case the majority of the time.  To support his claim, Hobbes cites examples of how the ancients, who were ignorant of the causes of solar and lunar eclipses, interpreted such occurrences as supernatural works of the gods. After engaging a few Old and New Testament examples in which miracles are discussed (e.g., Moses’ miracles performed in Egypt, and Christ’s inability to perform miracles in his own country), Hobbes concludes that the purpose of miracles is to bring about or confirm belief in God’s elect (Lev., ch. 37, ¶5-6).  This examination of the nature of miracles and their use, then leads Hobbes to the following definition of a miracle:  “A Miracle is a work of God (besides his operation by the way of nature, ordained in the creation), done for the making manifest to his elect the mission of an extraordinary minister for their salvation” (Lev., ch. 37, ¶7).[1]  This definition implies that a miracle is an effect of God’s immediate activity and not an effect that comes about through the secondary causality of the prophet (e.g., as a result of the prophet’s virtue/power).  Hobbes goes on to say that if it were the case that the miracle was effected through power given the prophet by God (that is, through secondary causality), then we could not call this a miracle, as it would have been produced naturally and not by God’s immediate causality.  As Curley observes in footnote 15, this conclusion nullifies the miracles performed by Moses and the prophets since the power by which they performed their miracles was given by God (Lev., ch. 37, ¶10).[2]  One then wonders which, if any, miracles according to the biblical account remain standing.[3]  Likewise, does not this naturalization of miracles not point in the direction of a something more akin to a deistic conception of God, which of course, harmonizes well with Hobbes’ mechanistic view of the world, as well as his continual insistence that God does not providentially interact with the world?

Given what we have seen thus far, it seems fair to conclude that Hobbes does not engage Scripture in a purely objective way (whatever that is). Rather, as I have attempted to highlight throughout this essay, Hobbes’ philosophical and political convictions drive his hermeneutical endeavors.  For Hobbes, the traditional understanding of prophecy, spiritual beings, and miracles serve to reinforce God’s providential workings and presence with his people and thus undermine the authority of an earthly sovereign.  Moreover, the doctrine of providence, according to Hobbes, results in a kind of intellectual and perhaps even moral laziness wherein people depend too much on God.  However, in the end it is not clear how Hobbes’ own position can escape at least to some degree the same kind of intellectual and moral errors of which he accuses traditional orthodoxy given the political requirement that individuals must give absolute obedience to the sovereign who stands as God’s representative until the Kingdom of God on earth is restored at Christ’s Second Coming. 

Notes

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[1] Italics and other font emphases are in the original. 

[2] As Curley explains, “[i]f all works done by a power given by God are natural, and hence, not miracles (as the English version implies), this seems to deny the status of miracles to the works performed by Moses and the prophets” (Lev., ch. 37, n. 15). 

[3] Perhaps only God’s creation ex nihilo would count as a miracle.  Given that I have not completed my reading of Leviathan, I hold this conclusion loosely.