Kent – Page 3 – Dumma Theologica

Black Narcissus and Holiness

I’ve just completed a re-viewing of Black Narcissus (Powell and Pressburger, 1947), and am more than ever impressed by its artistry. And what about it’s message? Even though it is somewhat discomforting, I’ve concluded that’s a good thing. Even though it feels at times like an attack upon Christian faith, I’ve decided to accept it, and welcome it, as a valid and friendly rebuke.

The story is about an attempt to start a convent in the Himalayas of India, to offer education and medical care. It is a place that is extraordinarily attractive, yet resistant, even threatening, to intruders. It is an intensified snippet of the creation. The movie offers an extravagant portrayal of the beauty, sensuality and harshness of the place and its people. This environment elicits thoughts, memories and desires that the nuns had been trying to suppress; and as with any confrontation with truth, it forces transformation. It is a confrontation that can drive some to madness, but will drive others to a closer knowledge of God.

From a Christian perspective, this story deals with the larger issue of holiness: how to be in the world, without being of the world; how to love the world without being subject to the lusts of the world (1 John 2:15-17). The message that is conveyed in Black Narcissus seems to be consistent with that of scripture: the doctrine of incarnation, and the concrete examples in Jesus’ life. He came “eating and drinking”, sharing in all that it means to be human. The call to holiness, or to “deny yourself”, is not a call to retreat from life, but to live for others. Conversely, the false holiness of isolation follows the false god of deism. Holiness is not achieved by a withdrawal from the world, motivated by self-serving fear, but by full self-giving engagement, motivated by love. The nuns in Black Narcissus were not prepared to meet the demands of this kind of holiness.

The failure of the nuns’ mission was due to their half-heartedness. They were trying to serve in practical ways, yet holding back from full engagement. In suppressing their own human fullness, they were unable to fully give themselves to those they were trying to serve. A deeper experience of the natural world, as was provided in this Himalayan convent, inspires a deeper self-questioning and self-knowledge, and in this case it made them aware of their shortcomings. As one of the characters noted, the intensity of the place forces people to take extreme positions, of either full engagement or complete withdrawal. Half-way measures are doomed.

I consider this message to be similar to that of Wender’s “Wings of Desire” or Bette Midler’s “The Rose”. It is a teaching that applies to major decisions of vocation, and it applies to the daily decisions of how to live and relate. It sometimes means simply “showing up”. Much of it is summed up in Paul’s instruction: “rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep”.

Forgiveness and Justice

Forgiveness means that there will be no actions taken against the offending party, and that everything possible will be done to restore the relationship. The offended party will forgo retribution and will grant the benefits of restored relationship, as far as possible. This is controversial, both among people of faith and among those who are “of the world”, in that a sense of justice and righteousness demands punishment for sin. The Christian answer is, first of all, that we defer to God to execute judgment (Romans 12:19). Secondly, God forgives on the basis of atonement: punishing sin, and cleansing the sinner. This is the uniquely Christian answer to how forgiveness is possible, without compromising justice.

Nevertheless, there are still consequences to the sin or offense, outside the control or authority of the one who forgives. And although the one who forgives has a genuine intention and commitment to restore relationship, the full realization of restoration and its benefits is contingent upon cooperation from the offender. Consider the parable of the prodigal Son. The father’s attitude and intentions were unconditional, but the realization of restoration and its benefits were contingent upon the son returning to the father. Similarly with God’s forgiveness. The scope of His forgiveness includes a commitment to full reconciliation, with the consequent granting of eternal life. But this can be realized only with the cooperation of the sinner. For this reason, the full implementation of forgiveness from God requires either 1) that the offender sinned in ignorance, or 2) the offender repents of the sin(s). An example of contingency upon the sinner’s ignorance is Jesus’s statement on the cross (Luke 23:34), which was probably also the basis for Stephen’s request that his executioners be forgiven (Acts 7:60). Examples of contingency upon repentance are John the Baptist’s preaching (Matthew 3:7-10) and Peter’s sermon (Acts 2:38). Also, the gospels make forgiveness contingent upon faith (Luke 7:48-50), and John’s letter makes it contingent upon confession (1 John 1:9). Since genuine faith, confession and repentance are necessarily linked, each one implies all three.

Note that forgiveness goes beyond mere words and thoughts. It includes doing all that can be done to achieve reconciliation. God’s forgiveness is not a mere decree that dismisses or overlooks sin, it involves the commitment to actually deal with sin, by atonement, on the cross. When Jesus told people their sins were forgiven, He was committing Himself to the cross. When the prodigal son returned, the Father went out to meet him on the road, and he followed through by providing all the benefits of reconciliation. Consider also how Jesus’s healing ministry was linked to forgiveness, in that forgiveness was the condition for healing, and healing was the consequence of forgiveness (Mark 2:5-12). Forgiveness is not of word only, but in deed and truth.

One of the issues in forgiving one another is whether the relationship after forgiveness is fully restored to how it was before the sin was known. The answer is no, because the discovery of the sin, in spite of subsequent repentance, may reveal a spiritual immaturity and weakness that was previously unrecognized. Especially in regard to entrusting someone with a ministry, we have a duty to the church to consider what has been learned about the person’s qualifications. To appoint or retain someone in a ministry for which he is unqualified is no favor either to that person or to the church, and is not entailed in forgiveness. Similarly for an abusive spouse: a Christian should forgive, and not seek personal vengeance; but restoration should only take place after there are signs and fruit of genuine repentance. There is no duty or expectation to submit to abuse or to accept risk of harm.

Another question is how forgiveness differs from other related aspects of salvation, such as atonement, reconciliation, redemption and justification. First, forgiveness is based upon the assumption that sin – its power and its consequences – is somehow disposed of, but the concept of forgiveness does not indicate how this is done. Secondly, forgiveness pertains only to removal of past sins and their consequences, but does not address the absolute victory over sin and death, or the means for granting righteousness and life. A third point is that forgiveness, under the new covenant, emphasizes the individual, while the full scope of atonement and salvation also pertains to corporate salvation and the cosmic destiny of the creation. These other aspects of salvation are addressed by the concepts of atonement, redemption, justification, etc. These concepts are not identical and interchangeable, but are complementary aspects of God’s total salvific work. It is within this broader context that forgiveness can be understood and embraced.

A Substitute or a Partner?

It is generally claimed that penal substitution and participatory models of atonement are compatible as complementary, alternative perspectives on atonement, and that the debate primarily concerns their relative priority: which view is over-arching and which is subordinate. It seems to me, however, that there is a fundamental inconsistency between the two models. If substitution means a strict “instead-of” replacement, then it would seem to preclude a participatory communion or fellowship. If Christ died instead of us, then how is it that we unite with Him in death? Furthermore, in what sense did He die, but we do not also die? He died a bodily death because of taking on our sins. But each of us also dies a physical, bodily death because of our sins. In our spiritual union with Him, by faith, He took our sins upon Himself, not as a removal of sins, but as a sharing of sins. The sins are then subsequently removed, i.e. condemned and destroyed, in both His bodily death and in our own bodily death, as we are united in death. The second part of the “sweet exchange” (2 Corinthians 5:21) is that His righteousness is shared with us: the life-giving, cleansing power of His blood, resulting in our resurrection with Him. There is therefore no spiritual death, either for Christ or for us who are in Him. As it was for the repentant thief, we pass from death to be with Him in paradise, to await resurrection. All of this is a matter of participatory sharing, not of “substitution”. It is a union with Him that begins at the cross, continues in paradise, and is carried through into the resurrection and new creation. There is no point throughout this fellowship where He experiences something without us, nor where we experience something without Him.

How does this relate to OT sacrifices? To regard any of them as penal-substitutionary (a death instead-of, as punishment for sin) is also a misunderstanding. The animals slain for atonement and for sin were not regarded as bearing the peoples’ sins. To the contrary, they were holy and unblemished. Their blood was a source of life, with power to purify, to cleanse, to sanctify, to make acceptable for God’s presence. Similarly, the Passover lamb was slain, not to receive punishment for sin, but to provide the blood that would protect against death. It was the life-giving blood that sanctifies, so that the Lord could be present, and thus deliver them from death. The only animal upon which sins were bestowed was the scapegoat, which was driven away from the camp, unsuitable as a sacrifice. The only sacrifice that was “substitutionary” was the redemption of the firstborn. But that had nothing to do with sin. It was an acknowledgement that the firstborn belongs to God, and a sign that all Israel, as God’s firstborn, belongs to Him. All these offerings point to Christ for their fulfillment, representing several aspects of what He accomplished on the cross. But none of them entail penal substitution.

In the texts used to defend the substitution model, which speak of His dying for us or for our sins, the word “for” is a translation of hyper (e.g. John 10:11; Romans 5:8) or peri (as in Romans 8:3-4; 1 Thess 5:10; 1 John 2:2). Both prepositions would have the meaning of “on behalf of” or “for the sake of” in these contexts. The idea of a substitutionary “instead-of” is a possible interpretation, but is by no means required. All these texts could just as well be interpreted as “on behalf of, by virtue of participatory fellowship”. Similarly, the texts in Isaiah 53 (53:4-6, 8, 10-12) do not require a substitutionary interpretation, but can be understood as sharing our sins, griefs and punishment. Note Isaiah 53:12 – “[He] was numbered with the transgressors; yet He Himself bore the sin of many, and interceded for the transgressors.” The transgressors, with whom He was numbered, were not just the adjacent crucified thieves; they were the “many” for whom He bore sins and interceded. This indicates participatory fellowship, not substitution. One might also consider John 11:50, where Caiaphas declares that one man should die instead of the nation. There are two reasons why this is not directly applicable to penal-substitution: 1) it is reasoned as a matter of political expediency, not punishment for sin; 2) it pertains to the death of the nation, corporately, rather than to the death of individuals.

In view of all the texts that explicitly and definitively teach participation, that must be the model of choice, rather than penal substitution.

Chasing the Wind

I’ve been revisiting some classic movies – chronologically – and the most recent was Children of Paradise (Carne, 1945). It is deservedly ranked among the greats, as an artistic achievement and as engaging entertainment. It makes some good points, e.g. the idea of truth as a revealing or unveiling of the meaning behind visible phenomena, which is characteristic of poetic realism. It also shows due respect for ordinary people, the “gods” in the theater balcony. However, from a Christian perspective, I find serious deficiencies in its message.

Like many movies, it presents a compelling and true picture of vanity. Beginning and ending in street carnivals, its main characters are actors and role-players, both by vocation and in their personal lives. Their “love” relationships are totally unsatisfying and dysfunctional, with everyone pining for the unobtainable, harboring immature and selfish notions about love. Their lives are superficial tragic-comic dramas.

All this is true to life for many people, but it is only a half-truth, in that there is no hint or prospect of hope. The characters are well-developed, and you care about them, but there is hardly any character development. It presents an overly pessimistic, cynical, even nihilistic view of life. This has been a trend in many subsequent European movies, e.g. by Antonioni and Fellini. Such movies seem to wallow in vanity, leaving it ambiguous as to whether it’s a critique, or a despairing acceptance, or an embrace (e.g. L’Aventurra, 8 1/2). This is also the final resting place of Bergman, who eventually gave up the struggle with his strawman spider-god, and resigned himself to hedonism in Fanny & Alexander. I suppose it’s also the theme of David Lynch’s absurd surrealism. His movies, such as EraserHead, Mulholland Drive, Inland Empire, are very clever and intriguing, enticing the viewer to solve the puzzles, but generally to no worthy end. He seems to be challenging us to the impossible task of constructing coherence, in order to convert us to Nihilism. I expect Qoheleth would reckon all this as madness and vanity.

On the other hand, I consider Tarkovsky as highly profitable. His movies are just as perplexing and puzzling, he freely and ambiguously intermingles dreams and “reality”, but in the end, he has important things to say. With some effort, one can take away something worthwhile. Perhaps it’s that surrealism as an artistic method can be put to good use, but as a philosophy it is vanity.

Thus, I draw a distinction between movies that present dismal situations and perplexing mysteries as challenges to overcome, and movies that just seem to say there is nothing more to life, so give up the search. Such emptiness invites evil. It is a destructive influence on civilization, like telling a suicidal person: “why not?” For this, I find fault.

About Boundaries

I would offer three observations about the limits to human knowledge:
1. There are boundaries, and it’s good to know where they are
2. It can be quite profitable to explore those boundaries
3. It can be risky to cross the boundaries

On the first point, Ecclesiastes speaks of the mysteries: “What has been is remote and exceedingly mysterious. Who can discover it?” (Eccles 7:24). Also, “The secret things belong to God” (Deut 29:29). In line with this, Agur reckoned himself to be “stupid” (Proverbs 30:2). And so did Socrates. It is essential to wisdom to know its limits, to gain some humble appreciation of the immensity of our ignorance. This is a mark of genuine science and genuine theology.

Secondly: The most profitable place for learning and growth is at the boundaries, where we explore the limits of knowledge and understanding. It is in the investigation of paradoxes and anomalies that existing doctrines and hypotheses are subjected to testing, critique and correction. Boundary phenomena inspire paradigm shifts.

Because of this, we are irresistibly drawn to the boundaries, by the lure of wonder and mystery and beauty. It is the driving force of human development, and it is the mental appetite of the soul (nephesh), which draws us to God. It entices us to acquire wisdom, and it is one of the ways in which we should retain childlikeness: an eagerness for discovery, unimpeded by the agendas, the prejudices and the overall jadedness of adulthood. Consider Agur, (Proverbs 30:18-19), Malick’s “To the Wonder”, and Tarkovsky’s “The Stalker”.

And then to the third point: the boundaries are the locations of greatest risk for errors. We should approach and venture to cross these boundaries humbly, with circumspection. Moses wanted to see God’s glory, but limits were set (Exodus 33:18-23).

In summary: It is of great value to know where our boundaries are, to have the courage to explore them, but with prudence and humility.

Is God Infinite?

I’ve always been uncomfortable with assertions that God is “infinite”. Infinity is a mental concept that is not directly applicable to anything concretely real. It is useful in mathematics, especially the concept of the infinitesimal in calculus. But it is improper to apply it as an adjective for anything that is real.

One can truly say: “It is not possible to set a limit to what God can do.” But this does not imply: “there is no limit to what God can do.” In mathematics, one can add and multiply the largest imaginable numbers, any number of times, and the result is still finite. The theological analog is that anything you can imagine God doing, He can do more. But it will still be finite.

God transcends space-time, but this transcendence should not be described as “infinity”. Transcendence of space-time is not the same thing as a limitless expansion of space-time. All of His actions within the creation are constrained by the finiteness of the creation. To the extent that He interacts with the world, He is finite. We can say that in His transcendence, He transcends finitude; and in His immanence, He partakes of finitude. But in neither case is the concept of infinity applicable.

Omniscience means He knows all things. But this is necessarily finite since the object of His knowledge, all things, is finite. Some people believe He also knows all possible future contingent counter-factuals, which may be construed as infinite. But I regard this “middle knowledge” hypothesis as highly speculative and misguided. Similarly, His omnipotence is finite, in that His power is exercised upon finite objects. And furthermore, His omnipresence has meaning only within the realm of space-time, which is finite. These “omnis” do not imply infinity.

Is anything lost by discarding the claim of infinity? I think not. The qualitative gap between God and the creation is preserved, in that He alone is non-contingent, and He alone transcends space-time. By shedding this element of irrationality, our testimony and our faith become more credible. So, I believe it is best to affirm only what scripture affirms, without adding to it. It is sufficient to say: “He is all-knowing and almighty, and there is no other like Him.”

Nature and Grace

In “The Tree of Life”, Terrence Malick refers to two ways of life: the way of nature and the way of grace. This is no doubt in the tradition of Aquinas (as “taught by nuns”). This grace is a gift from God, which perfects nature, and is embedded in nature. Nature is not totally autonomous and isolated nor totally corrupted, but God is immanent, incarnate, and exercising providence through nature. For example, Proverbs 8:22-31 speaks of lady Wisdom’s role in creation, by which His wisdom is incorporated into nature. Note, incidentally, that this wisdom is a “tree of life” (Proverbs 3:18).

I believe a roughly equivalent presentation of these two ways, perhaps more comfortable for Protestants, is that of living according to the Spirit versus living according to the flesh (Romans 8:1-17). Revelation by the Spirit supplements empirical sensory experience. When we are open to and responsive to such revelation from the Spirit, we can see God and His love in the book of nature. It is a knowledge acquired through empirical experience, but transcending such experience, by grace, or by the Spirit.

In “The Tree of Life”, there is a remarkable scene in the sequence on creation where the dinosaur spares the life of it’s prey. It reveals nature and its evolution as involving something more than rivalry for survival, “red in tooth and claw”. It reveals an element of grace. Some biologists surmise that sociality and a kind of altruism developed solely because they have survival value for a species. But Malick seems to be saying here that there is something more – that there is something mysterious that comes from outside of nature, the mystery of grace (or the gentle breathing of the Spirit). And part of our own personal journey in life is to acquire the eyes to see, and to become responsive. The mother in the story, and the brother, had the vision to see it clearly, and they walked according to it. The father came to this awareness much later, and regretted the wasted years when he was blind to it. He had lived most of his life in vanity, “under the sun”, as described in Ecclesiastes.

The story is about seeing that there is something more to life and to the world than our superficial “under-the-sun” experience, to see that there is grace in the world; and even to see it, and to learn of it, in the tragedies of loss – perhaps especially in such tragedy. When they asked God, “where were You?”, God replies with the same question, as He had done with Job: “Where were you when I laid the foundations…?” (Job 38:4). This challenge stimulates a train of thought that opens the eyes and opens the heart. The laments in scripture are similarly confessions of those who sank into the lowest depths of grief and despair, but who then rose up to the highest expressions of faith and hope in God (e.g. Psalm 22, 102). That is the same dramatic arc that we see in “The Tree of Life”.

Assurance of Hope

We cannot truly live without hope. At the biological level, it is the teleological pull that is the driving force within every living creature, as well as the propelling mechanism for evolution. For humanity, it is realized as a conscious hope that gives us the will to persevere. It is the vision of future destiny communicated by the Spirit, driving humanity, and all life, and all creation, as a “final cause”.

The practical question is where to place or find our hope? Those who are thoughtful and honest about it will conclude there’s little if any hope to be found in this world (see e.g. Ecclesiastes). We must look instead to God, as for example in Psalm 39:7. The Christian faith and revelation places our hope more specifically in Christ (Col 1:27), validated by His resurrection. But there are further questions as to how this hope is to be understood, how it is to be established and made firm, and particularly how it applies to each individual. Three points to consider are: 1) the unchangeable faithfulness of God; 2) the power and wisdom of God, to accomplish His purpose; 3) personal application and assurance.

The first point, which is the least controversial, is that His steadfast love, “hessed”, endures forever. See especially Psalms 118 and 136. Classical orthodoxy, subject to NeoPlatonism, asserted that God is also unchangeable in all other respects, including impassivity. But I hold that to be contrary to scripture, and unnecessary for establishing our hope. What is needed, and what is affirmed in scripture, is that He keeps His promises, and nothing can separate us from His love. But He can nevertheless alter plans in response to His peoples’ prayers and their obedience or disobedience. His specific actions are contingent upon and responsive to the freely chosen behavior of the people He interacts with. Also, when Jesus wept, He faithfully revealed the compassion and griefs of the Godhead. But the unchangeable constant is His steadfast love.

Regarding the power and wisdom of God, scriptures clearly teach that it is unchallengeable. We see this especially in Genesis 1, Job 38-41, and Psalm 104. But that does not mean that He exercises it in a totally controlling and despotic manner, predetermining all human decisions and behavior. I believe such views partly derive from underestimating His love and His wisdom: a love that pays the cost of granting freedom to his loved ones, and a wisdom that can accomplish His purpose “light-handedly”. The position I describe (a form of open theism) does not entail any risks in regard to fulfilling His promises (as is the case for process theology), but it does entail a costly love – the love of kenosis – for the sake of respecting and preserving the integrity of humanity. He willingly and wisely restrains His exercise of power, treating us with gentleness and respect.

The reason why this should not weaken our hope, is that the scriptures also reveal His amazing wisdom and providence. Consider, for example, the story of Esther. The principal characters are all making free decisions, based on a wide range of motives: the evil intentions of Haman, the foolishness of the king, and the less than perfect motives of Esther and Mordecai. But God manages to make everything work together for His purpose. The key turning point in this drama was that the king suffered insomnia after a banquet (perhaps indigestion?). God’s “interventions” were natural, chance events, by which He changed the course of history, but never violating anyone’s free integrity. A God who can do this, is One in whom we can place our hope.

So the faithful love and the wisdom of God assures us of the hope for all who are in Christ. The remaining question for each individual is: “how do I know that I am in Christ; how can I be assured that I am among the saved?” I’ll suggest two key scriptures for answering this. Firstly, Rom 8:14-17 — “All who are being led by the Spirit of God, these are sons of God…. The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are children of God…”. The indwelling presence of the Spirit shows us that we belong to Him. He is a pledge of our inheritance (Ephesians 1:14). And the definitive evidence of His indwelling is not particular gifts or signs, nor particular feelings, but rather the fruit (Galatians 5:22-23), which is produced by all who are “being led by the Spirit”. And the principal fruit is love, which is the subject of the second passage I would cite – 1 John 3:18-19 — “let us love … in deed and truth. We will know by this that we are of the truth, and will assure our heart before Him”. The practice of love gives assurance of His presence, not just because His presence assuredly yields the fruit of love, but more significantly, His presence is necessary for this kind of love. To love others the way Jesus loves us is possible only when Christ is in us. Therein is the assurance.

However, one might also be unsure about whether we really exhibit such love. So much of what we do is corrupted by mixed motives. How can we examine ourselves against the standard of the love of Christ? In Hebrews 6:9-12, we are exhorted to be diligent in continuing to love, in order to “realize the full assurance of hope”. We can follow this up with another key passage on hope: Rom 5:3-4 — “tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope…”. We can see here the value of being put to the test. If life is too easy, if we are never asked to pay a high price, it will be hard to know if the love of Christ is really in us. Consider the accusation against Job, which led to him being tested (Job 1:9-11). But when we pass through tribulation, and our character is thereby tested and proven, then we can know that we are loving the way Christ loves. We can know then that He is in us, and that the Spirit dwells in us, and that we are therefore his children, heirs to the promise.

What is Real?

I’ve recently been enjoying lectures posted by Ronald Nash (BiblicalTraining.org) on philosophical theology, which has stimulated thoughts about what he calls the rationalism of Plato versus the empiricism of Aristotle. I have generally held to a kind of scientific realism, as per Einstein’s philosophy of science, and T. F. Torrance’s applications to theology (“Transformation and Convergence in the Frame of Knowledge”); but I’m a nominalist when it comes to Plato’s forms. Conceptual categories (forms) of “things” are surely constructs. But there must be laws of nature that are timeless, universal and real – and these are laws that we “discover”, rather than construct. These laws define relationships: 1) causal relationships in science, pertaining to the dynamic reality of becoming (rather than being), in the tradition of Heraclitus; and 2) the logical relationships of mathematics. They are not universal forms that are imitated by particular things; they are rather universal rules that govern particular relationships. We infer this unseen reality from sensible phenomena, i.e. empirically, and construct models that correspond to it adequately for practical purposes. By God’s grace, the world is intelligible.

By analogy, I think it proper to say that moral imperatives are real, in that they are also “rules of the game” that specify ultimate consequences of behaviors (as taught in Proverbs), albeit in a rather nuanced way that transcends understanding (as per Job and Ecclesiastes). Virtues, on the other hand, are constructed conceptual categories.

Extrapolating to the ultimate reality, God is observable and known only in His activity (i.e. empirically), in creation and in history (e.g. Exodus 33:18-23). Consider also Hebrews 11:3, that the unseen cause of all that is seen is His word. This word, either as the Hebrew Torah or as the Greek Logos, is the organizing principle, the power, the Wisdom of God, which overcomes the chaos. Events in this space-time world – events of creation, providence, incarnation – reveal the timeless reality of the will (i.e. love) of God. And so His will and His Word are the final realities, and they can be known. At the level of the physical creation, the phenomena of supposed substance are ephemeral constructs, but the laws governing their dynamics are real. At the highest level of the “unseen”, the concept of “the Good” is a human construct, but the true reality is the One who is named: “I will be what I will be”.