Wherein Nietzsche Compliments Classical Students

Nobody will very readily regard a doctrine as true merely because it makes people happy or virtuous—excepting, perhaps, the amiable "Idealists," who are enthusiastic about the good, true, and beautiful, and let all kinds of motley, coarse, and good-natured desirabilities swim about promiscuously in their pond. ~Beyond Good & Evil, "The Free Spirit," 39.

Nietzsche further says happiness and virtue are no arguments (but he also says consequences are the only test of value--go figure), but that's less interesting to me than just what he says in this quotation. I think he is articulating that by letting "swim promiscuously in their pond," "all kinds of motley, coarse, and good-natured desirabilities," the "amiable 'Idealists' who are enthusiastic about the good, true, and beautiful" don't discriminate about the material sources of these values. They take in all kinds.

Classical students promote the search for the transcendentals (goodness, truth, beauty) wherever they might be strewn about. We are some of those "amiable idealists" (I'm going to keep that one). Our collection is often eclectic. We're happy to let ol' toadie Voltaire sit on his lily pad while electric eel Luther lurks in the depths below; provided that whatever hangs about possesses something true, good, or beautiful in some way, shape, or form.

Perhaps Nietzsche would consider such a pond too polluted for swimming in himself. The hoi polloi koi swimming in the murky waters might offend his arboreal kookaburra spirit. But then again, a pond full of various life forms tends to be the healthiest and most lively. There's even room for a loud-mouthed, territorial bird, when the right alarums need to be sounded.

A Fate Worse Than Death?

In Plato's Laws, the punishment for husbands killing wives and vice versa is permanent exile from their homeland. Fratricide, Matricide, and Patricide receive the death penalty. From a modern vantage point it would seem that exile is the lesser sentence, but for those in the dialogue, it is much worse. Part of the reason is likely due to certain beliefs about the afterlife--that a murdered soul will continue to inhabit the land where he dies, and thus torment the soul of his murderer. Thus, an exile that dies outside of its homeland must wander not only in life but also in death--permanently separated from the soil from everything that mores his identity and purpose--homeland, people, ancestors, progeny.

In this observation the punishment of exile seems much closer to the Christian idea of eternal damnation--the torment of being forever exiled from the God who gives identity and purpose to all that He has made. To be exiled in the second death is indeed a fate worse than death itself. The immortal soul destined to wander without identity or purpose seems torment enough--to be left alone, entirely alone, knowing that you abandoned your only hope of restoration would be a torment akin to a lake of fire for the soul.

On Plato's Seventh Epistle

Occasionally I read something that returns my mind to former days of study, when leisure came at a lower cost and the energy behind youthful visions of grandeur still spurred me on to (vain?) inquiries. Today I read an article by Peter Leithart that summarized some general observations of David Bentley Hart about the sacrificial aspects of ancient metaphysics. The following quotation prompted a memory of Plato's Seventh Epistle:

Philosopher may have pretended to put all that behind them, but Hart doesn’t think so: “from the time of the pre-Socratics, all the great speculative and moral systems of the pagan world were in varying degrees confined to this totality, to either its innermost mechanisms or outermost boundaries. . . . none could conceive of reality except as a kind of strife between order and disorder, within which a sacrificial economy held all the forces in tension” (63).

Platonism’s “inexterable dualism” of change and stasis, its “equation of truth with eidetic abstraction” treated the world as “the realm of fallen vision, separated by a great chorismos from the realm immutable reality” (63). Aristotle’s “dialectic of act and potency [is] . . . inseparatble from decay and death” and his “scale of essences” reflected the cosmic determinism of the myths, in which “all things – especially various lcasses of persons – are assigned their places in the natural and social order” (63).

In Neoplatonism, the task of philosophy is “escape” from everything that is not the One – “all multiplicity, change, particularity, every feature of the living world.” Truth “is oblivion of the flesh, a pure nothingness, to attain which one must sacrifice the world” (64).

 The bolded remark prompted my memory, for in Plato's Seventh Epistle he exposits, in brief, what is required of those who would be philosophers over and against those who only pretend. His description reveals some kinship with Hart's observation:

For everything that exists there are three instruments by which the knowledge of it is necessarily imparted; fourth, there is the knowledge itself, and, as fifth, we must count the thing itself which is known and truly exists. The first is the name, the, second the definition, the third. the image, and the fourth the knowledge. If you wish to learn what I mean, take these in the case of one instance, and so understand them in the case of all. A circle is a thing spoken of, and its name is that very word which we have just uttered. The second thing belonging to it is its definition, made up names and verbal forms. For that which has the name "round," "annular," or, "circle," might be defined as that which has the distance from its circumference to its centre everywhere equal. Third, comes that which is drawn and rubbed out again, or turned on a lathe and broken up-none of which things can happen to the circle itself-to which the other things, mentioned have reference; for it is something of a different order from them. Fourth, comes knowledge, intelligence and right opinion about these things. Under this one head we must group everything which has its existence, not in words nor in bodily shapes, but in souls-from which it is dear that it is something different from the nature of the circle itself and from the three things mentioned before. Of these things intelligence comes closest in kinship and likeness to the fifth, and the others are farther distant.

The same applies to straight as well as to circular form, to colours, to the good, the, beautiful, the just, to all bodies whether manufactured or coming into being in the course of nature, to fire, water, and all such things, to every living being, to character in souls, and to all things done and suffered. For in the case of all these, no one, if he has not some how or other got hold of the four things first mentioned, can ever be completely a partaker of knowledge of the fifth. Further, on account of the weakness of language, these (i.e., the four) attempt to show what each thing is like, not less than what each thing is. For this reason no man of intelligence will venture to express his philosophical views in language, especially not in language that is unchangeable, which is true of that which is set down in written characters.

Again you must learn the point which comes next. Every circle, of those which are by the act of man drawn or even turned on a lathe, is full of that which is opposite to the fifth thing. For everywhere it has contact with the straight. But the circle itself, we say, has nothing in either smaller or greater, of that which is its opposite. We say also that the name is not a thing of permanence for any of them, and that nothing prevents the things now called round from being called straight, and the straight things round; for those who make changes and call things by opposite names, nothing will be less permanent (than a name). Again with regard to the definition, if it is made up of names and verbal forms, the same remark holds that there is no sufficiently durable permanence in it. And there is no end to the instances of the ambiguity from which each of the four suffers; but the greatest of them is that which we mentioned a little earlier, that, whereas there are two things, that which has real being, and that which is only a quality, when the soul is seeking to know, not the quality, but the essence, each of the four, presenting to the soul by word and in act that which it is not seeking (i.e., the quality), a thing open to refutation by the senses, being merely the thing presented to the soul in each particular case whether by statement or the act of showing, fills, one may say, every man with puzzlement and perplexity.

Now in subjects in which, by reason of our defective education, we have not been accustomed even to search for the truth, but are satisfied with whatever images are presented to us, we are not held up to ridicule by one another, the questioned by questioners, who can pull to pieces and criticise the four things. But in subjects where we try to compel a man to give a clear answer about the fifth, any one of those who are capable of overthrowing an antagonist gets the better of us, and makes the man, who gives an exposition in speech or writing or in replies to questions, appear to most of his hearers to know nothing of the things on which he is attempting to write or speak; for they are sometimes not aware that it is not the mind of the writer or speaker which is proved to be at fault, but the defective nature of each of the four instruments. The process however of dealing with all of these, as the mind moves up and down to each in turn, does after much effort give birth in a well-constituted mind to knowledge of that which is well constituted. But if a man is ill-constituted by nature (as the state of the soul is naturally in the majority both in its capacity for learning and in what is called moral character)-or it may have become so by deterioration-not even Lynceus could endow such men with the power of sight.

In one word, the man who has no natural kinship with this matter cannot be made akin to it by quickness of learning or memory; for it cannot be engendered at all in natures which are foreign to it. Therefore, if men are not by nature kinship allied to justice and all other things that are honourable, though they may be good at learning and remembering other knowledge of various kinds-or if they have the kinship but are slow learners and have no memory-none of all these will ever learn to the full the truth about virtue and vice. For both must be learnt together; and together also must be learnt, by complete and long continued study, as I said at the beginning, the true and the false about all that has real being. After much effort, as names, definitions, sights, and other data of sense, are brought into contact and friction one with another, in the course of scrutiny and kindly testing by men who proceed by question and answer without ill will, with a sudden flash there shines forth understanding about every problem, and an intelligence whose efforts reach the furthest limits of human powers. Therefore every man of worth, when dealing with matters of worth, will be far from exposing them to ill feeling and misunderstanding among men by committing them to writing. In one word, then, it may be known from this that, if one sees written treatises composed by anyone, either the laws of a lawgiver, or in any other form whatever, these are not for that man the things of most worth, if he is a man of worth, but that his treasures are laid up in the fairest spot that he possesses. But if these things were worked at by him as things of real worth, and committed to writing, then surely, not gods, but men "have themselves bereft him of his wits."

Anyone who has followed this discourse and digression will know well that, if Dionysios or anyone else, great or small, has written a treatise on the highest matters and the first principles of things, he has, so I say, neither heard nor learnt any sound teaching about the subject of his treatise; otherwise, he would have had the same reverence for it, which I have, and would have shrunk from putting it forth into a world of discord and uncomeliness. For he wrote it, not as an aid to memory-since there is no risk of forgetting it, if a man's soul has once laid hold of it; for it is expressed in the shortest of statements-but if he wrote it at all, it was from a mean craving for honour, either putting it forth as his own invention, or to figure as a man possessed of culture, of which he was not worthy, if his heart was set on the credit of possessing it.

 The whole section provides the context for the bolded portions, which show Plato's struggle to reach permanence (knowledge) whilst using the tools of change (names, verbal definitions, images). What must be sacrificed is also telling, and the passage immediately prior to his exposition of the method makes it clear (though the end of the passage above also indicates the sacrifice):

On my arrival, I thought that first I must put to the test the question whether Dionysios had really been kindled with the fire of philosophy, or whether all the reports which had come to Athens were empty rumours. Now there is a way of putting such things to the test which is not to be despised and is well suited to monarchs, especially to those who have got their heads full of erroneous teaching, which immediately my arrival I found to be very much the case with Dionysios. One should show such men what philosophy is in all its extent; what their range of studies is by which it is approached, and how much labour it involves. For the man who has heard this, if he has the true philosophic spirit and that godlike temperament which makes him a kin to philosophy and worthy of it, thinks that he has been told of a marvellous road lying before him, that he must forthwith press on with all his strength, and that life is not worth living if he does anything else. After this he uses to the full his own powers and those of his guide in the path, and relaxes not his efforts, till he has either reached the end of the whole course of study or gained such power that he is not incapable of directing his steps without the aid of a guide. This is the spirit and these are the thoughts by which such a man guides his life, carrying out his work, whatever his occupation may be, but throughout it all ever cleaving to philosophy and to such rules of diet in his daily life as will give him inward sobriety and therewith quickness in learning, a good memory, and reasoning power; the kind of life which is opposed to this he consistently hates. Those who have not the true philosophic temper, but a mere surface colouring of opinions penetrating, like sunburn, only skin deep, when they see how great the range of studies is, how much labour is involved in it, and how necessary to the pursuit it is to have an orderly regulation of the daily life, come to the conclusion that the thing is difficult and impossible for them, and are actually incapable of carrying out the course of study; while some of them persuade themselves that they have sufficiently studied the whole matter and have no need of any further effort. This is the sure test and is the safest one to apply to those who live in luxury and are incapable of continuous effort; it ensures that such a man shall not throw the blame upon his teacher but on himself, because he cannot bring to the pursuit all the qualities necessary to it. Thus it came about that I said to Dionysios what I did say on that occasion.

I did not, however, give a complete exposition, nor did Dionysios ask for one. For he professed to know many, and those the most important, points, and to have a sufficient hold of them through instruction given by others. I hear also that he has since written about what he heard from me, composing what professes to be his own handbook, very different, so he says, from the doctrines which he heard from me; but of its contents I know nothing; I know indeed that others have written on the same subjects; but who they are, is more than they know themselves. Thus much at least, I can say about all writers, past or future, who say they know the things to which I devote myself, whether by hearing the teaching of me or of others, or by their own discoveries-that according to my view it is not possible for them to have any real skill in the matter. There neither is nor ever will be a treatise of mine on the subject. For it does not admit of exposition like other branches of knowledge; but after much converse about the matter itself and a life lived together, suddenly a light, as it were, is kindled in one soul by a flame that leaps to it from another, and thereafter sustains itself. Yet this much I know-that if the things were written or put into words, it would be done best by me, and that, if they were written badly, I should be the person most pained. Again, if they had appeared to me to admit adequately of writing and exposition, what task in life could I have performed nobler than this, to write what is of great service to mankind and to bring the nature of things into the light for all to see? But I do not think it a good thing for men that there should be a disquisition, as it is called, on this topic-except for some few, who are able with a little teaching to find it out for themselves. As for the rest, it would fill some of them quite illogically with a mistaken feeling of contempt, and others with lofty and vain-glorious expectations, as though they had learnt something high and mighty.

The philosopher must sacrifice the body, the pleasures of common life, and the acceptance of and converse with larger society (though he main gain society amongst his fellow philosophers). One might even say, to the extent that Plato's Republic represents anything close to an ideal, that the philosopher must sacrifice the freedom of individual wills to the pursuit of permanence and of ordering the soul in accordance with its dictates.

The Intellectual Life as Intellectual Labor, Chapter 2

Sertillanges begins chapter two ("the virtues of the intellect") in Augustinian fashion, by identifying personhood with love: one is what one loves (or phenomenologically, one becomes what one loves). Intellectuals are (or ought to be) lovers of Truth, and therefore servants to Truth, and therefore submissive to Truth's commands.

Submission requires an active directing of passions and moral habits. They must be conformed to the demands that the love of Truth requires. Because of this, Virtue is necessary to the intellectual life as a purifier of the soul-in-service-to-Truth.

The particular virtues that aid intellectual pursuit include studiousness. Studiousness may be understood as diligent continuance of thought directed toward a question of truth. Temperance of mind is another virtue of the intellectual life. Temperance avoids the sloth of negligence as well as the pride of vain curiosity. Temperance aids the soul in avoiding taking up too little (malnourishment) or taking on too much (gluttony).

The vehicle of virtue is prayer. Indeed, prayer may be considered both a propaedeutic to study as well as the vessel by which the Spirit conveys the intellect to the Truth. To arrive at Truth is to arrive at God, the fount, headspring, source. The intellectual comes to the Truth through the effulgence of truths and this requires the humble acknowledgment of Truth as God's own to give, and it requires the humility to ask and receive wisely and freely.

The humility of prayer extends to the body. The body is our own unique tool and charge in the pursuit of Truth. The health and vitality of the body must be maintained to elicit the health and vitality of the mind, and it is often through the body that the mind is able to receive Truth.

For instance, think about the importance of memory for the receipt and retention of Truth. With music one must keep in the memory those notes that have passed out of hearing in order to understand, anticipate, and appreciate the notes that follow. One of the cultivators of memory is the body. Consider the difference of trying to memorize who my "riding partners" by repeating over and over again in the mind their names, as opposed to remembering them by riding with them once and then being responsible to remember them for the next time. The bodily experience of taking a trip together lends itself to the mind more potently than the abstraction of repeated names.

Love, studiousness, temperance, prayer, and bodily care constitute the chief virtues of the Intellectual Life.

The Intellectual Life as an Intellectual Labor, Chapter 1

In the first chapter of his book, The Intellectual Life, Sertillanges peers into the facets of the intellectual vocation. Three conclusions emerge: the intellectual has a sacred call, he does not stand alone, and belongs to his own time.

One cannot pursue the intellectual life who has not at least the smallest spark of desire for the discovery of Truth for its own beauty as opposed to some self-directed end. In other words, the intellectual doesn't search for truth so that he can do something with it for himself, but because the truth is worth knowing (he must do something with the truth, but that is the secondary and unselfish in nature, as will be seen below). The same Spirit that invested Bezalel and called Oholiab to design the tabernacle and carry out its construction invests men with the intellectual vocation. No Spirit, no vocation.

Sertillanges emphasizes the value of solitude for the intellectual, but he does not equate solitude with isolation. Isolation is poisonous to the intellectual life. The Spirit that fills the intellectual also fills the body of Christ, and so the intellectual who is not participating in the life of that Body is cut off from the Spirit and from a necessary constituent of the intellectual vocation. He draws from the Body as well as contributing to it.

Not only the Church, but also the City and his Time are communities in which the intellectual lives and serves. Although the intellectual touches all points of time through his study, he is uniquely set within the time and place where he lives, and must be attentive to the characteristics, needs, and opportunities his time and place afford. The intellectual looks back to draw upon history so that he may serve in the now and open an avenue for the communities of the future. There is a kind of universal horizon of koinonia among past, present, and future that the intellectual stewards by his labor.

The Intellectual Life as an Intellectual Labor, Introduction

This month a book club I participate in is reading A.G. Sertillanges' book, The Intellectual Life. The book is a lengthy meditation on and preparation for the life given by the book's title. I've read it once before and was excited by many of its insights, but I've not made much conscious use of them (I do hope some profitable unconscious effects have been produced!). This time around I'm attempting to be more intentional in my approach. The remaining post is an outline of that intention.

Phase I: Tilling & Sowing

In the first phase of reading The Intellectual Life, I'll be writing meditative summaries of the book's chapters after reading each one. Sertillanges' book is very well organized and lends itself to easy summary. The ease is dangerous, however, since it would be deceptive to think that one has profited by summarizing the points of each chapter and its sections. Sertillanges' language is so simple that it gives the appearance of ease, where great difficulty is actually present. Thus, I've added the task of "meditative" to my summaries; allowing room for my thoughts to analogize, apply, question, and so forth, and put all of that into written words. I'll then type the meditative summaries on this blog, critically reviewed and potentially substantively altered.

Phase II: Watering & Weeding

If it can be done, I am hoping to draw in a couple of the other men from book club to develop some specific applications of Sertillanges' book in some aspect of our own lives, whether as part of our individual development, or as a part of our vocations (several of us are teachers, who are paid to pursue an intellectual life, in my opinion). The very first chapter of Sertillanges' book emphasizes the necessity of community both as a necessary part of the intellectual vocation as a productive art (giving it life & health), as well as a recipient of the intellectual vocation's produce (partaking of its fruit). Phase II will be harder to accomplish, but will certainly make the fruit of higher quality and of greater quantity.

Phase III: Harvesting & Feasting

Should the work reach completing, there should be some fruits to be enjoyed and shared with others. There are some vague ideas in my mind of what fruit might result (curricular changes, pedagogical changes, articles written, lectures given, seminars conducted, etc.) but there will be plenty of room for surprise, especially if some non-teachers are able to join in the labor.

Phase IV: Composting & Reproducing

In the wake of our feasting, I hope the leftovers will lead into future activities of like kind, whether they involve repeating The Intellectual Life, or moving on to a different book, or developing an analogous project with some other medium or means of application. This is the vaguest and least imaginable phase, since it is so dependent upon the labors that have only just begun. However, I hope to look back upon this beginning in a few months, or a year, or more, and find that it was not wholly in vain.

The Ethics of Rhetoric in Rhetorica Ad Herennium

Yesterday I joined a group of seniors in a jaunt through a portion of the Rhetorica Ad Herennium, an anonymous treatise on rhetoric originally attributed to Cicero. As we strode leisurely through Book III, the part where Anon. tells Herennius the strategies for deliberative speaking, I paused to ask the students a question. Here is the section:

We shall use Proof and Refutation when we establish in our favour the topics explained above, and refute contrary topics. The rules for developing an argument artistically will be found in Book II. But if it happens in a deliberation the counsel of one side is based on the consideration of security and that of the other on honour, as in the case of those who, surrounded by Carthaginians, deliberate on a course of action, then the speaker who advocates security will use the following topics: Nothing is more useful than safety; no one can make use of his virtues if he has not based his plans upon safety; not even the gods help those who thoughtlessly commit themselves to danger; nothing ought to be deemed honourable which does no produce safety. One who prefers the considerations of honour to security will use the following topics: Virtue ought never to be renounced; either pain, if that is feared, or death, if that is dreaded, is more tolerable than disgrace and infamy; one must consider the shame which will ensue--indeed neither immortality nor a life everlasting is achieved, nor is it proved that, once this peril is avoided, another will not be encountered; virtue finds it noble to go even beyond death; fortune too, habitually shows favours the brave; not he who is safe in the present, but he who lives honourably, lives safely--whereas he who lives shamefully cannot be secure for ever.

My question, which took me awhile to formulate well, asked whether or not the general strategy of opposing security to honor (and vice versa) had ethical import, or if it was just skillful strategy. In other words, does it matter whether one ought to argue for security over honor, or honor over security, or is it simply the appropriate strategy to oppose them?

The students struggled to understand the question until I took them back to Socrates. Would Socrates ever argue that seeking one's own security should be preferred to seeking what is honorable? Did he choose to protect his own life or did he maintain his honor, though he suspected it would lead to his death?

Once they had considered Socrates, the ethical nature of choosing a strategy seemed apparent to the students. One certainly could argue that preserving one's life is better than maintaining one's honor, and doing so would provide opposing arguments, many of which might be persuasive. However, Socrates would argue that the security of the body is far less important than the honor of the soul, therefore the only question would be whether or not the decision is truly honorable, not whether one should prefer security over honor.

The question provided the perfect opportunity to revisit the ethics of rhetoric, a topic I introduce to students in their sophomore year when they read and discuss the Dissoi Logoi, the Encomium of Helen, and Plato's Gorgias and Phaedrus. It is often argued that rhetoric is a tool that can be used for good or for ill, but is itself neutral. Aristotle defines rhetoric as a tool and Augustine makes a similar claim in book four of the De Doctrina Christiana. While it may be true in general that rhetoric is a neutral tool, there are times when the strategies recommended in treatises on the art of rhetoric touch upon choices in ways that are presented innocuously, but are charged with ethical import.

The Problem of Identity

The ship wherein Theseus and the youth of Athens returned had thirty oars, and was preserved by the Athenians down even to the time of Demetrius Phalereus, for they took away the old planks as they decayed, putting in new and stronger timber in their place, insomuch that this ship became a standing example among the philosophers, for the logical question of things that grow; one side holding that the ship remained the same, and the other contending that it was not the same. ~Plutarch, Theseus

Finite creatures change, yet we are able to identify individuals in duration. What remains the same in the midst of growth or change? What constitutes the identity of any given object? More acutely, what makes any person himself, or herself, that person? This thorny philosophical question has attracted many attempts of solution.

For the Christian, the answer itself is simple, though unravelling the tightly woven knot of the truth is no less complicated than many of the answers offered by non-Christian philosophers. Despite the complications of philosophy, a simple apologetic can be briefly outlined:

1. God is the ground of all Being.
Paul, in his speech before the Athenian council, the Areopagus, claimed that the pagan poet Aratus' idea that "in Zeus we live and move and have our being" is rightly applied to the One True God who has expressed Himself in the man, Jesus Christ, who will judge the world in righteousness. To have one's being in God entails that one's identity is in some way derivative of God's productive activity, and insofar as God governs His productive activity, to that extent does He determine or maintain the identity of what He has made.

2. God is the fount of all knowledge.
The Psalmist, in comparing the wickedness of the wicked to the perfections of God, claims that God is the fountain of life and that in His Light we see light. While both "fountain" and "light" here are metaphors, the connotations are not so wide and various to obscure the likelihood that knowledge is in view. To see is to behold, to behold is to experience the truth of what appears, that is, to know it (at least to some extent). Combined with John's opening in his gospel, the metaphor is even clearer: Christ is the true light that gives light to every man entering the world. Darkness and blindness are opposing metaphors for ignorance, which also reinforce the meaning of "light" as knowledge. Thus, insofar as the identity of a thing, or of a person, depends upon knowledge, to that extent the identity of a thing is derivative of God's knowledge.

3. God is the end of all Being and Knowledge.
Not only is God the ground of being and the fount of knowledge, He is also the end of these things. Again John is our helper, for in Revelation he witnesses several times the declaration that Christ is the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End. Nor is the phrase left indeterminate. In Revelation 21 Alpha and Omega is set in the context of Christ as the giver of life, which I think extends to the notion of Being quite directly, though I won't defend that assertion here. In 1 John 3:2, John tells us that the children of God are not yet fully known, but that they know that when they see Christ revealed they shall be like him. The Greek verb translated "see" is a metaphor for seeing with the mind, or knowing. Knowledge is transformative, but in a teleological fashion--we become what we are to be by beholding with the mind the completed revelation of Jesus Christ.

To put it narratively, we cannot know our full identity until the protagonist has completed the end of the story, for our identity as human beings are all bound up in his identity as the God-Man. This is certainly true, corporately, but also individually, just as every part of my body has a "story" of its own, the completion of which depends upon how my own volition directs it unto some final end.

To recap, the problem of identity within Christian thought finds resolution in the identity of God as the beginning and end of Being and Knowledge; by the decree of the Father made manifest to us (and all the cosmos) in the person of Jesus Christ, both Son of God and Son of Man, and declared true by the testimony of the Holy Spirit to all the members of His Body, the Church.

Elsewhere, Over There, IV

For those interested, I've had an article on classical education published over at the Circe Institute.

Leisure: a concept I've misunderstood

I only just finished reading Josef Pieper's essay, Leisure, the Basis of Culture (I haven't yet read the second essay in the book, The Philosophical Act). I need more time to digest it, but it was a stunning perspective-shifting thesis that gave me the feeling of "I should've known that."

Pieper's thesis is that leisure is an activity entirely different from the concept of work, that in fact leisure is inherently worship, where work is separated so that the Divinity exercises full rights over the activity of the worshipper. Like most people today, I suppose, I've always considered leisure something that is a break from work for the sake of rest and a little "mindless activity." Pieper argues that leisure is not basically a break from work, but rather that work is designed to enable leisure--that is, work is for the sake of leisure, not leisure for the sake of work (i.e. a little rest makes one more productive). Not only is work designed to enable leisure, but leisure is not mindless activity, but the opportunity to receive epiphany or illumination.

Pieper describes the activity of leisure the way an athlete today might describe being "in the zone." One has worked diligently to prepare for "the game," and when the time comes, everything "just flows" and the activity is "effortless" and one may even become "unconscious" of all things other than the object of focus. Maybe it is because I played so many sports for so much time for half of my life that the sports analogy seems to fit, but I'm not sure there isn't more to it, especially when one considers how much singular dedication and focus modern-day athletes put into their sport, and how sacramental each competitive engagement becomes, down to the rituals that athletes follow, religiously.

Another thought-provoking observation of Pieper's is how, after Kant, intellectual activity could only be justified when considered as a form of work; individual and societal labor producing a product for evaluation, consumption, and subject to economic analysis. I have often felt compelled to justify my own intellectual activity as "work" and it has always been a difficult thing to do, since much of the intellectual "work" I do has no definite outcome, no time-table, no product. I often have a hard time telling my wife how much time I'll need to "work" on the intellectual preparation for teaching, which is certainly a kind of work, but the kind of work that requires a measure of illumination born of the kind of leisure of which Pieper outlines.

As I said, I need more time to digest Pieper's thesis, but on the first reading it has stirred a lot of rethinking about the nature of work, its purpose, and just how much the modern West has imbibed the notion of "total work."

On the self and desire

Christianity is full of apparently paradoxical statements. The appearance is, I believe, a product of our own incapacity for the truth--an incapacity somewhat derivative of our finitude (we don't possess a nature fully capable) and moreso derivative of our pervasive and total corruption (what nature we have has been destroyed in its capacities). It doesn't make sense that "he who seeks to save his life shall lose it, while he who seeks to give up his life shall find it" because we have been imprisoned by our own aberrant desires, rendering whatever capacity for understanding that could be used subject to that aberration.

Consider the apparent paradox of determinate freedom. Some have argued that true freedom requires the will to be free from all constraints, free from the determining influence of anything that is not the autonomous, individual will or desire. Freedom means choosing as my desire is directed by my desire alone. May other factors offer themselves up for influencing that choice? Surely, but they cannot be said to in any way move the will toward one or another option in the choosing. The will remains self-determining. And in being entirely free of all external determination, the individual who wills is self-defining by virtue of the free choices made. A claim to aseity seems a necessary implication of this view.

Christianity, however, asserts the entire givenness of created being, and, in the fullness of time, the sons of God shall be revealed only as they see (and I think "see" is a metaphor for know, here) Christ face-to-face, that is, unveiled because the corruption that blinds will be completely removed. For the Christian, the self, like being, is entirely given. It comes from God the Father, is imaged in Christ Jesus the Son, and is accomplished by the power of the Holy Spirit. The Christian self is entirely determined by an Other that is not the self, not the individual chosen by the autonomous choices of the will. The Christian identity is received rather than taken, discovered rather than invented--it is the result of surprise rather than contrivance. The oddity of the givenness, and the paradox that arises out of our finitude rather than our sinfulness, is that amidst all of the givenness of the self, the individual is fully participating in the revelation of his identity. There are analogies that help to illustrate this idea, but I have yet to find a definition or description that satisfies rational criteria for explanation (not that there isn't one, or that it hasn't already been found--I can speak only for the places where I have looked!).

Practically, for the Christian, the paradoxical aspect of entire givenness and full participation comes in relinquishing our corrupted desire to be self-determinate and self-defining. Our natural desires are inherently self-oriented. We put our own desires as a priority, we consider ourselves before others, we think in terms of what will benefit ourselves more easily and more willingly than we think in terms of what will benefit others. This is enslavement given the nature of reality. Since our selves are entirely given, we cannot find ourselves by seeking our own desires. It is a vicious circle, and one that cannot avoid importing (whether consciously or unconsciously) things from others that we observe. The lie that I can make myself, even through imitation, fails to recognize that I may be given something other than what I would choose. Let me illustrate.

For most of my childhood I fashioned myself as a professional athlete. My parents largely indulged my efforts by continually driving me to practices and games, waiting long hours after practice was over while I worked extra to improve my skills, and by supporting my decisions for pursuing the sport beyond high school. In college I retained the desire and, although I had to reconcile myself to the possibility of some alternative because I was not given a scholarship to play, I walked-on and redshirted my first year, all the while continuing to work and cultivate my efforts toward the image of "professional athlete." When it became increasingly clear during my time on the team that I would never become a professional athlete bitterness and resentment became the consistent pattern of response to my circumstances. Far from being "free" in my own choices, I was driven by emotions that I did not enjoy, but had not the will to put away so long as that will was fixated upon the false image of the self I had chosen. However, when God broke my will of its clinging to this false image, I was liberated to both enjoy the sport in the capacity that God had graciously granted to me to participate in it, and I was free to receive a new and as yet undiscovered self of what God had in store that I had been blind to. Although I did not receive this discovery with the surprise of an excited child eager to imagine and receive limitless joy offered by the Father, that too was available to me. It was not until my desire died that the self God was fashioning for me could be resurrected unto my understanding.

The Christian life is full of many such deaths because of our idol-making tendencies--crafting selves for ourselves rather than receiving our true selves from the knowledge of God in Christ. The self-seeking that derives from the unpurified will is enslaved to the passions that arise from unfulfilled (or unsatisfying) desires. The self-receiving that derives from the purified will--the will that anticipates God's moving and shaping of the self in ways unexpected and better than expectation--anticipates and receives the surprises of God's Providence with thankfulness and joy at the chance of discovering anew what it is that God is giving to us--our true selves; the selves that look just like Him.

Edwards on Affections and Passions

It is my opinion that a significant number of those who admire Jonathan Edwards have sorely mistaken him on the nature of the affections. The modern admirer tends to equate the affections with the passions, as if such effects upon the individual bore no distinctions whatsoever. But Edwards was a master of careful distinctions, and no less so in distinguishing affections and passions.

A lengthy quotation provides the relevant data:

The will, and the affections of the soul, are not two faculties; the affections are not
essentially distinct from the will, nor do they differ from the mere actings of the will, and
inclination of the soul, but only in the liveliness and sensibleness of exercise. 

It must be confessed, that language is here somewhat imperfect, and the meaning of words
in a considerable measure loose and unfixed, and not precisely limited by custom, which governs the use of language. In some sense, the affection of the soul differs nothing at all from the will and inclination, and the will never is in any exercise any further than it is affected; it is not moved out of a state of perfect indifference, any otherwise than as it is affected one way or other, and acts nothing any further. But yet there are many actings of the will and inclination, that are not so commonly called affections: in everything we do, wherein we act voluntarily, there is an exercise of the will and inclination; it is our inclination that governs us in our actions; but all the actings of the inclination and will, in all our common actions of life, are not ordinarily called affections. Yet,what are commonly called affections are not essentially different from them, but only in the degree and manner of exercise. In every act of the will whatsoever, the soul either likes or dislikes, is either inclined or disinclined to what is in view: these are not essentially different from those affections of love and hatred: that liking or inclination of the soul to a thing, if it be in a high degree, and be vigorous and lively, is the very same thing with the affection of love; and that disliking and disinclining, if in a greater degree, is the very same with hatred. In every act of the will for, or towards something not present, the soul is in some degree inclined to that thing; and that inclination, if in a considerable degree, is the very same with the affection of desire. And in every degree of the act of the will, wherein the soul approves of something present, there is a degree of pleasedness; and that pleasedness, if it be in a considerable degree, is the very same with the affections of joy or delight. And if the will disapproves of what is present, the soul is in some degree displeased, and if that displeasedness be great, it is the very same with the affection of grief or sorrow.

Such seems to be our nature, and such the laws of the union of soul and body, that there
never is in any case whatsoever, any lively and vigorous exercise of the will or inclination of the soul, without some effect upon the body, in some alteration of the motion of its fluids, and especially of the animal spirits. And, on the other hand, from the same laws of the union of the soul and body, the constitution of the body, and the motion of its fluids, may promote the exercise of the affections. But yet it is not the body, but the mind only, that is the proper seat of the affections. The body of man is no more capable of being really the subject of love or hatred, joy or sorrow, fear or hope, than the body of a tree, or than the same body of man is capable of thinking and understanding. As it is the soul only that has ideas, so it is the soul only that is pleased or displeased with its ideas. As it is the soul only that thinks, so it is the soul only that loves or hates, rejoices or is grieved at what it thinks of. Nor are these motions of the animal spirits, and fluids of the body, anything properly belonging to the nature of the affections, though they always accompany them, in the present state; but are only effects or concomitants of the affections that are entirely distinct from the affections themselves, and no way essential to them; so that an unbodied spirit may be as capable of love and hatred, joy or sorrow, hope or fear, or other affections, as one that is united to a body.

Edwards defines affection as an inclination of the will. He does not equate affection and inclination, however. Any desire of the will that leads to an effect is an inclination, but an affection is an inclination of a higher degree resulting in a more pronounced effect. The key elements of an affection, however, is that it originates in the will as an inclination and is properly understood as being properly seated in the mind or soul (which includes the will).

Edwards then distinguishes affections from passions:

The affections and passions are frequently spoken of as the same; and yet in the more
common use of speech, there is in some respect a difference; and affection is a word that in its ordinary signification, seems to be something more extensive than passion, being used for all vigorous lively actings of the will or inclination; but passion for those that are more sudden, and whose effects on the animal spirits are more violent, and the mind more overpowered, and less in its own command.

Edwards' distinction is not simply one of intensity (though there is that), but also of kind--whereas the affections are seated in the mind, it is the passions that are exhibited more violently in the body to the overpowering of the mind. Although Edwards does not explicitly say so in his treatise on the Religious Affections, the implication of the above quote would be that whereas affections originate in the mind as an inclination of the will, passions circumvent the mind and incline the will toward carnal, bodily ("animal spirits") satisfaction. It seems to be these very same passions, just so defined, that Paul says God gave up corrupted men and women unto the influence of in Romans 1:26, which dominated those under the power of the flesh (Rom. 7:5) and which Christ, through our union with him in crucifixion, has crucified (Gal. 5:24). Indeed, it seems to be the passions that James says, "wage war among in your members" (4:1) and are the source of quarrels and conflicts among the brethren.

For Edwards, then, the affections are not those bodily effects that overpower the mind, circumventing or "surpassing" reason and understanding. Rather, the affections are the inclinations of the will reacting to the truths that are impressed upon the mind and exert the will in affections (such as love, hatred, joy, gratitude, grief, fear, zeal, and so on) that culminate in the right worship of God in accordance with the truth that the mind grasps.

A good, though not infallible, test is to ask oneself whether, in the aftermath of an "emotional experience," whether or not one was aware of any thought. Many times we act out of a strong inclination and reflect, saying, "I don't know what I was thinking!?" Such an answer is more accurate than we may realize, since it probably reveals the working of passions rather than the affections of which Edwards speaks. If one can articulate a reason (and the reason is true rather than pretended) for the inclination and its subsequent action (think here of David's dancing exuberantly down the streets of Jerusalem when the Ark of the Covenant was returned to the city), then it is more probably an affection arising from the soul's exultation in the truth than of a bodily or carnal passion.

In any case, reading Edwards correctly on the affections should motivate more skepticism toward the current state of religious expression in our land than serve as justification for much of what passes for a proper expression of worship.

History & Historiography

Gordon Clark's, Historiography Secular and Religious, is not a typical historiography, insofar as it does not provide a comprehensive analysis of approaches to history. Rather, it treats of several kinds of secular historiography, showing their deficiencies--not historical in nature, but rather philosophical. For instance, any sort of ethical judgment requires the establishment of an epistemology that forms the basis of ethical norms. Clark shows the inability of secular historians to provide such an epistemological basis.

On the positive side, Clark provides a brief exposition of Augustine's view of history as the representative Christian historiography. Borrowing from Collingwood, Clark addresses four aspects of the Christian concept of history: 1) it is universal, 2) it is providential, 3) it is apocalyptic, and 4) it is periodized.

The first aspect of universal history is easily granted, Clark says, as a necessary consequence of basic theism: "If God is the creator of the universe and exercises omniscient providential control, the theory must embrace all nations in some way or other, no matter how little we may know of them" (221). Augustine, according to Clark, asserts that, "Since the time of Christ the geographical or national center of gravity [for universal history] has been replaced by a spiritual center, the church. The City of God and the worldly city no doubt produce history by conflict, but the whole process is for the good of the City of God" (222). Whereas Collingwood argues that any center of gravity is destroyed by the universal aspect of Christian history, Clark shows that the opposite is the case: it is not that the center of gravity is destroyed, but it is transformed from the geographically localized, to the geographically dispersed; and from the spiritually diverse and changing to the spiritually unified and constant.

The second aspect of divine providence also follows from Christian theism, and the entirety of Jewish history up to the time of Christ is an exposition of God's providential ordering of history for the arrival of His Messiah from among the Jews. Clark quotes Daniel 4:35 as a representative OT acknowledgement of Providence: "All the inhabitants of the earth are reputed as nothing, and he doeth according to his will in the army of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth, and none can stay his hand or say, What doest Thou?" (222). It is not the agency of men, or of sociological forces, or dialectical materialism, or any other combination that history is assuredly accomplished, but rather by preordained Providence working through any and all immediate and intermediate powers. Whether by the wisdom or by the folly of men God works all according to His purpose. Collingwood's attribution of providence eschewing the wisdom of men is therefore misleading, and deficient, though not entirely incorrect. Providence uses all means, and no means are free from God's power and purpose.

As for the apocalyptic aspect, Clark agrees that Collingwood rightly identifies the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ as the central events of divinely ordained history, but Collingwood leaves out significant future details. That all history looks back to the death and resurrection should not obscure the also forward-looking hope of the culmination of history in the return of the Lord at the end of the age (a hint toward periodization). Thus, while Collingwood is deficient on the future orientation of the apocalypic aspect, he still scores well on the point itself, as well as the consequence of periodization, which in the most general of levels would include those times before the event of Christ's death and resurrection, and those following.

To Collingwood's four aspects Clark adds a fifth, borrowing from Herbert Butterfield; it is the methodological significance of revelation (224). The Scriptures are continually on the mouth of Augustine as he unfolds the history of the two cities, and Augustine is not implicit in his use of them, saying, "We must lay down holy scriptures first as the foundation of our following structure (XX, 1)" (224). Butterfield makes the important distinction, according to Clark, "that historical research might prove that Jesus Christ actually lived at a certain date; and such a conclusion of research, like any other properly obtained, would have to be accepted by Christian, Marxist, or Mohammedan. But the divinity of Christ or the rightness of the Reformation is not susceptible of historical proof" (224). Such claim are theological in nature, but indispensable for understanding the course of history within the Christian concept. Clark concludes on this matter, "To cast the results of historical research into the framework of a providential view, one must come to history with Christian ideas already in mind, and this requires revelation as a methodological principle" (225). If Clark is right, and I think he is, the most important knowledge the Christian historian must possess is a knowledge of Scripture, and its own self-revelatory philosophy of history. Without it, the Christian cannot provide a Christian account of history, no matter how comprehensive and erudite his historical research.

Clark concludes the chapter on Augustine by examining some of Karl Popper's claims about Christianity, first by quoting Popper's acknowledgment that one must come to history with a point of view already in mind, and second by an extended refutation of Popper's criticisms of Christian historicism.

The upshot of Clark's exposition and defense of the Augustinian view of history, which is, perhaps, as close as we've yet come to the Biblical view of history, is of enormous importance to the task of educating Christians in matters historical. If the Christian teacher of history does not provide his students with the Scriptural methodology; if he does not continually use the ideas of universality, providence, and the two-fold culminations of death and resurrection and consummation at the end of the age along with its basic periodization, then the Christian teacher does not provide a Christian view of history. At worst he will adopt a secular structure and methodology for viewing history, and at best he will provide a skeptical view of all structures and methodologies, which leaves the Christian without foundation for positive historical claims. Certainly the necessary skepticism toward secular history is without fruit unless the roots of Scriptural history have travelled deeply into the soil of students' minds. Let us hope that more rather than less Christian teachers and scholars of history are making good use of the Scriptures so that this indispensable aspect of Christian doctrine and its applications isn't lost upon future generations.

Whenever Babylon Conquers Assyria

Frederick Nietzsche, no friend of Christianity, once performed an immaculate reductio ad absurdum of scientific materialism in his essay, On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense. The essay purports to uncover man's "will to truth," by analyzing the origins of language in man's quest to understand the world. The underlying premise upon which Nietzsche builds his argument is that of scientific materialism, that the world is no more than a collection of brute particulars subject to the irrational (i.e. purposeless) forces of nature, which are observable in their effects, but are otherwise inscrutable.

He asserts that any vocalization of a proposition, say, "This is a leaf," depends upon three levels of metaphorical translation: 1st, the nerve impulse that is the sensation of seeing the object, which in turn becomes and image in the mind (seeing and perceiving the object to be called "leaf"); 2nd the formulation of a sound to express the sensation and its image (saying the word "leaf"); 3rd, the categorizing of other similar sensations and images into a form that purports to express a definite class of objects (formulating a concept of "leaf" by which similar sensations are classified).

Nietzsche's criticism of this natural human process is that there is no rational basis for these metaphorical translations--it is simply human beings acting according to their purposeless nature, the same as any animal might react to nerve stimuli. There is no reason to think that man's thinking about objects in the world expresses anything generally true about the world anymore than a gnat's experience  of objects in the world expresses anything generally true about the world. All that human thinking expresses is human experience, which possesses no verisimilitude with the world of nature as it is in itself. Rather, human beings poetize their own experience and regulate one another upon the basis of collective, stipulated designations (which are designed to be productive of pleasure and reductive of pain). Thus, to "tell a lie" is to inflict undesirable or painful consequences according to the herd's stipulated designations, and to "tell the truth" is to produce desirable and pleasurable consequences by the same standard.

Nietzsche goes on to explain where the will to truth originates, that is, what led humans to enforce their designations upon one another in the first place. Nietzsche then concludes by separating two kinds of human expressions for the will to truth, one rational and the other intuitive (he does not say so, but one is the philosopher and the other is the poet, it seems to me).

Nietzsche's aim, one may suspect, is to open up to his age realization of the unfettered possibilities of poetizing the world according to one's own fancy and in one's own image. There are, of course, limitations upon what one can do--one is only human after all--but one need not follow the conventions of the herd, or should one follow the conventions of the herd, one can do so knowing that they are simply conveniences, without rational force. In either case, one may choose to be an overman, the individual who forges his own way apart from or among the herd, though it bring about his own ostracizing from the herd, and even great pain according to his all-too-human frailties. Whatever his hopes, the Christian can recognize in Nietzsche's remarks the intellectual conquest of an "Assyrian captor" by an equivalently dangerous "Babylonian force." That is, the replacement of trust in scientific observation as a guaranty of Truth by anarchical freedom to express one's power in whatever way one is able and willing. In one breath we may be thankful for the removal of an intellectual oppressor, but in the next we may pray for deliverance from the tyrannous idea that has been its demise.

The Church, grounded neither in the brute particulars of nature, nor the anarchical fancies of man, may justly laugh with her Bridegroom at both of these evils, yet only for a moment, since laughter is but the respite to take courage in one's own epistemological self-consciousness under the Sovereign Christ before marching once more to the front, where such vain ideas produce their devastating consequences upon men and things. The Church should not necessarily be opposed to settle down and grow strong in the midst of Babylon, but she should ever be wary of becoming Babylon herself. The quest for wisdom that liberates one from evil and the despair of present pain still begins, continues, and ends where it ever has begun, continued, and will end: with the fear of the Lord. Looking out for oneself and one's neighbor never involves looking to oneself or one's neighbor, but rather to the King, whose Word heralds in peace for all who will abide in its eternal Truth.

Crisp and Gathercole on Jenson

I've been reading Oliver Crisp's God Incarnate and just finished his chapter on the pre-existence of Christ. He takes up a critique of Robert Jenson's view on the issue and takes aim at a few other issues along the way. Crisp's criticisms are predominantly logical or analytical in nature, thought he does make use of an article by Simon Gathercole. I also decided to read Gathercole's article, and his criticisms are predominantly exegetical in nature, but with a few logical criticisms as well. I'll try to provide the briefest of summaries.

First, Jenson accepts a pre-existent Christ, but denies the concept of logos asarkos, that is, that there was a time when the Logos, or Son of God, was without a body. In this he is mainly following Karl Barth, but for Jenson, the precise reason that logos asarkos is problematic is because he identifies the pre-incarnate Son with Israel of the Old Testament. Normally this would be non-controversial, since the NT witness speaks of Christ's presence with Israel explicitly. However, Jenson's definition of Christ's identification with Israel takes a strong sense of identity, that is, Christ isn't simply identified by Israel as His body, but with Israel as His body, i.e. Israel is Christ's body. Crisp uses the analogy of an author being known by a reference to his writing ("The Systematic Theology I, by which I mean the book authored by Robert Jenson") and an author being known with (that is, identical to) a reference ("The author who wrote the book Systematic Theology I, which is Robert Jenson). Under this strong definition of Christ's identification with Israel, Christ would have a body (Israel) prior to having a body (the incarnation). It should be noted that Crisp provides a much more nuanced explication of Jenson's view than I am here giving.

Second, and in order to extend Jenson's rejection of logos asarkos beyond Creation, Jenson's view of time and of God's divinity must be accounted for. Jenson wishes to reject the metaphysic that he believes is inherited from the ancient Greeks ("Olympian-Parminidean"), which dichotomizes and opposes time and eternity. He neither favors Aristotle's view of God within an infinite linear succession, nor Plato's extra temporal reality for God outside of time. Rather, in Jenson's view, God is neither outside of time, nor existent across time in a linear succession of moments. God is, rather, eschatologically determined. He exists as His own future, without being "past" or "present," but is rather like a narrative, where we can speak of before and after.

One of the most frustrating and puzzling aspects of reading Jenson's Systematic Theology I, for me personally, was his refusal to offer an adequate definition of time. He could gesture, he could say what time is not, but he could not present what I considered a coherent viewpoint. I say this because I wish for you readers to know that I am sympathetic to Crisp's account of Jenson, for he finds the same incoherence, though for slightly different reasons. For Jenson, God's life is akin to narrative, where we may use past, present, and future as descriptions, and these descriptions are identifiable with the persons of the Godhead--Father is past, Spirit is future, and Son is present. This is precisely where Gathercole takes issue with Jenson's account of God the Son, since Gathercole argues that Jenson's treatment NT passages concerning Christ's activity in the creation of the world does not do justice to the Biblical data under Jenson's formulation of the persons of the Godhead. Certainly we might say that Jenson's account is interesting as a characterological treatment of the Biblical data, which does speak often of God as the one "before," the Spirit as the testament of "what is to come," and the Son as the one who "now is," with everything weighted toward the eschatological consummation of the narrative. However, I think Gathercole is right that Jenson's emphasis is an overemphasis, and I also agree with Crisp that however artfully styled Jenson's formulations are, they don't clarify anything given to us from the previous witnesses within Christendom. In producing a "pure" metaphysic, Jenson has emptied our conception of time, the divine nature, and Christ's pre-existence of much needed perspicuity.

I haven't done justice to any of the parties in the debate here, other than to give a bit of the lay of the land, along with my own impressions. I'll just leave you with two reasons why my sympathies lay with Jenson's "correctors" than with Jenson.

First, there is Jenson's wholesale rejection of "Greek metaphysics." There has been plenty of ink spilled over the question first raised by Tertullian, "What does Jerusalem have to do with Athens," that is, what does the Biblical God and His revelation have to do with pagan learning? Tertullian's answer was similar to Jenson's--nothing at all! Others were more inclined to say with Origen--"they are essentially the same!" But I side with Augustine, who says that God has frequently given knowledge to those who fail to see Him or seek Him by it, and as Christians we can "plunder from the Egyptians" what is rightfully ours as God's people. The most basic illustration of this, to my mind, are the basic laws of logic (identity, excluded middle, contradiction). Aristotle codified them for the Western world, but surely these things are not Aristotle's possession, for they obtain before and beyond Aristotle's articulation of them. His recognition of the laws of logic do not entail wholesale adoption of his pagan metaphysics anymore than our agreement with Aristotle on any particular point of history or biology would. In this way, I think, Jenson errs in seeking to construct a new metaphysics from scratch.

Second, there is Jenson's description of time. I agree with him that Aristotle and Plato are both lacking. Gordon Clark made the same point in his lecture Time & Eternity. Plato only really offered a description ("Time is the moving image of eternity") that made for a clever aphorism, but not a philosophically defensible definition. Aristotle, according to Clark, wound up in a vicious circle, whereby time and motion were mutually defining without either being properly distinguished. Clark's solution, which he took from Augustine, was that time is a characteristic of created minds. Perceptive readers may sense a problem with respect to created objects that are not minds, but the objection presupposes a certain metaphysic of time and creation, which is not necessarily entailed by Augustine's definition of time. For example, one might propose an Edwardsian metaphysic, wherein creation is ideal, and our apprehension of it (given our finitude) is both derivative and successive and therefore characterized by "time," that is, our minds were not aware of object x, then became aware of object x, and then hold a memory of object x and apprehension 1, while continuing to gather new apprehensions at intervals 2, 3, 4, and so on. But the successive nature of our apprehension of creation does not itself define what is the nature of the objects of creation. I'm not committing myself to such a view, but only trying to show that Augustine's restriction of time to a characteristic of minds can be shown sensible and, therefore, defensible.

Edit: In glancing over this post again, it seems to give the impression that I think Jenson's efforts to be largely disappointing. I don't think that would be a fair expression of my view of Jenson's Systematic Theology. I don't agree with his metaphysics, his conception of time, his expression of the Trinity, and the details listed above, but I found a great deal of agreement and gained some insights I would not have in reading his work. It is easy to only deal with the "big things" with an individual like Jenson, who is attempting a lot. For that I respect his efforts and am thankful for his thoughts, even where we part ways.

Logic, truth, and authority

For private arguments, even if logically impeccable, are not the be-all-and-end-all when it comes to central and defining matters of Christian doctrine, and may well turn out to be false. For one can have a logically valid but unsound argument. And one can have a private opinion, which, though internally consistent and beyond logical reproach, is inconsistent with other things, such as the teaching of an ecumenical council like Chalcedon, or -- more importantly -- the doctrine of Scripture.

Oliver Crisp,  God Incarnate


Crisp makes a very basic, but often ignored or misapplied point concerning logic and individual viewpoints. Logic is tool of reasoning, a very useful and powerful tool of reasoning, and can be an effective arbiter of truth insofar as its use as a tool is correctly applied. But logic is not a source of or grounding for truth claims. One must bring one's assumptions concerning truth to the tool of logic; one cannot derive the truth of a given claim from the tool. This would be the same as using a hammer and nails to put together a chair without having the wood upon which to use the hammer and nails.

Additionally, one of the difficulties of man, and not just modern man, is submission to an external authority. Even in times when external authorities were obeyed out of fear or tradition, it was not necessarily the case that individuals believed in what the authority dictated. Also, even if they believed, it was not necessarily the case that they do so on the basis of that authority. In any case, the rub is that men have a desire to justify a perspective from within their own mind, according to the dictates of their own reason--and logic can be a tool to solidify such individual views from inconsistencies and error, such that one's claims are internally consistent with one's basic assumptions. But upon what authority such assumptions are based, or what claim to truth these assumptions have cannot be derived from logic, but must be taken from one's own "self-evidence" or upon the evidence of an external authority (such as Scripture and ecumenical councils and doctrinal confessions).

Logic and the Nature of God

I recently read a blog entry by Doug Wilson wherein he retracts his "nominalism, but" metaphysic for a "realism, but" metaphysic. I posted a message of agreement and extension of Wilson's main point, which is that our view of God's nature must acknowledge certain logical laws as part and parcel with His Being.

A couple of commenters, and really one in particular, was uneasy about the idea of logic being an attribute of God. He thought it brought God's nature under a standard it ought not to be placed under. At times he seemed leery because he considered logic an aspect of man's mind, but not of God's and at other times he considered logic to be an attribute of creation, but not of God's nature.

Such views on logic are unfortunate, more so for the fact that they are offered frequently in circles of Christianity where a rational faith is upheld as a Biblical ideal. Few, if any, Christians have heartburn over using logic to understand God's revelation, and those Christians who uphold the inerrancy and infallibility of Scripture often adhere to the Westminster Confession of Faith's assertion that we understand the Word of God by what it expresses and by "good and necessary inference." This quoted phrase is an acknowledgment of the Biblical warrant for logic, which Gordon Clark defines as "the science of necessary inference" (Logic 1). The study and use of logic proceeds upon the basis of certain laws of logic, namely; the law of identity (an object is the same as itself), the law of contradiction (One cannot say that a thing both is and is not in the same respect and at the same time), and the law of the excluded middle (for any proposition, either the proposition is true, or its negation is true).

It is easy to derive from Scripture these laws of logic (also known as the laws of thought). The very name of God asserts the law of identity, the statement that God does not lie implies the law of contradiction, and statements that indicate God is God and there is no other exhibit the principle of the excluded middle.

Moreover, the people who decry logic are confused about what is a truth. Truth is an evaluation of propositions. Propositions are the meanings of declarative sentences. Knowledge is the possession, or correct evaluation of truth. Given these basic acknowledgments, one wonder why it would be offensive to claim that God's thought exhibits logic because logic is the way God's thought is structured. We don't get in a tizzy over the claim that God has a mind, simply because we can also recognize minds in human creatures. Nor do we think that God's mind is a derivation of human minds. Why then should we think logic is something of man's mind that we project upon God's mind? Rather Scripture reveals that logic is the structure by which God expresses His thoughts, and since He has made us to commune with Him, our minds are also structured by logic.

Far from obliterating the Creator/creature distinction, or holding God accountable to a standard above Him, the laws of logic are the guide for our understanding of the truths we must know in order to love God rightly. Note that saying logic is the guide for knowing God rightly is not the same as saying that logic is the source of truth. God has to reveal to our minds the propositions we must believe, but we could not understand the relationship between the propositions God reveals to us without the laws of logic that govern these relations.

In short, logic isn't bad, though it is often used poorly by men. Logic itself isn't man-made, though certain views about logic are man-made. The Bible exhibits the laws of thought, and it expresses itself in logical forms (Clark gives examples of several logical argument forms appearing in Scripture; see p. 119 of Logic). Without logic we could not know anything, certainly not God in whom we live and move and have our being and for whom our minds were created for communion by means of truth.

A Must Read

Philosopher and Christian apologist James Anderson has just posted a link to a very interesting paper that proves the existence of God by proving the necessary existence of the laws of logic. It is highly stimulating, thoroughly argued, and a must read for anyone interested in apologetics or logic, or both!

Thoughts on Plato's Phaedrus

I.               Prologue: Speaking of Eros (227a-230e)

II.             First Speech: Lysias’ encomium of the non-lover (231a-234c)

III.           First Interlude: Lysias’ argument good, but he lacks proper rhetorical form (234d-237a)

IV.           Second Speech: Socrates₁‘ encomium of the non-lover (237b-241d)

V.             Second Interlude: Socrates rhetorical form good, but the god Eros will be offended (241e-243e)

VI.           Third Speech: Socrates₂ ‘ encomium of the lover (Eros) (244a-257b)

VII.         Discussion 1: Proper Method of Communication: Dialectical v. Rhetorical (257c-274b)

VIII.       Discussion 2: Proper Mode of Communication: Oral v. Written (274b-277b)

IX.           Summary of Discussions 1 and 2 (277b-279c)

Socrates’ main burden is to persuade Phaedrus to acknowledge the superiority of philosophical discourse. In order to do this, he must convince Phaedrus that his present highest pursuit—rhetorical discourse—is inadequate. Lysias’ speech does not fulfill the epitome of rhetorical expression, though its basic argument fits the criteria for debating the weaker case. Socrates, in his second speech, adopts the argument of Lysias in order to show Phaedrus that he is more than competent to speak about rhetoric, since he is himself a consummate rhetorician. Socrates’ rhetorical expression is impeccable. Now that Phaedrus has been captivated by Socrates ethos, Socrates can move Phaedrus more capably than before.

Socrates repents of the argument of his first speech, acknowledging the ideal nature of eros, which is to stimulate the return of the soul to its primary being; union with the Forms. The second speech epitomizes Socrates’ goal for Phaedrus and demonstrates Socrates’ argument for rhetorical art in the following discussion: Socrates’ knows that Phaedrus’ soul is speech-loving, which is definitive of the philosophical, kingly or Zeus-loving soul. However, Phaedrus has been deceived by the appealing nature of rhetoric, thus Socrates must purify Phaedrus through dialectic—a process he can only arrive at through first winning the admiration of Phaedrus in his current state of confusion. Since Phaedrus’ soul is multi-faceted, Socrates presents the same idea through facets of speech (i.e., first something prettily formed, then something pretty-formed and true in content, then something formed for truth and true in content). The second speech is Socrates’ appeal to pathos, for it is meant to stir in Phaedrus a desire for the sort of Eros that leads to knowledge and the proper pursuit of knowledge.

Socrates proceeds from his second speech to discuss the true art of speaking, which is, of course, dialectical rather than rhetorical—or better yet, any rhetorical art necessarily presupposes dialectical discussion. The latter portion of the discussion, which evaluates written and oral discourse, is necessary (and so is the discussion of dialectic) due to Plato’s epistemology. Plato believes in a three-tiered reality; at the top, the unchanging and unified Forms; in the middle, the somewhat stable and unified intellectual reality of definitions; at the bottom the realm of appearances and bodily sensations, which are constantly in flux. The Forms are only understood through a divine intuition, which occurs through a gradual ascent from the realm of appearances up to the Forms. To recall Socrates’ second speech: beauty is visible in appearances, which can stimulate one to recollect the Form of Beauty, or not. The common response to erotic stimulus is to reproduce bodily desire: beautyàdesireàsexual intercourseàreproduction of a body. Another, uncommon response, is to reproduce knowledge of the Forms: beautyàdesireàintellectual intercourseàrecollection of the Form of Beauty. The orgasm resulting from sexual intercourse is, perhaps, analogous to the divine intuition of the Form resulting from intellectual intercourse.

The process of intellectual intercourse is properly dialectic, because it is able to extrapolate from appearances the more stable definitions of things in themselves, which prepares the soul to receive the divine intuition of the thing-in-itself, which is not reproducible discursively. Herein lies the division between the Forms and Intellectual Reality. Because intellectual reality depends upon discursive reasoning, it depends upon language. Language is highly codified, but it remains unstable because the names of things change or encompass more than one term, making even good definitions susceptible to confusion (cf. Plato’s Seventh Epistle).

The instability of language even in the realm of intellectual reality also reveals the greater incapacity of written discourse when compared to oral. In oral discourse there is greater assurance that the names we use correspond to the terms of the definition—the speaker is always free to correct his own or his interlocutor’s errors. In written discourse the non-present author cannot correct misconceptions of the names being used, therefore there is less stability even in the realm of definition. Oral discourse can also be directed to a specific audience, and preserved from foreign audiences for whom the discourse is not intended. Written discourse may be picked up an read by anyone, whether or not the individual’s “soul is fitted” to the discourse. Additionally, written discourse is a copy or image of the thoughts in the mind, which makes it metaphysically as well as epistemologically inferior to dialectical discussion within one’s own mind. At best writing functions as a reminder of what one already knows but has not had on the mind, or as a playful activity, or as a stimulus for those souls who will take up its discourse in their own search for eternal truths.

Rhetoric, oral or written, in Plato’s epistemology, is a propaedeutic to discourse on knowledge, or “mature” speech (contrast with Callicles’ view that dialectic is propaedeutic to rhetoric, or “mature” speech in Plato’s Gorgias). Furthermore, rhetoric is only helpful as a propaedeutic when it has been established upon the foundation of dialectical discourse—scientific knowledge grounds right opinion; so not only is episteme superior to doxa, but so too techne as Plato defines it.

On Jonathan Edwards On Being

I ran across a reminder this morning of why one must always take great care in reading any particular author, but especially of those who are very careful in drawing distinctions. Jonathan Edwards is such an author, whose mind is at once so far-reaching and yet so close to the point before it that he is able to account for many distinctions that a lesser mind could not conceive. If there was one mind other than Christ's that I would seek to emulate, it would be a toss up between Augustine and Edwards.

Anyway, to the point. Here is a conclusion to a section from Edwards' philosophical notes On Being:

This infinite and omnipresent being cannot be solid. Let us see how contradictory it is to say that infinite being is solid. For solidity surely is nothing but resistance to other solidities. Space is this necessary, eternal, infinite, and omnipresent being. We find that we can with ease conceive how all other beings should not be. We can remove them out of our minds and place some other in the room of them, but space is the very thing that we can never remove and conceive of its not being. If a man would imagine space anywhere to be divided so as there should be nothing between the divided parts, there remains space between, notwithstanding. And so the man contradicts himself. And it is self-evident, I believe, to every man that space is necessary, eternal, infinite, and omnipresent. But I had as good speak plain. I have already said as much as that space is God. And it is indeed clear to me that all the space there is, not proper to body, all the space there is without the bounds of the creations, all the space there was before the creation, is God Himself. And nobody would in the least stick at it if it were not because of the gross conceptions we have of space.

Edwards' conclusion sounds controversial. Space is God. Historically, the Church has understood God to be "outside" or "beyond" both time and space. The reason for this restriction was because time and space have predominantly been conceived with respect to material bodies. But Edwards is careful to preface his conclusion with arguments that remove the problem of solidity (i.e. material bodies) from consideration. God (the infinite and omnipresent being) cannot be a solid, for He would have to be in resistance to some other solid or solids. He would not be the simple, self-existent, and eternally one God. There would be another or others that are not God against which God would be existent and defined. Thus, God is not a solid.

But here is where Edwards' brilliance shines. Our minds cannot conceive of anything irrespective of space. We need the concept or attribute of space as a basis for thought. The Biblical knowledge that Edwards' possesses provides the solution: space must be God, for what else but God is a necessary precondition of thought? He will later have to clarify what he means by distinguishing space proper to body and space within the bounds of creation, but all that space not so defined is an attribute of God. As Paul says, quoting a wise pagan, in God we live and move and have our being. He is our space, or maybe as Augustine would say, the home we inhabit. Is it any wonder that men, however much they might wish to deny God or escape Him, cannot, for their being that particular thing in the space of all that is, is their being in God. All souls are restless until they find their rest in God.

Here is where some might consider Edwards a full-blown pantheist. But for a thing exist within something else is not the same as for the something else to exist within a thing. I may inhabit a house without the house being in me. A thought may exist within my mind without being predicated of my essence. Pantheism only follows from a misconception of space, a misconception Edwards laments at the close of the passage.

I find that I, unlike Edwards, am too prejudiced a thinker. I too often want to have a party-line to play, a conclusion fixed by some other, more-reliable thinker, so that I may rest in his conclusion. But what if Edwards had not allowed himself the freedom of thought to examine space in ways hitherto neglected? Of course speculation has its dangers as well as does narrow=mindedness. But perhaps here is where the Anselmic, Athanasian, Augustinian dictum comes to our aid: believe in order to understand. There are basic truths that any child can understand about God, and indeed Christians all over the world teach their children to believe these things in order that they may understand; and also frequently repeat that they never be forgotten (even unto old age). But to mature we must also allow our minds to seek understanding that broadens the scope of our belief. If I may be permitted a physical analogy. In weightlifting, the muscles used to force the weights undergo microscopic tears in their fibers--there is a breakdown of their previous unity. But it is in these microscopic tears that the space necessary for muscle growth is opened up. With rest and good diet added to the weightlifting, the muscles grow into the spaces opened by the tearing down produced by the force exerted by the muscles. The growth of our understanding is similarly grown. When we force our minds to consider thoughts that are difficult, and may even cause spaces of doubt or the unknown to open, there is created space for the nourishment of recovery in the things we do know to grow into these spaces and increase our understanding.

Edwards pursues an observation about space that seems to contradict the common faith of Christianity -- space seems to be necessary, eternal, infinite, and omnipresent, but we affirm that God is not bound by or contained by space. Instead of retreating he pursues the problem, drawing upon what he knows well already, in order to seek an understanding that reconciles the problem. The result is a conception of space that not only reconciles the problem, but opens up opportunities for developing more understanding on immaterial space.

I realize that I'm dramatizing a bit here. Edwards may or may not have undergone the sort of process I describe above. However, what troubles me in the current age is how quickly many in the Church are to censure the intellectual weightlifting that is essential to sanctified spiritual understanding. Yes, heresies abound. Yes, novelties can lead to great error. Yes, yes, yes, to a thousand other dangers that persist whether or not Christians pursue the exercise I here recommend. Augustine once said that rhetorical abilities should be pursued by Christians so that the truth would have a better expression in its defense against promoters of error who were already using eloquence. The same is true, I think, of intellectual inquiry. The thousand and one ways in which it can result in error to not negate the (at least) several ways in which it directs us to greater understanding of the truth.