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Theological Amnesia: dreaming a book to write in my dotage

Using Clive James’s book as a springboard for imagining a similar volume dedicated to theological themes and writers from the twentieth century.

I remain enamored with Clive James’s Cultural Amnesia.

By way of reminder, it’s an 850-page encyclopedia of twentieth century European letters, life, politics, and war, with diversions into Asia and the Americas as the occasion demands. It’s organized as a series of short essays on 112 writers, artists, musicians, dancers, comedians, actors, directors, generals, and politicians, ordered alphabetically by surname. There are maybe one or two dozen figures who antedate the twentieth century, mostly from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Tacitus is premodern; I can’t recall if there is another). James selects the names entirely by personal preference, affection, and the importance he deems their role in the times—whether or not that importance is recognized by others. Most of the chapters are love letters: he wants his readers to love what he loves. But not all of them; Mao, Hitler, and Goebbels have entries, as do Sartre, Benjamin, Brasillach, and Kollantai. He despises them all. Another goal, then, is for readers to learn to hate what he hates, and why.

The themes of the work cluster around the twin disasters of Nazism and Stalinism, which is to say, the prelude to World War II, the nightmare of the Final Solution, and their contested half-lives in the Cold War. James celebrates the fragility and triumph of liberalism over communism and fascism. For “liberalism” read “humanism.” He wants his readers, whom he imagines as students, not to succumb to the forgetfulness so common to liberal cultures. Amnesia, in his view, is the precondition for political tragedy, because it makes the poison of ideology go down less noticeably. Memory is the antidote, necessary if not sufficient.

I noted in a previous post that, if all you had was James’s book, you would think religion was a failed experiment, universally accepted and proclaimed as such by World War I at the latest. He includes no explicitly religious writers and only a handful of Christians, whose faith, as he sees it, is utterly incidental to the value of their thought or the quality of their writing.

Although not all his subjects are writers, it is writing in which he is principally interested. This is a book about style: James admires no one whose prose lacks grace or verve; a unique voice on the page covers a multitude of sins. Each entry begins with a brief autobiographical introduction, then an epigraph from the artist, then an essay to match it. The essay is free to go in any direction it pleases, which sometimes means it isn’t about the name at the head of the chapter at all. But it is never off topic and never not a pleasure to read. That’s how he gets away with it. The book is a monument to his own vanity, and yet he pulls it off anyway.

Given how deeply personal such an endeavor must have been for James, I find myself imagining, as I come to the book’s close (I have around twenty chapters to go), what another version would look like. Scratch that: I wonder what my version would look like. It goes without saying that I could never write a book one tenth as good as this one. And for erudition and scope, only someone like David Bentley Hart could manage writing the book as it exists in my imagination.

That said, I can’t stop thinking about it.

Suppose the parameters were the same: An alphabetized encyclopedia of the century just past, centered on and after World War II, featuring mini-essays on more than a hundred authors, artists, and public figures, selected by whimsy and pleasure but centered around a determinate set of themes that would emerge organically as readers moved from name to name in a kind of spiral or web. But suppose, in addition, that the goal was to highlight religion, in particular Christian life and thought, in a supposedly secular century. Suppose, too, that the center of gravity moved across the Atlantic to North America, and instead of comedy, ballet, and journalism, attention was paid to film, sports, and philosophy. James’s interest in the lost world of prewar Vienna would be transmuted into contemplating the legacy of the American West and the subsequent export of American culture to the world. Further themes would announce themselves: the problem of atheism; the boredom of secularism; the rise of Islam; the irrelevance of public theology; the return of the convert; the renewal of monasticism; and the modern martyr, in all its varieties.

The secret of James’s selectivity is that, in considering only some, he sneaks in all the rest. He has no entries on Kant, Pound, Joyce, Auden, Berlin, Eliot, Heidegger, Solzhenitsyn, Costa-Gravas, Kissinger, Einstein, Shakespeare, Dickens, Stalin, Lenin, or Orwell, but look in the Index, and you’ll see plenty of page numbers for each of them. He makes no apologies for whom he does and does not include, since a potted history is the only possibility for a personal literary breviary such as this one. He’s certainly not choosing for race, gender, nationality, or ideological bona fides. Remember: this is a catalogues of his loves, together with a few of his hatreds, presented (with a straight face and tongue in cheek, neither somehow canceling out the other) as what’s worth remembering from the most violent century in human history.

If you don’t share my reaction—that the world needs more books like this one—I don’t know what to tell you. If you do share my reaction, read on.

*

The title of my imaginary book, naturally enough, is Theological Amnesia. It’s an antidote to an antidote. James has forgotten faith: not his own, but others’. It didn’t go underground. It was never relegated to the private sphere. He and his ilk just chose to ignore it, and given the genuine changes in Western societies since the Enlightenment, they could afford to do so. They did so, however, at their peril.

Two subtitles are competing in my mind: Authors and Artists from a Long Secular Century vs. Authors and Artists from the Long American Century. The former is clearer, in its irony, about the book’s subtheme, whereas the latter foregrounds the cultural focus. (Now I’m wondering whether I should add mention of martyrs, saints, and others besides. Hm.)

Either way, that’s the pitch. Below are the names.

A few words of explanation. First, the number ballooned from 112 to 150. That was only after nixing an additional 150. I do not know how James did it. It’s an impossible choice.

Second, I justified the larger number—for, I remind myself and you, dear reader, my completely imaginary book—by recourse to James’s word count. While some essays are 4-6 pages, many are 8-12 pages, and some are much more than that. All in all, his book totals around 350,000 words. If I wrote an average 2,200 words per entry, even with 150 names that would make for a smaller book than James’s. In the alternate universe where a more learned variant of myself attempts to write this book in my 70s … a publisher definitely goes for it. Right? (Let me have this.)

Third and finally, I did my best to keep to James’s temporal center of gravity. No one on my list is born after the mid-1950s, and any of them who are still alive today (a) are approaching their ninth or tenth decade of life and (b) became famous, having done their most important and influential work, in the closing decades of the last century. Everyone else on the list lived and wrote between the Great War and the fall of the Soviet Union—except, that is, for the handful of premodern authors (five or six) and figures from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (maybe a dozen) whom I felt compelled to include.

Without further adieu, then, here is the fake table of contents for my imaginary book. If I live long enough to be an emeritus professor, full of leisure time and surrounded by scores of grandchildren, don’t be surprised when I self-publish a thousand-page version of this idea, with copies distributed to friends and family only. I’ll leave it to history to decide whether it’s an unheralded classic or a painful exercise in imitation gone awry.

Theological Amnesia: Writers and Thinkers, Saints and Martyrs from a Long Secular Century

  1. Thomas J. J. Altizer

  2. G. E. M. Anscombe

  3. Hannah Arendt

  4. W. H. Auden

  5. Augustine of Hippo

  6. Jane Austen

  7. James Baldwin

  8. J. G. Ballard

  9. Hans Urs von Balthasar

  10. Karl Barth

  11. Saul Bellow

  12. Isaiah Berlin

  13. Georges Bernanos

  14. Wendell Berry

  15. Dietrich Bonhoeffer

  16. Jorge Luis Borges

  17. Peter Brown

  18. Sergei Bulgakov

  19. Roberto Calasso

  20. John Calvin

  21. Albert Camus

  22. John le Carré

  23. G. K. Chesterton

  24. J. M. Coetzee

  25. James Cone

  26. Christopher Dawson

  27. Dorothy Day

  28. Simone de Beauvoir

  29. Henri de Lubac

  30. Augusto del Noce

  31. Charles Dickens

  32. Annie Dillard

  33. Walt Disney

  34. Fyodor Dostoevsky

  35. Frederick Douglass

  36. Clint Eastwood

  37. T. S. Eliot

  38. Frantz Fanon

  39. Patrick Leigh Fermor

  40. Ludwig Feuerbach

  41. John Ford

  42. Michel Foucault

  43. Sigmund Freud

  44. Mahātmā Gandhi

  45. Billy Graham

  46. Graham Greene

  47. Ursula K. le Guin

  48. Adolf von Harnack

  49. Martin Heidegger

  50. George Herbert

  51. Abraham Joshua Heschel

  52. Alfred Hitchcock

  53. Gerard Manley Hopkins

  54. Michel Houellebecq

  55. Aldous Huxley

  56. Ivan Illich

  57. P. D. James

  58. William James

  59. Robert Jenson

  60. Tony Judt

  61. Franz Kafka

  62. Søren Kierkegaard

  63. Martin Luther King Jr.

  64. Stephen King

  65. Ronald Knox

  66. Leszek Kołakowski

  67. Stanley Kubrick

  68. Akira Kurosawa

  69. Christopher Lasch

  70. Stan Lee

  71. Denise Levertov

  72. C. S. Lewis

  73. George Lucas

  74. John Lukacs

  75. Martin Luther

  76. Dwight Macdonald

  77. Alasdair MacIntyre

  78. Malcolm X

  79. Terrence Malick

  80. Jacques Maritain

  81. François Mauriac

  82. Cormac McCarthy

  83. Larry McMurtry

  84. Herman Melville

  85. H. L. Mencken

  86. Thomas Merton

  87. Mary Midgley

  88. Czesław Miłosz

  89. Hayao Miyazaki

  90. Malcolm Muggeridge

  91. Albert Murray

  92. Les Murray

  93. John Henry Newman

  94. H. Richard Niebuhr

  95. Reinhold Niebuhr

  96. Friedrich Nietzsche

  97. Flannery O’Connor

  98. Robert Oppenheimer

  99. George Orwell

  100. Yasujirō Ozu

  101. Blaise Pascal

  102. Paul of Tarsus

  103. Walker Percy

  104. Karl Popper

  105. Neil Postman

  106. Thomas Pynchon

  107. Sayyid Qutb

  108. Joseph Ratzinger

  109. Marilynne Robinson

  110. Fred Rogers

  111. Franz Rosenzweig

  112. Salman Rushdie

  113. John Ruskin

  114. Bill Russell

  115. Edward Said

  116. Margaret Sanger

  117. Dorothy Sayers

  118. Paul Schrader

  119. George Scialabba

  120. Martin Scorsese

  121. Roger Scruton

  122. Peter Singer

  123. Maria Skobtsova

  124. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  125. Sophrony the Athonite

  126. Wole Soyinka

  127. Steven Spielberg

  128. Wallace Stegner

  129. Edith Stein

  130. Leo Strauss

  131. Preston Sturges

  132. Andrei Tartovsky

  133. Charles Taylor

  134. Mother Teresa

  135. Thérèse of Lisieux

  136. Thomas Aquinas

  137. R. S. Thomas

  138. J. R. R. Tolkien

  139. John Kennedy Toole

  140. Desmond Tutu

  141. John Updike

  142. Sigrid Undset

  143. Evelyn Waugh

  144. Simone Weil

  145. H. G. Wells

  146. Rebecca West

  147. Oprah Winfrey

  148. Ludwig Wittgenstein

  149. Karol Wojtyła

  150. Franz Wright

*

Update (8/2): I should have thought to include a list of James’s entries, so that those unfamiliar with the book could see the names he chose, as well as compare them with mine. Apparently his list comes only to 106, not 112; perhaps I came to that number by counting the introductory and concluding essays. In any case, here you go:

  1. Anna Akhmatova

  2. Peter Altenberg

  3. Louis Armstrong

  4. Raymond Aron

  5. Walter Benjamin

  6. Marc Bloch

  7. Jorge Luis Borges

  8. Robert Brasillach

  9. Sir Thomas Browne

  10. Albert Camus

  11. Dick Cavett

  12. Paul Celan

  13. Chamfort

  14. Coco Chanel

  15. Charles Chaplin

  16. Nirad C. Chaudhuri

  17. G. K. Chesterton

  18. Jean Cocteau

  19. Gianfranco Contini

  20. Benedetto Croce

  21. Tony Curtis

  22. Ernst Robert Curtius

  23. Miles Davis

  24. Sergei Diaghilev

  25. Pierre Drieu La Rochelle

  26. Alfred Einstein

  27. Duke Ellington

  28. Federico Fellini

  29. W. C. Fields

  30. F. Scott Fitzgerald

  31. Gustave Flaubert

  32. Sigmund Freud

  33. Egon Friedell

  34. François Furet

  35. Charles de Gaulle

  36. Edward Gibbon

  37. Terry Gilliam

  38. Joseph Goebbels

  39. Witold Gombrowicz

  40. William Hazlitt

  41. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel

  42. Heinrich Heine

  43. Adolf Hitler

  44. Ricarda Huch

  45. Ernst Jünger

  46. Franz Kafka

  47. John Keats

  48. Leszek Kołakowski

  49. Alexandra Kollontai

  50. Heda Margolius Kovály

  51. Karl Kraus

  52. Georg Christoph Lichtenberg

  53. Norman Mailer

  54. Nadezhda Mandelstam

  55. Golo Mann

  56. Heinrich Mann

  57. Michael Mann

  58. Thomas Mann

  59. Mao Zedong

  60. Chris Marker

  61. John McCloy

  62. Zinka Milanov

  63. Czesław Miłosz

  64. Eugenio Montale

  65. Montesquieu

  66. Alan Moorehead

  67. Paul Muratov

  68. Lewis Namier

  69. Grigory Ordzhonokidze

  70. Octavio Paz

  71. Alfred Polgar

  72. Beatrix Potter

  73. Jean Prévost

  74. Marcel Proust

  75. Edgar Quinet

  76. Marcel Reich-Ranicki

  77. Jean-François Revel

  78. Richard Rhodes

  79. Rainer Maria Rilke

  80. Virginio Rognoni

  81. Ernesto Sabato

  82. Edward Said

  83. Sainte-Beuve

  84. José Saramago

  85. Jean-Paul Sartre

  86. Erik Satie

  87. Arthur Schnitzler

  88. Sophie Scholl

  89. Wolf Jobst Siedler

  90. Manès Sperber

  91. Tacitus

  92. Margaret Thatcher

  93. Henning von Tresckow

  94. Leon Trotsky

  95. Karl Tschuppik

  96. Dubravka Ugrešić

  97. Miguel de Unamuno

  98. Pedro Henríquez Ureña

  99. Paul Valéry

  100. Mario Vargas Llosa

  101. Evelyn Waugh

  102. Ludwig Wittgenstein

  103. Isoroku Yamamoto

  104. Aleksandr Zinoviev

  105. Carl Zuckmayer

  106. Stefan Zweig

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Brad East Brad East

The hatred of theology

In the latest issue of The Point, Jon Baskin writes on behalf of the magazine's editors about what he calls "the hatred of literature." By this team he means the attitude—apparently dominant in English departments a couple decades ago and imbibed by graduate students across the land—that the study of literature exists not to appreciate its multifarious goodnesses and beauties, rooted in love for the object of study, but instead to uncover, unmask, and indict the social, moral, and political problems belonging to its conditions of production. The novel or poem is therefore not an object at all, that is to say, an end, but a means to a larger, political end; criticism thus becomes an instrument of political advocacy. The work of literary art plays no role in calling me or my convictions into question. Rather, the critic measures the work by the correctness of its views or its capacity to activate social change (for the better, that is, more or less in line with my priors), and judges its quality accordingly.

Baskin labels this approach the "hatred" of literature for two reasons. On the one hand, it does not treat literature as an end (however proximate) in itself, but only as a sort of weapon to advance or stymie the cause—whatever that may be. On the other hand, and more important, it quite literally does not arise from what usually stands as the origin story for so many students and teachers of literature: love. Love for the thing itself, for its own sake, just because. A love that does not demand agreement or relevance or revolutionary potential or the "right" politics, but only that ephemeral experience that is the root of all art: an encounter with that which outstrips the mundane, calling to the self from beyond the self. That old word "beauty" is one of the ways we try to capture such encounters.

Reading Baskin as an academically trained theologian, it made me wonder: Is there a similar phenomenon in academic theology? Does one find—or, in recent decades, could one find—in the academy "the hatred of theology"?

I think the answer is yes, in at least six ways.

First, there is a style of doing theology formally parallel to the "New Historicism." Namely, theology reduced to its sociopolitical function. What does theologoumenon X or Y accomplish with respect to certain desired political ends? There's plenty of that around, past and present.

Second, there is what some, at least in the U.K. a few decades ago, used to call "doctrinal criticism." This comprised the study of traditional doctrines from church history and the subjection of them to "critique" under the conditions and presuppositions of modernity. In other words: What is "modern man" permitted to believe, and what of the Christian dogmatic heritage must be revised, and in what ways, in order to fall in line with the Enlightenment and its heirs?

Third, in the 1960s, '70s, and '80s, there was a kind of obsessive-compulsive anxiety about methodology that, as the old saw goes, never got around to actually talking about God, but only talked about talking about God. This, too, served as an avoidance strategy for academic theology.

Fourth, there is a mode of theology similar to the first example above that is nonetheless subtly different. It isn't so much about theology being merely a means to a foreordained end. But its utility as a source of or exercise in knowledge is indexed to its practical relevance. So that, e.g., the doctrine of the Trinity must have direct and obvious consequences for human social life—or else, why are we talking about it in the first place?

Fifth, a similarly practice-oriented theology is less interested in the potentially transformative implications of otherwise esoteric doctrines like the Trinity for human life. Instead, it works the other way: such doctrines are ruled out of court in advance. Only certain doctrines and topics are intrinsically practical; it is those that theology ought to attend to. Often this approach is coordinated to, or a function of, a laser-like focus on the church's life and the conduct of its ordinary members. Of what benefit is this doctrine to the average Christian? is the pressing question that filters the worthy from the unworthy loci.

Sixth and last, much theology simply proceeds with little to no reference to God as such. It is identifiable as a kind of Christian discourse (it speaks, as it were, Christianese), but the subject matter, by any reasonable account, is not the God of Christian confession. Something else is thereby sought to "make" the discourse "theological," whether or not that effort succeeds.

I should say that this is a quick and dirty list, with considerable overlap between the different items and almost certainly other examples left off. And I should clarify the quirkiness of theology compared to literature, since the analogy is imperfect at key points.

First, the subject matter of literature is literary artifacts written by human beings. Whereas the subject matter for Christian theology God: alive, on the one hand, yet inaccessible to empirical investigation, on the other. Knowledge of God is mediated by that which is not God. Furthermore, the "love" of which Baskin writes is disanalogous in the extreme compared to the "love" that grounds and sustains theology. For this latter love is personal love, directed (ideally) in complete and utter devotion to that than which nothing greater can be conceived: the author and perfecter of our very souls. Nothing similar can be said of literature (or when it is, it is sad to see).

But this only highlights the oddity, even the tragedy, of loveless theology. To speak and write about God as if he is not the all-consuming fire of one's life—as if, indeed, his existence and attributes are a matter of polite speculation—is to repudiate theology itself. Why bother? One can at least understand the literary critic who "hates" literature in Baskin's sense. In the case of the theologian who "hates" theology, and by implication theology's Sache, it is wholly unintelligible.

Second, theology has a natural home, and it is not the university or even the seminary. It is the church. So there is a community that both houses and is the beneficiary of theology's labor. In that sense theologians and believers are right to expect theology to service the church, which does at some level mean a practical effect. (That is why there is a tradition in the church that understands theology to be a practical science and not a theoretical one; compare, for example, the Franciscans to the Thomists.)

Third, theology concerns not just any God but the God revealed in Jesus Christ, who calls all people, including theologians, to follow him. This entails, in summary form, loving God with one's whole self and loving one's neighbor as oneself. The upshot: theology touches on all of life, for it considers all things in relation to God; therefore theology would be incomplete without speaking to moral, social, and political matters. Even by implication, to speak of God is inevitably to speak of issues of great human import, since that same God, who created humanity, became human in Christ and lived an exemplary life to which all are called to conform. To do theology abstracting from these facts would be a failure of serious magnitude.

The trick, then, is to balance the theoretical and practical tasks of theology without denying one in favor of the other or rendering either synonymous to the other. Above all, though, theology must never be embarrassed to be itself. And to be itself, theology must speak of God, boldly and with unbreakable faith. So to speak of God, however, means one must love God, which is the beginning and end of theology. The theologian, it turns out, is one who loves God and thus, in a manner of speaking, loves theology too.
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Brad East Brad East

Defining fundamentalism

What makes a fundamentalist? It seems to me that there are only two workable definitions, one historical and one a sort of substantive shorthand. The first refers to actual self-identified fundamentalists from the early and mid-twentieth centuries, and to their (similarly defined) heirs today. The second refers to those Christian individuals or groups who, as it is often said, "lack a hermeneutic," that is, do not admit that hermeneutics is both unavoidable and necessary, and that therefore their interpretation of the Bible is not the only possible one for any rational literate person (or believer).

In my experience, both in print and in conversation, these definitions are very rarely operative. Colloquially, "fundamentalist" often means simply "bad," "conservative," or "to the right of me." I take it for granted that this usage is unjustified and to be avoided by any Christian, scholarly or otherwise; it is not only imprecise, it is little more than tribal slander. "I'm on the good team, and since she disagrees with me, she must be on the bad team."

Is there a workable definition beyond the options so far canvassed? In my judgment, it can't mean "someone who does not accept the deliverances of historical criticism," because those deliverances are by definition disputed; you can always find a non-fundamentalist who happens to affirm a stereotypically designated "fundamentalist" position. Postmodern hermeneutics cuts out the ground from the "sure deliverances" of historical criticism anyway.

Nor can the term, in my view, be applied usefully or consistently to specific doctrinal positions: the inerrancy of Scripture; male headship; traditional sexuality; young earth creationism; a denial of humanity's evolutionary origins; etc. On the one hand, "fundamentalist" isn't helpful because it carries so much historical and other baggage, while these positions can simply be named with terminological specificity. On the other hand, there are extraordinarily sophisticated historical, philosophical, and theological arguments for each and every one of these positions that belie the pejorative, "dummy know-nothing" evocations of "fundamentalism." That doesn't mean all or any of them are correct; it just means that branding them with the F-word is an exercise in both ad hominem and straw man tactics. The term itself has ceased to do work other than the functional task of marking who's in and who's out.

Finally, the term cannot mean "people or positions that use or allow the claims of revelation to trump other claims to knowledge." I fail to see how the epistemic primacy of revelation could ever be a mark of fundamentalism without thereby consigning all of Christian tradition and most of the contemporary global church to fundamentalist oblivion. And, again, it would come to mean so much that it would therefore mean very little indeed. If (nearly) everyone's a fundamentalist, then that doesn't tell us anything of value about the Christians so labeled.

So: Anyone got a useful definition to proffer? For myself, I'll limit myself in theory to the first two definitions listed, while in practice refraining from using the term altogether.
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Brad East Brad East

I've got a new article out in Modern Theology

It's called "What is the Doctrine of the Trinity For? Practicality and Projection in the Theology of Robert Jenson." You can find it here (paywalled). And here's the abstract:

"This articles engages the theology of Robert Jenson with three questions in mind: What is the doctrine of the Trinity for? Is it a practical doctrine? If so, how, and with what implications? It seeks, on the one hand, to identify whether Jenson’s trinitarian theology ought to count as a “social” doctrine of the Trinity, and to what extent he puts it to work for human socio-practical purposes. On the other hand, in light of Jenson’s career-long worries about Feuerbach and projection onto a God behind or above the triune God revealed in the economy, the article interrogates his thought with a view to recent critiques of social trinitarianism. The irony is that, in constructing his account of the Trinity as both wholly determined in and by the economy and maximally relevant for practical human needs and interests, precisely in order to avoid the errors of Feuerbachian “religion,” Jenson ends up engaging in a full-scale project of projection. Observation of the human is retrojected into the immanent life of the Trinity as the prior condition of the possibility for the human; upon this “discovery,” this or that feature of God’s being is proposed as a resolution to a human problem, bearing ostensibly profound socio-practical import. The article is intended, first, as a contribution to the work, only now beginning, of critically receiving Jenson’s theology; and, second, as an extension of general critiques of practical uses of trinitarian doctrine, such as Karen Kilby’s or Kathryn Tanner’s, by way of close engagement with a specific theologian."

The article has its origins in a term paper I wrote for Linn Tonstad at Yale, in a seminar a few years ago in which we read the manuscript for what eventually became God and Difference, a book now receiving warranted attention from all over the place, most recently in a series of rousing responses in Syndicate. It also has a degree of overlap with Ben Myers's recent series of tweets on the Trinity (gathered together in a post) summarizing the classical approach to the doctrine over against the last century's innovations and trends. Consider my article an exercise in that sort of frumpy theology—borrowing my friend Jamie Dunn's coinage—but in this case focused on a single important figure on the contemporary scene. I love Jenson's work and it means a great deal to me, but the article identifies within his trinitarian project a problem (a significant one, I think) internal the logic of his own system. I look forward to hearing what others think, especially those who read and value Jenson's thought.
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