Anti-sacramentalism

[W]hile sacraments have precarious or penultimate status in religion by and large, it is a distinguishing mark of Christianity that it is decidedly and finally sacramental. If God is one thing humans have to communicate with one another, to the saying of which the word’s embodiment is essential, God is the one thing Christians cannot cease to communicate. Insofar as our communities remain faithful to the specific gospel, we are bound to embodied discourse. All anti-sacramentalism in the church is forgetfulness of which God we worship; it is idolatry. The gospel wants to be as visible as possible.

—Robert W. Jenson, Visible Words: The Interpretation and Practice of Christian Sacraments (1978), 31-32

Artists for friends

Should the artists you love love you back? I confess that this question never occurred to me when I was growing up or , as an adult, when I developed a taste for whatever art I happen to take pleasure in. As this question, or rather assertive expectation, hovers like a gibbering ghoul over all our aesthetic and pop-cultural conversations these days, and has done so in increasing emotional intensity with each passing year (or at least it seems so to me), I have found myself asking why it would never occur to me—apart from what I take to be later, more informed and reflective conviction.

I suppose much of the reason comes down to this: Growing up as a Christian in the U.S. means that if you like anything outside the sub-cultural bubble of kitsch and in-house “Christian” entertainment, you are forced to reckon pretty quickly with the fact that not only are the artists whose work you enjoy neither religious nor Christian; they are often actively hostile to the sort of Christian you are. More to the point, their words or images or themes make your faith and/or your community (i.e., your family) an object of critique, ridicule, or dismissal. Which means that, pretty quickly, you either accept this state of affairs and go on enjoying their work, or reject it in toto and return to the warm confines of the bubble. I opted for the former.

I think of Tool and Rage Against the Machine, two bands I adored in high school. I saw them live. I owned all their albums, including the Napster-sourced live and hard-to-find stuff. I learned their songs on guitar and bass. I was willy-nilly radicalized politically. (RATM was my first real introduction to leftist thought. They were the reason I was skeptical, as a self-involved suburban high schooler, of the Iraq war.) And guess what? I knew they hated my guts. They hated where I lived, where I went to church, my house, my friends, my parents, my beliefs—all of it. They told me so, in no uncertain terms. And what did I do? I kept on listening. Not only did I not let their contempt for much of what made me me determine whether or not I could enjoy their art. It actually proved a significant moment, or development, in my intellectual and theological formation. It snatched me out of the bubble and put me face to face with the voices of people who’d been harmed by religion, or who found it repulsive, or who thought it an emotional and political sedative, or who saw through the lies of hucksters and frauds. That was (and remains) an important education. For much of what they had to say was true; and even when it wasn’t, it was worth listening to.

I think also of Christopher Hitchens, whose writing I found myself falling in love with in my twenties. Not his politics—though the fact that I feel compelled to say that is itself an indictment of those readers who loved Hitch right up to the point when he crossed an invisible line, whereupon his writing somehow proved no longer good—but his prose. I still marvel at the man’s ability to write interesting sentences, combined with or underwritten by masterly knowledge of Anglophone literature and global politics and history. Seeing his nearly-posthumous bullet-stopper Arguably show up in the mail was Christmas come early: every essay a feast.

As you well know, Hitchens, too, hated my guts. He thought religion poisoned everything, specifically my religion: Israel and Jesus and Paul and Rome and all that. To which I thought: So be it. Who cares? I returned his hate with affection. I thought he was wrong, naturally, and that he ought to turn down the volume every once in a while. But if his hatred was earned—if he truly believed that what I believe is toxic to human flourishing—then he ought to have said so, and with all the passion he could muster. It would never occur to me to be angry at him, certainly not for saying what he judged to be true in the most compelling manner possible. I would, and still do, keep on reading and loving him back.

To be clear, I don’t mean to universalize my own experience. I would never prescribe reading or viewing or listening to artistic content filled with genuine hatred for oneself or one’s community. Nor would I suggest that one ought to do so on principle.

But the general point stands. Artists aren’t our friends. Good art is not art that affirms me or who I am; good art is not art that is made by people who affirm me or who I am. The art stands on its own. It is good or bad in itself, on its own terms. And if you, or I, find joy in it, see the truth in it, delight in its beauty or wit or pleasure, then each of us is free to ignore whatever wise or foolish beliefs its creators hold. The joke’s on them if they would withhold their work for only the “right” sort of people. But if we withhold it from ourselves, for no other reason than an arbitrary (and, given the implications, ultimately indefensible and self-defeating) sense that artists ought both to like us and to say so, then the joke’s on us.

Narnia’s saints

Does Narnia have saints? It occurred to me, as I was listening to The Last Battle this morning, that the function of the children in the stories (minus The Horse and His Boy) is analogous to the function of the saints in devotional and liturgical prayer in catholic traditions. There is no question that Aslan alone is King and Lord, but by his will the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve are sent as ministering servants to the beasts and people of Narnia. Not only that, but more than once they are called. Caspian blows Susan’s horn to call them for help. And while captured and alone, King Tirian bellows aloud—following a prayer addressed directly to Aslan—a prayer to the children of old who once aided Narnia long ago. Indeed this latter petition for the children’s intercession comes after Tirian recalling to mind the old stories he was raised on, having been well versed as a child in a kind of common Narnian hagiography of Peter and Lucy and Digory and Polly and the rest. And more or less the moment he begs their intercession, under Aslan, he is brought to them in our world, and moments later (for him: a week later for them) Jill and Eustace arrive to help.

That description is quite similar to catholic teaching and practice regarding the saints. They are alive with God in heaven (read: another world); they once lived in our world and we tell and retell stories of their words and deeds (read: tales of the fabled children who came to Narnia’s aid in times of great need); they have no power of themselves but by God’s grace hear the petitions of the church militant and intercede for them before the heavenly throne (read: the children being called or summoned to Narnia); and occasionally through their intercession the Lord works some miracle or wonder in answer to a believer’s prayer and as a sign of the saint’s patronage or protection (read: the children appearing in Narnia and defeating the White Witch or coming to Caspian’s aid or sailing to the end of the world or rescuing Prince Rilian from his enchantment). If this account makes the role of the saints, and therefore of the children in Lewis’s stories, akin to that of the angels, that is because it is. At least according to sacred tradition.

I vaguely recall Lewis half-punting the question of the saints’ intercession in his book on prayer, or perhaps in a separate essay. I’ll have to run down the reference, but I believe he affirms the saints’ intercession on principle, but not wanting to be divisive he allows the legitimacy of Protestant worries about superstitious and abuse. In any case, though, I’d be shocked if he were dead-set opposed to the practice. And even if he were, he’s rendered the practice in an intelligible and quite beautiful narrative form in the children of the Chronicles of Narnia.

No fads, please

Writing about angels last week, I had in mind not just garden-variety demythologizers but specifically the sort of MDiv-in-hand pastor who reports having “matured” or “evolved” beyond the simple pieties of his upbringing, his denomination, or his own flock. In my experience, nine times out of ten this maturation or evolution, falsely so called, is not the result of actual wide reading in the church’s tradition but rather a function of moving up in the world, as a matter of education, class, or status. That is to say, it’s the product of peer pressure. “Believing in angels” comes to be seen as the sort of thing unenlightened persons do, and so you, the two-semesters-in seminarian, drop it like a bad habit. That’s not the sort of thing “we” go in for around here, you know. At most, the banished belief comes after a rough skim of half an assigned textbook—not exactly drinking broadly and deeply from the wellspring of the church’s wisdom down the ages.

This phenomenon reminded me of a pet peeve of mine. The sort of pastors I have in mind—and I want to be clear that they are far from all, perhaps not even a majority of, church leaders—fall hard for theological fads. They’re all in for the latest thing, whatever that thing may be. Sometimes it’s a thinker: Barth, Bultmann, Moltmann, Spong, Brueggemann, Hauerwas, Jenson, Milbank, Tanner, Wright, Coakley, Boyd, Zahnd, Sonderegger, whoever. Sometimes it’s a buzzword: story, Christus Victor, virtue, passibility, “being missional,” “being incarnational,” intentional community, new creation, postcolonialism, sacramentalism, natural law, classical theism, and the like. Whatever or whoever it is, it’s where the action is. And if you hear the name or catchphrase once you hear it a thousand times: it’s the lodestar, the church’s true north, the siren song of the contemporary minister.

Don’t get me wrong: some of these ideas, many of these thinkers, are well worth the attention. Fads are rarely fads for no reason. And like everyone else, I’ve been susceptible myself to the temptation to thinking that she or he or it is the Big New Thing, the Solution to All Our Problems.

Here’s where things get off track.

First, theological fads are a puff of smoke. To say they are ephemeral would be a slight to ephemerality. Blink and you miss them. Marry one of them (as the saying goes) and you’ll be a widow before you make it back down the aisle.

Second, it’s difficult to over-emphasize the belated character of theological fads. Such fads usually originate overseas, in Germany or France or Great Britain, sometimes here in the States at an elite R1 university. Often enough their true paternity lies in another discipline: philosophy, critical theory, sociology, anthropology. In any case, once it’s been disseminated to second- and third-tier universities and thence to seminaries, it’s already passé. But it hasn’t even reached pastors at this point. Whether they hear about it in school or from a trade book or via a blog (these days, I suppose, replace “blog” with “Twitter”), the hip new thing that’s blowing their minds is likely decades old. It’s so far downstream from its true origin that the traces of its parentage are minimal at best. But the way the plebeian pastors talk about it, it was born yesterday.

Now, is this their fault? No, at least not for the most part. How are they supposed to know better? Presumably they imbibed the now-defunct fad from a professor or a mentor or a conference or a trusted writer. This is the way new ideas and perspectives get distributed in society ordinarily, as a matter of course. There’s no way around that.

No, the problem isn’t the pastors themselves. The problem is the cult of the new. In particular, the problem is the cult of the new in the realm of faith, ministry, and theology.

Whatever the cause—be it capitalism, the nature of the research university, mass culture, all of the above—ministers are trained to suppose that the answers to their questions, the reservoir of resources to support their lives of service to the church, are sure to be found in living writers and thinkers who are producing “original” and “cutting-edge” work. If a pastoral or theological author pens an idea, the extent to which it is innovative is the extent to which it is likely to be good, true, or (most of all) relevant. Put differently, the degree to which it presents itself as a departure from, or in contrast to, what came before is just the degree to which it can be trusted.

Needless to say, this is a bad way to think about either ministry or the gospel.

There are many reasons why this is the case. For one, it invariably implies, or actively encourages, what Ratzinger famously termed “a hermeneutic of rupture.” What we believe now is by definition not what they believed then. But this is trapdoor thinking. To set up Our Truth Today as the arbiter of what we may be received from the past and (thus) as a far-reaching dissent from forebears in the faith is both short-sighted and self-defeating. It’s a fool’s game. After a while believers will begin asking themselves what, after all, they have in common with the church that came between Jesus and themselves. As the answer approaches “little to nothing,” people will naturally start to wonder why they’re a part of this thing in the first place. If that’s the problem looking toward the past, there’s another problem looking toward the future. For “innovative rupture” (à la creative destruction) thinking simultaneously sets you, the vanguard of enlightened opinion, up for obsolescence and replacement. For there is no reason in principle to suppose that either you or your views are the end of theological history. A successor awaits. There’s always one just out of sight, lurking in the shadows. You and your big ideas have nowhere to go but the proverbial dustbin of history.

Beyond the merits, considered at a purely social level, there’s a sort of embarrassment involved in making “not being behind the times” a measure of theological or pastoral wisdom. Think back to angels. It’s true that in the 19th and 20th centuries it was a sign of liberal learning and upper-class status to roll one’s eyes at “mythological” belief in “literal” spiritual beings. (We’ve gotten past all that, haven’t we?) But guess what? That’s no longer the case. At least in elite theological circles, it’s perfectly typical to affirm a populated celestial reality; in some circles, the weirder the better. The same goes for miracles. The air one breathes in Anglophone theological writing circa 2000–2020 is strikingly different than, say, the years 1965–1985. But that shift at the elite level takes a while to trickle down to normal folks. Which means that you’ve got pastors going about their daily lives whose deepest desire is for others to know that they know how silly it is to believe, for example, in angels or miracles, when the ultimate “others” they want to impress—in this case, by proxy—are in fact no longer impressed by such posturing. It’s pure fashion, and pastors are never in style.

The lesson should be clear: avoid theological fads like the plague. That doesn’t mean avoid contemporary writing. Nor does it mean new ideas are always bad. Rather, it means, on the one hand, that pastors (and Christians in general) should not treat faith as a matter of “up-to-date-ness.” Doctrine is not set by the clock. Theology is not fashion. The church is indeed meant to grow in knowledge across time, and the church’s mission means that it will always and of necessity encounter and engage and respond to new questions, challenges, and ideas. The church did not have standing teaching on nuclear weapons or IVF or cloning or CRISPR or extraterrestrial life or climate change until those technologies and eventualities appeared on the (social, conceptual, political) scene. Nevertheless, the terms of the church’s teaching are set by the gospel, and the gospel is itself one and the same as the announcement made by the apostles in the first generation. It is that gospel—the faith once for all delivered to the saints—that at once norms and generates whatever the church has to say anew in the present day.

On the other hand, what resistance to fads entails, positively speaking, is a certain emphasis or approach to learning and rooting oneself in the meaning of the faith. The best antidote to the cult of the new is devotion to the old. If you want to be inoculated against theological fads that appear today and vanish tomorrow, then dedicate yourself to the lifelong task of mastering (not that you can master) sacred tradition in all its breadth and depth. Read Christian texts from every century of the church’s existence. Read Christian texts from every region and locale and culture where the church has been planted. Read multiple texts by every one of the doctores ecclesiae (to which venerable list St. Irenaeus will be added soon!). Read church fathers and medievals, reformers and moderns and postmoderns. Read mystics and missionaries, monks and ministers, bishops and beggars, evangelists and academics. Read Catholics and Orthodox, Anglicans and Anabaptists, Methodists and Moravians, Calvinists and Campbellites. Read them on every doctrinal locus under the sun. Read three of them for every newly written book you open. If you’re lucky, you won’t only be immunized against the pathogen of whatever happens to be trending at the moment. You might just fall in love.

The truth is, the things a newfangled fad might lead you to doubt—Jesus died on the cross as a sacrifice for my sins; angels and demons are real; when I die my soul will go to heaven to be with the Lord; the Holy Spirit works miracles; the Bible tells us about things that really happened—are beliefs so basic that in any given church you might not be able to find a child or a grandparent who ever thought to question them. It usually takes a Master’s degree to do that. But pastors don’t go to seminary to learn why the simple beliefs of ordinary Christians are wrong. They go to learn, among other things, how and why they’re right. It’s a privilege to go beneath the surface, to see more than the tip of the iceberg. But that privilege comes with responsibilities. One of them is to repel every inclination to snobbery and condescension. Another is to report on the glories of what you’ve glimpsed in your deep-sea exploring (which is to say, your theological education). Above all it is your responsibility to use your knowledge to serve the people of God. One of the best ways to do that is to learn the people of God: first by loving them, then by listening to them. Listen to them as they speak today, but most of all listen to them as they speak from the past. Their voices, inscribed in countless texts, are a beacon in the darkness, if only you’ll look for the light.

(In)defectibility, local and regional

Churches die. Christian traditions die. Denominations die. Whole regions and epochs of once flourishing ecclesial and liturgical life die.

Does that sound harsh? It’s certainly cause for lament. But it’s a plain truth of history, and the church’s faith has no grounds for disputing it.

Nevertheless I have often found myself within earshot of Christians, especially pastors and church leaders, who casually suggest otherwise. They take the possibility, not to mention the assertion, that individual or local or regional churches and their concomitant institutions and organs of self-propagation and tradition might die—might even, in terms of statistical or demographic probability, be bound for death sooner rather than later—to be contrary to confidence in the gospel, and/or a denial of the faith, and/or sign of a lack of trust in God, and/or cause for despair. How could you get up in the morning, as a Christian or a pastor, believing that?

Well. The first thing to say to that is that Christians don’t get out of bed because they have reason to believe things will go well for them. On balance, the likelihood of a Christian’s suffering is directly, not inversely, proportional to her faithfulness in discipleship. At the very least, faithfulness is not a guard against bad things happening. We should expect to be Jobs, every one of us, and cry out in thanks when we are not. We follow the Lord to Golgotha. Eternal life comes after crucifixion: it does not precede it, much less avoid it.

Be that as it may. The simpler point concerns the doctrine of indefectibility. This doctrine teaches that, follows the promise of Jesus to St. Peter, the gates of hell shall not prevail against the church. And that is true. The church will not blink out of existence, no matter how weak or frail or corrupt or small it becomes. The church will be here when the Lord returns. The saying is sure. Every Christian bets her life on it.

But “the church” doesn’t mean your church. It means the church catholic. Leave aside whether that honorific applies to one institutional form or ecclesial tradition in particular. What it doesn’t include is the local parish or congregation to which you belong. It doesn’t include all the churches in your city put together. It even doesn’t include all the churches on your continent put together. Nor, finally, does it include your denomination or stream of ecclesial tradition. There may come a day when there are no more Moravians or Wesleyans or Baptists or Stone-Campbellites or Calvinists or Lutherans around. There may come a time when North America is a burnt-over district for faith (to use a phrase from the late Robert Jenson)—when not one community of Jesus’s gospel remains in these ancient lands. That is a possibility. Perhaps they will lie fallow, the people left behind growing weary, eventually panting after Christ. We may trust that such a thing would be superintended by divine providence. Perhaps it would lead, decades or centuries hence, to a great revival. But for the time being, and indeed into the indefinite future, we aren’t promised one single thing about survival: that is, the survival of our communities, our institutions, or our regional and national denominations, however strong or weak they may appear at any one time.

That may be a hard pill to swallow. Better to accept the truth, though, than to live by a lie. More to the point, it reminds us that our trust, finally, is in God alone. The only history with a side worth being on is his. Vindication won’t come short of glory. But it will come soon enough.

Angels

A few years back I had one of those serendipitous reading moments when all at once an unexpected theme or subject emerges from disparate and seemingly unrelated texts. The first was the Space Trilogy by C. S. Lewis; the second, the Catholic Catechism; the third, On the Orthodox Faith by St. John Damascene. The topic? Angels.

Space Trilogy

Lewis’s work is saturated with the angelic, and the adventures of Ransom in space (and on earth) are no different. Among Lewis’s many gifts, as both a novelist and a theological thinker, is his ability to depict supra-cosmic creaturely life in its necessary ineffable grandeur without becoming either saccharine or anthropomorphic. The angels aren’t like us only somewhat not. They exist on a wholly other level. The image that sticks with me, from one of the first two novels in the Space Trilogy, is Ransom’s impression that, though an angel manifesting to him inside a house is somehow or other present to his senses, the angel nevertheless appears aslant—as though the axis on which he stands were unrelated to the earth’s axis, or any other in this universe.

Angels are also present in The Screwtape Letters and The Great Divorce, among other works. My sense is that angels serve two functions in Lewis’s spiritual imagination. First, they represent and embody a rebuttal to a disenchanted, depopulated cosmos. From one angle, it’s a simple assertion: If God exists, then there’s nothing spookier, metaphysically speaking, for there to be other spiritual beings; it’s only natural. From another angle, it’s a powerful rebuttal: If angels exist, then the very notion of a mechanistic cosmos devoid of God and the soul and the moral law is bunk.

Second, Lewis rightly portrays the angelic in its double dimension: not only the good, but also the bad. He writes of demons, in other words. No reader of the Bible could plausibly imagine that whatever created life transcends us is only beautiful and glorious; it also includes the horrific and the wicked. It includes Satan and all his pomp. Lewis thinks that is morally and metaphysically interesting, which it is, and therefore worth writing about in an age like his (and ours), which it was (and is).

Catechism

Around the time I was making my way through the Space Trilogy, I read the following section in the Catechism of the Catholic Church. It comes from Part I, Paragraph 5, titled “Heaven and Earth.” It’s part of an exposition of what Christians believe, following the Rule of Faith codified in the creedal narration of biblical teaching. Here’s what it says:

The Scriptural expression “heaven and earth” means all that exists, creation in its entirety. It also indicates the bond, deep within creation, that both unites heaven and earth and distinguishes the one from the other: “the earth” is the world of men, while “heaven” or “the heavens” can designate both the firmament and God’s own “place”—”our Father in heaven” and consequently the “heaven” too which is eschatological glory. Finally, “heaven” refers to the saints and the “place” of the spiritual creatures, the angels, who surround God.

The profession of faith of the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) affirms that God “from the beginning of time made at once (simul) out of nothing both orders of creatures, the spiritual and the corporeal, that is, the angelic and the earthly, and then (deinde) the human creature, who as it were shares in both orders, being composed of spirit and body.”

I. THE ANGELS

The existence of angels—a truth of faith

The existence of the spiritual, non-corporeal beings that Sacred Scripture usually calls “angels” is a truth of faith. the witness of Scripture is as clear as the unanimity of Tradition.

Who are they?

St. Augustine says: “‘Angel’ is the name of their office, not of their nature. If you seek the name of their nature, it is ‘spirit’; if you seek the name of their office, it is ‘angel’: from what they are, ‘spirit’, from what they do, ‘angel.’“ With their whole beings the angels are servants and messengers of God. Because they “always behold the face of my Father who is in heaven” they are the “mighty ones who do his word, hearkening to the voice of his word.”

As purely spiritual creatures angels have intelligence and will: they are personal and immortal creatures, surpassing in perfection all visible creatures, as the splendor of their glory bears witness.

Christ “with all his angels”

Christ is the center of the angelic world. They are his angels: “When the Son of man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him. . . .” They belong to him because they were created through and for him: “for in him all things were created in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or authorities - all things were created through him and for him.” They belong to him still more because he has made them messengers of his saving plan: “Are they not all ministering spirits sent forth to serve, for the sake of those who are to obtain salvation?”

Angels have been present since creation and throughout the history of salvation, announcing this salvation from afar or near and serving the accomplishment of the divine plan: they closed the earthly paradise; protected Lot; saved Hagar and her child; stayed Abraham’s hand; communicated the law by their ministry; led the People of God; announced births and callings; and assisted the prophets, just to cite a few examples. Finally, the angel Gabriel announced the birth of the Precursor and that of Jesus himself.

From the Incarnation to the Ascension, the life of the Word incarnate is surrounded by the adoration and service of angels. When God “brings the firstborn into the world, he says: ‘Let all God’s angels worship him.’” Their song of praise at the birth of Christ has not ceased resounding in the Church’s praise: “Glory to God in the highest!” They protect Jesus in his infancy, serve him in the desert, strengthen him in his agony in the garden, when he could have been saved by them from the hands of his enemies as Israel had been. Again, it is the angels who “evangelize” by proclaiming the Good News of Christ’s Incarnation and Resurrection. They will be present at Christ’s return, which they will announce, to serve at his judgement.

The angels in the life of the Church

In the meantime, the whole life of the Church benefits from the mysterious and powerful help of angels.

In her liturgy, the Church joins with the angels to adore the thrice-holy God. She invokes their assistance (in the Roman Canon’s Supplices te rogamus. . . [“Almighty God, we pray that your angel . . .”]; in the funeral liturgy’s In Paradisum deducant te angeli . . . [“May the angels lead you into Paradise . . .”]). Moreover, in the “Cherubic Hymn” of the Byzantine Liturgy, she celebrates the memory of certain angels more particularly (St. Michael, St. Gabriel, St. Raphael, and the guardian angels).

From its beginning to death human life is surrounded by their watchful care and intercession. “Beside each believer stands an angel as protector and shepherd leading him to life.” Already here on earth the Christian life shares by faith in the blessed company of angels and men united in God.

The claim that the existence of angels is de fide—a revealed truth of the faith incumbent on all Christians to believe—struck me like a thunderbolt. And yet the rehearsal of the witness of Scripture and sacred tradition makes clear the warrant for the assertion. Angels are everywhere in the biblical story. And as St. Luke knew well, they show up at the biggest moments. They are, as the Catechism teaches, Christ’s own angels, the heavenly messengers and soldiers of Israel’s Messiah. And they aid the church on earth in various ways, largely invisible and mysterious, but nevertheless as our guardians and helpers and, ultimately, our fellow servants of the Lord. They join us in worship. Or rather, we join them.

The Damascene

The very same week, perhaps even the same day, that I read that section of the Catechism I read the following from St. John of Damascus; it’s found in Book II, chapter 3 of An Exposition of the Orthodox Faith, which was written in the early to mid eighth century:

[God] is Himself the Maker and Creator of the angels: for He brought them out of nothing into being and created them after His own image, an incorporeal race, a sort of spirit or immaterial fire: in the words of the divine David, He makes His angels spirits, and His ministers a flame of fire: and He has described their lightness and the ardor, and heat, and keenness and sharpness with which they hunger for God and serve Him, and how they are borne to the regions above and are quite delivered from all material thought.

An angel, then, is an intelligent essence, in perpetual motion, with free-will, incorporeal, ministering to God, having obtained by grace an immortal nature: and the Creator alone knows the form and limitation of its essence. But all that we can understand is, that it is incorporeal and immaterial. For all that is compared with God Who alone is incomparable, we find to be dense and material. For in reality only the Deity is immaterial and incorporeal.

The angel's nature then is rational, and intelligent, and endowed with free-will, changeable in will, or fickle. For all that is created is changeable, and only that which is uncreated is unchangeable. Also all that is rational is endowed with free-will. As it is, then, rational and intelligent, it is endowed with free-will: and as it is created, it is changeable, having power either to abide or progress in goodness, or to turn towards evil.

It is not susceptible of repentance because it is incorporeal. For it is owing to the weakness of his body that man comes to have repentance.

It is immortal, not by nature but by grace. For all that has had beginning comes also to its natural end. But God alone is eternal, or rather, He is above the Eternal: for He, the Creator of times, is not under the dominion of time, but above time.

They are secondary intelligent lights derived from that first light which is without beginning, for they have the power of illumination; they have no need of tongue or hearing, but without uttering words they communicate to each other their own thoughts and counsels.

Through the Word, therefore, all the angels were created, and through the sanctification by the Holy Spirit were they brought to perfection, sharing each in proportion to his worth and rank in brightness and grace.

They are circumscribed: for when they are in the Heaven they are not on the earth: and when they are sent by God down to the earth they do not remain in the Heaven. They are not hemmed in by walls and doors, and bars and seals, for they are quite unlimited. Unlimited, I repeat, for it is not as they really are that they reveal themselves to the worthy men to whom God wishes them to appear, but in a changed form which the beholders are capable of seeing. For that alone is naturally and strictly unlimited which is uncreated. For every created thing is limited by God Who created it.

Further, apart from their essence they receive the sanctification from the Spirit: through the divine grace they prophesy : they have no need of marriage for they are immortal.

Seeing that they are minds they are in mental places , and are not circumscribed after the fashion of a body. For they have not a bodily form by nature, nor are they extended in three dimensions. But to whatever post they may be assigned, there they are present after the manner of a mind and energize, and cannot be present and energize in various places at the same time.

Whether they are equals in essence or differ from one another we know not. God, their Creator, Who knows all things, alone knows. But they differ from each other in brightness and position, whether it is that their position is dependent on their brightness, or their brightness on their position: and they impart brightness to one another, because they excel one another in rank and nature. And clearly the higher share their brightness and knowledge with the lower.

They are mighty and prompt to fulfill the will of the Deity, and their nature is endowed with such celerity that wherever the Divine glance bids them there they are straightway found. They are the guardians of the divisions of the earth: they are set over nations and regions, allotted to them by their Creator: they govern all our affairs and bring us succor. And the reason surely is because they are set over us by the divine will and command and are ever in the vicinity of God.

With difficulty they are moved to evil, yet they are not absolutely immovable: but now they are altogether immovable, not by nature but by grace and by their nearness to the Only Good.

They behold God according to their capacity, and this is their food.

They are above us for they are incorporeal, and are free of all bodily passion, yet are not passionless: for the Deity alone is passionless.

They take different forms at the bidding of their Master, God, and thus reveal themselves to men and unveil the divine mysteries to them.

They have Heaven for their dwelling-place, and have one duty, to sing God's praise and carry out His divine will.

Moreover, as that most holy, and sacred, and gifted theologian, Dionysius the Areopagite , says, All theology, that is to say, the holy Scripture, has nine different names for the heavenly essences. These essences that divine master in sacred things divides into three groups, each containing three. And the first group, he says, consists of those who are in God's presence and are said to be directly and immediately one with Him, viz., the Seraphim with their six wings, the many-eyed Cherubim and those that sit in the holiest thrones. The second group is that of the Dominions, and the Powers, and the Authorities; and the third, and last, is that of the Rulers and Archangels and Angels.

Some, indeed, like Gregory the Theologian, say that these were before the creation of other things. He thinks that the angelic and heavenly powers were first and that thought was their function. Others, again, hold that they were created after the first heaven was made. But all are agreed that it was before the foundation of man. For myself, I am in harmony with the theologian. For it was fitting that the mental essence should be the first created, and then that which can be perceived, and finally man himself, in whose being both parts are united.

But those who say that the angels are creators of any kind of essence whatever are the mouth of their father, the devil. For since they are created things they are not creators. But He Who creates and provides for and maintains all things is God, Who alone is uncreated and is praised and glorified in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Doesn’t that fill you with awe and delight? St. John’s quotes and references could lead us down further paths: to the Pseudo-Denys and St. Gregory Nazianzen, backward to St. Augustine and forward to St. Anselm and St. Thomas Aquinas, even on to Karl Barth, who has a hefty angelology for a modern theologian.

The point I drew from this exegetical serendipity at the time, and draw now, is rather plain. Prior to reading these texts I had the theoretical knowledge of angels: I could have told you what the theological tradition says about them. But to read these two estimable authorities devote such loving attention to them, in tandem with Lewis’s novelistic rendering, brought home to me at a deeper level—in my heart, in my soul—just how wonderful as well as important the angelic is to the life of the church and the testimony of the gospel. And ever since I’ve noticed my hackles are raised, my antennae buzz, when the over-educated but under-informed among my fellow believers, but primarily among pastors, roll their eyes at ostensibly silly and outdated things like “angels and demons.” (Usually prefaced by that absurd and meaningless modifier, “literal.”) I do my best not to be That Academic who flies in to correct and rebuke. But it gets under my skin. For the condescension is wholly unearned. It’s not as though an archeologist or astronomer discovered the nonexistence of angels in 1927. They are no more subject to empirical investigation than God. Yet true-blue believers in God in the year of our Lord 2021 look down their noses on every other Christian, past and present, themselves excepted as if it were everyone else, and not themselves, who are the naive, the unenlightened. But, again, such haughty know-it-alls didn’t arrive at a considered conclusion about angelic superstition by a process of reasoning. They did so as a function of their class and education; possibly through half-skimming a now-forgotten but once-faddish academic in grad school.

To which I say: Get over yourself. There’s nothing culturally hip about being a Christian who believes all the spooky stuff—God, resurrection, incarnation, miracles, et al—minus angels. You don’t get any societal cache for it, even if it makes you feel set apart from the losers and boobs who read the Bible “literally.” Face it: You’re one of us. You’re among the shabby and disreputable, at whom the well-to-do look down their noses. Embrace it! It’s okay. It’s part of the deal.

You have our blessing. Permission granted. Believe in angels. One day you might even find that you need one.

Quit podcasts

“Quit Netflix.”

Matt Anderson has made that phrase something of a personal slogan. Among the many controversial things he’s written—he’s a controversialist, after all—it may be the most controversial. We like our shows in the age of Peak TV. And what he wants to do is take them away.

Okay, not exactly. But he thinks you—all of us—would be better off if we canceled our Netflix subscriptions. For the obvious reasons: Netflix is a candy bar, a sedative, a numbing device by which we pass the time by doing nothing especially worthwhile at all. It turns out that’s true not only of Netflix but of the so-called Golden Age of TV as a whole. It’s not that there are no good TV shows. It’s that, in almost every circumstance, there are dozens of better things you could be doing with your time. (You might be inclined to resist this claim, but in your heart you know it’s inarguable.) Add to that the fact that watching Prestige TV has become, in the last dozen years, a vaguely moralized social obligation for a certain subset of upper-middle class white-collar professionals, and perhaps Matt is right that Christians not only may but should quit Netflix.

Point taken. Now allow me to swap out a different activity for your quitting consideration.

Podcasts.

Podcasts, as you well know, are the new Prestige TV. They’re ubiquitous. Not only does everyone have a favorite podcast. Everyone has a podcast, i.e., hosts one of their own. Or is starting one. Or is planning to. Or has an idea for one. They just need to get the equipment and line up some guests . . .

I live and work right next to a college campus. If you see someone walking on campus and that person is under 40 and alone, almost certainly she has air pods in her ears, and chances are those air pods are playing a podcast. (Maybe music. Maybe.) What is the podcast? Who knows? There are literally millions today, on every topic under the sun. “Have you listened to [X] podcast?” is the new “Have you seen the latest episode of [X]?” Just last month our pediatrician asked me, in the middle of a check-up for one of our kids, given my job, whether I was listening to the Mars Hill podcast. Alas, I had to say no.

Now, this post is two-thirds troll, one-third sincere. I’ve been listening to podcasts for nearly 15 years. My first was Bill Simmons’ old pod for ESPN, whose first episode dropped while I was living in an apartment in Tomsk, Russia, early in the summer of 2007. I’ve been listening to Simmons off and on ever since. My podroll has increased as I’ve aged, and some of my typical listens are among the usual suspects: Ezra Klein, The Argument, Zach Lowe, The Watch, The Rewatchables, Know Your Enemy, LR&C, Tyler Cowen, Mere Fidelity, The Editors, a few others here and there. Washing the dishes or cleaning the house, it’s a pleasure to listen to these folks talk about sports and entertainment and news and politics and theology. It’s background noise, their voices become like those of friends, and occasionally you even learn things.

So unlike the scourge of Prestige TV—which is little more than a Trojan horse for reinforcing the single greatest collective habitual addiction besetting our society for nearly a century—podcasts aren’t All Bad, nor are their benefits mainly a function of rationalization and self-justification. I’m not worried about them in the same way.

Having said that. Let me suggest a few reasons why you ought to be a little more skeptical of them. So as to decrease your podcasting, and maybe even to quit it.

First, podcasts are filler. They’re aural wallpaper. They’re something to have on in the background while you do something else, something that requires your actual focus and attention. If that’s true, can they really be that substantial? Aren’t they, as often as not, little more than snack food for the ears?

Second, if you really want to listen to something (say, on a road trip or a long walk or while working out), why not listen to an audiobook? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the book will be worth your time—a four-course meal—in a way the Cheetos-posing-as-Michelin-starred-podcast will not. You could buy audiobooks or sign up for Audible, as a way to patronize authors, or you could use Overdrive or Libby. You have more or less every great work of literature and prose in the English language available to listen to for free; sometimes the work was composed with the express purpose of hearing it read aloud, rather than reading words on a page. Why not give it a try?

Third, those first two points suppose it’s not a problem, us walking around incessantly filling our ears with the voices of others, thus blocking out the noises—and silences—of the real world. Isn’t it a problem, though, this anxious need to fill even the smallest of snatches of time with meaningful noise, lest we be oppressed by the stillness and quietness (or, if you’re in a big city, the parading loudness) of life? Or perhaps we feel anxious to Do Something Productive with our time: If our attention can manage it, surely we Ought To Be Learning/Listening/Thinking? Nonsense. If to cook is to pray, so is every other daily “mindless” habitual activity that doesn’t demand the totality of our attention. Such activity may, in fact, permit our attention to be at ease, or to meditate on other matters, or to examine our days, or to wander as it pleases. Or, as the case may be, to choke on emotions we’d rather not address, indeed would rather numb and sedate and repress through unremitting distraction. Perhaps podcasts are a kind of noise pollution but on an individual level, self-chosen rather than imposed from without. We just have to refuse the urge to put the pods in and press play.

Fourth, podcasts almost invariably trade on the new, the latest, the exclusive-breaking-this-just-in-ness of our forgetful presentist age. In this they’re analogous to Twitter: an infinite scroll, not for the eyes, but for the ears. Doubtless some people listen to podcasts while scrolling Twitter. (The horror!) The podcasts play on, world without end, one blending into another, until you forget where one begins and one ends. Of all the podcasts you’ve ever listened to—and I’ve surely listened to thousands—how many discrete episodes can you point to, from memory, and say, “That one, right there, was significant, a meaningful and substantive and life-giving episode”? I’m not saying you couldn’t pick out a few. I’m suggesting the batting average will be very low. Again, like remembering individual tweets. That’s why podcasts are so disposable. The moment they lose their immediate relevance, they are cast aside into the dustbin of history. It’s what makes writers who become podcasters so sad. Books and essays and columns stand the test of time. Pods do not. Bill Simmons, whom I referenced earlier, stopped writing five or six years ago. He likes to say his fingers stopped working. The truth is, a combination of market inefficiency plus the convenience of podcasting meant taking the time to draft and revise and draft and revise, under an editor’s watchful eye, was less convenient and more time-demanding than hopping onto a podcast seconds after a game ended—plus advertisers are willing to pay for that in a way they don’t for individual columns. So a writer who came onto the scene and made a name for himself because of his writing simply ceased to practice his craft. That’s something to lament. Beyond that individual case, though, it’s a parable for our time. And Simmons is someone with an audience in the millions. Yet his thousands upon thousands of podcasts from the last decade will never be listened to a second time, now or in the future. They might as well be lit on fire ten days after going online. The same goes for politics podcasts. They’re talk radio, only rarefied and highbrow. But they have the same shelf life. And they partake of the selfsame contemporary obsession with The New that all people of good will, but certainly Christians (and Jews and Muslims), should repudiate in all its forms. Go read Rolf Dobelli’s Stop Reading the News and you’ll realize just how unimportant—in general and to your own daily life—“keeping up with the news” is. That goes for politics and sports and entertainment (but I repeat myself) as much as for anything else. Stop reading the news translates to stop listening to the news, which I will gloss here as stop listening to podcasts devoted to The New.

Fifth, podcasts have increasingly become niche and personalized, as so much in our digital economy has. You, the individual consumer-listener, pay the individual content-maker/podcaster, perhaps become a Patreon supporter, and thereby receive Exclusive Access and Personal Benefits and other just-for-you paid-for goods and services. Am I the only one who finds all of this ever so slightly weird, even gross? I don’t begrudge anyone hustling to do their thing or to find an audience, precisely outside of the decaying and desiccated institutions that act as gatekeepers today. But there’s something icky about it nonetheless. In the same way that news-watchers can exist in entirely different moral and epistemic universes—one presided over and mediated by Fox News, the other by MSNBC—so podcast-listeners curate their own little private aural worlds with nary a glance at or interruption from another. It doesn’t help that this ecosystem (or ecosphere?) overlaps substantially with the gig-cum-influencer economy, where fame and fortune are always one viral moment away, for anyone and everyone. We’re all always already potentially (in)famous and affluent, if only the digital stars will align. We try to nudge those stars by flooding the market with our content, a sort of astrology or spell-conjuring with ones and zeroes, or in this case, “Thanks for following; while you’re here, check out my SoundCloud.”

In any case, those are at least some of the reasons for increasing your skepticism quotient in this matter. More than a slightly more skeptical eye, though, consider whether you ought to go all the way. For there’s a solution lying close to hand.

Quit podcasts.

Blakely, Singal, and “stories”

I have a new piece in the latest issue of The New Atlantis called “Statistics as Storytelling.” The print journal is in subscribers’ hands; the issue will be online sometime this week, I imagine. (It’s jam-packed full of goodness, by the way: Nicholas Carr, Matthew Crawford, Phil Christman, Ari Schulman, Caitrin Keiper, Addison Del Mastro, and many others.) My piece is a long essay review of Jason Blakely’s book We Built Reality: How Social Science Infiltrated Culture, Politics, and Power. I’ll link to it in a separate post once it’s up.

You might think of the book as forming a kind of pincer movement with Jesse Singal’s book The Quick Fix: Why Fad Psychology Can’t Cure Our Social Ills. Whereas Blakeley’s book is an academic work building on a particular philosophical tradition (Gadamer, Taylor, MacIntyre, et al), Singal’s is a trade book meant for a wide readership. Each chapter is a systematic take-down of the latest fad in “Primeworld,” or the TED Talk–ification of the social sciences, especially psychology.

I mention Singal’s book in the review, but I don’t engage it much more than a sentence or two. I have to say, I wasn’t prepared for just how good The Quick Fix is. Which is a way of saying that I thought the book would partake, at least a wee bit, of the very phenomenon it is criticizing. But it doesn’t. Its depth and breadth of research is impressive. The detail is painstaking. The dismantling is patient, fair, and deserved in every case. Moreover, Singal’s leftist credentials strengthen the book’s persuasive power, simultaneously preventing dismissals of his arguments (“oh, this is just a reactionary/anti-academic screed that doesn’t support progressive values”) and bolstering his counter-proposals (as in, e.g., when he suggests that attending to systems, policies, and institutions will improve the actual lives of people of color, as opposed to pained introspection by well-meaning white liberals).

But there’s one point of discrepancy between Singal and Blakely, and I’m not sure whether it is merely rhetorical or rises to the level of a substantive disagreement. As the title of my review suggests, Blakely interprets social science as a way of making sense of the world through narrative interpretation. But he doesn’t think this is the problem; the problem is that public and popularizing practitioners of social science do not believe this is what they are doing; indeed their cache comes in the dubious supposition that it is precisely not what they are doing, since their art (excuse me, science) is empirical, not humanistic. His argument, then, is not that we need to do away with the social sciences. It’s that they need to be integrated into a larger humanistic approach to the great and never-ending cultural task of interpreting reality through stories. Stories are how human beings make meaning out of the flux of life; they are unavoidable and in fact crucial to even the hardest of hard scientific ways of understanding the world. “Facts” mean nothing apart from context, and for human being that context is ineluctably narrative in shape. What that means is that we need to be aware of what we are doing and, furthermore, we need to develop nuanced and sophisticated ways of depicting reality in complex stories that, for all their subjective character, are nonetheless true.

Compare that account with the following, which comes from pages 277–279 in the Conclusion (titled “Escape from Primeworld”) to The Quick Fix:

As we've seen, there are myriad reasons half-baked behavioral science catches on, and those reasons often have to do with the cultural or institutional context of a given idea—the problem it is attempting to solve, the societal currents it is riding, and so on. As we conclude this book, it's worth taking stock of the more general, less context-specific reasons why bad social science spreads and what the consequences might be, particularly when it comes to Primeworld accounts.

The simplest reasons half-baked ideas tend to prevail is that all else being equal, the human brain has an easier time latching onto simple and monocausal accounts than to complicated and multicausal ones. Such accounts are more likely to be accepted as true and to spread. Our brains are built to be drawn to quick, elegant-seeming answers.

The legendary sociologist Charles Tilly nicely explains this in his account of human storytelling, Why? What Happens When People Give Reasons . . . and Why. He writes, “Stories provide simplified cause-effect accounts of puzzling, unexpected, dramatic, problematic, or exemplary events. Relying on widely available knowledge rather than technical expertise, they help make the world intelligible.” Tilly calls storytelling “one of [the] great social interventions” of the human species, precisely because of its ability to simplify and boil down. But this is the same reason stories can lead us astray. “In our complex world, causes and effects always join in complicated ways,” he writes. “Simultaneous causation, incremental effects, environmental effects, mistakes, unintended consequences, and feedback make physical, biological, and social processes the devil's own work-or the Lord’s—to explain in detail. Stories exclude these inconvenient complications.”

Think of all the stories that have fueled half-baked psychology: “Soldiers can resist PTSD if their resilience is boosted”; “Women can close the workplace gender gap if they feel an enhanced sense of power”; “Poor kids can catch up to their richer peers if they develop more grit.” In emphasizing one particular causal claim about deeply complicated systems and outcomes, these and the other blockbuster hits of contemporary psychology elide tremendous amounts of important detail.

It's likely that just as our brains prefer simple stories, within psychology, too, the professional incentives point toward the development of simpler rather than more complex theories. People who study human nature aren't immune to the siren call of simplicity. In a reply to one of her papers, the psychologist Nina Strohminger criticizes this tendency rather eloquently: “The fetishization of parsimony means that unwieldy theories are often dismissed on these grounds alone. . . No doubt there is something less satisfying about settling for inelegance, but the best theories won't always feel right. Elegance is not a suitable heuristic for veracity.” Scientists often have good reason to prefer parsimony—Occam's razor has its uses—but still: simple-seeming explanations of complex phenomena warrant skepticism.

Of course, simple and elegant and appealing theories are more likely to pay. If you're a psychologist in the twenty-first century, particularly a young one, you face a daunting landscape when it comes to making a name and therefore a career for yourself. Funding is being cut left and right, and the ongoing adjunctification of academia certainly hasn't spared psychology. There's one silver lining, though: the public is more interested in behavioral science than ever before. That's especially true if you can tell a simple, exciting, and above all new story about a subject of great societal concern.

I regret that Singal—and Tilly—use the trope of stories and storytelling for the in itself accurate point they want to make. What they have in view is simplistic or reductive theories of complex phenomena that, because the human mind craves parsimony and the masses love a straightforward tale, gain popularity both in the academy and in intellectual journalism by comparison to the unsexy, the muddled, the multi-factored, the epistemically incomplete explanation. But that has nothing to do with the human propensity for narrative. Tilly’s account is itself a story, perhaps overly reductive: Humans tell stories to cut through the clutter, and this disposition to storytelling explains why fad psychology has such a grip on our collective imagination as a society. But my observing this isn’t a criticism. Every legible sentence and assertion in an argument is unavoidably a kind of compressed story and necessarily, always and everywhere, simplified relative to an exhaustive explanation of the subject in question. Which is just another way of saying it’s human beings doing the thinking and talking. That isn’t an obstacle in the way of our knowledge. It’s how we know anything at all.

In my view, then, Singal’s closing nod to the dangers of “storytelling” is not in material disagreement with Blakeley’s proposal. If the two books form a pincer movement, I would describe their relationship in this way: Blakely’s provides the necessary philosophical framework for a workable theory and practice of science—which is what Singal wants, a reliable habitus of public-facing social sciences like psychology—while Singal’s book shows, in glorious gory detail (through well-told vignettes, by the way!), what Blakely lacks the space to unfold in full: the manifold dysfunctions of scientism in its current dominant ideological form.

Take up and read them both. They make for quite the one-two punch.

A test for your doctrine of Scripture

Here’s a test for you.

Suppose that scientists created a sort of time machine. Not one that could transport someone from the present into the past. But one that could give anyone in the present a perfect window onto the past: clear, detailed, and controlled. Like a God’s-eye documentary recording of all that transpired in then and there, whenever and wherever. You wouldn’t be able to affect or change anything—what’s past is past, what’s done is done—but you could observe it.

Here’s the question.

Would the time machine obviate the necessity or utility of the Bible for Christians?

Better put: Would the time machine render redundant any and all narrative texts in the church’s canon of Holy Scripture? Because the function of those narratives is to inform us of what happened at such-and-such a time in such-and-such a place with such-and-such persons? And with the advent of the time machine, those happenings would be available to us in exponentially greater detail, minus literary and genre trappings and revisions and agendas and interpretations, plus supremely wider historical and factual context?

Your answer to these questions says a great deal about your understanding of the nature and purpose of Holy Scripture in the church.

And allow me to say, ever so gently, that if your answer to these questions is Yes, then there is a problem in your doctrine of Scripture.

Running errata

The first feeling one has upon publishing a book is a mixture of relief and elation, at least ideally. The second is the dawning realization that whatever mistakes one didn’t fix before the manuscript went to the printers are now there, in black and white, forever.

Accordingly, I’m going to keep this page as a running list of errata in The Doctrine of Scripture, errors discovered by myself or by readers friendly enough to point them out to me. So far the count is three:

xvi – Liv Stewart Lester (not “Stuart”)

53, footnote 43 – exemplify (not “exemplary”)

77 – magistra (not “magister”)

106, footnote 24 – comes (not “come”)

124 – Rom in first parenthetical citation (chapter and verse cited, no book)

124, footnote 36 – Gospel (not “gospel”)

If you spot any others, fill me in!

Subjunctive scholarship

If you read enough biblical scholarship, you come to realize that one of the guild’s endemic features—for at least a century, probably two—is an overweening confidence in its claims. Such claims usually partake of a rhetoric of calm certainty; all too often what are contestable judgments based on slim evidence are instead asserted as facts, or at least as bearing a supreme likelihood of being true. These judgments in turn become the basis for still further judgments, or proposals, that are themselves even flimsier in terms of probability or breadth of justifying reasons. So far as I can tell, this style of scholarship is of a piece with the broader approach not only of history but also the social sciences.

I’m not here to bury these disciplines. Rather, I want to suggest what I wish biblical scholars would do in their work. Better put, how I wish they would approach their subject matter and write about it. A certain sensibility and style. Call it the subjunctive mode.

I can think of at least two ways the subjunctive mode of scholarship would work. One would be marked by variations on this phrase:

In what follows I will write as if it were the case that X, though I am by no means certain or even confident that this hypothesis is true…

Note well that this style would neither eliminate strong or interesting rhetoric in the outworking of theories nor require constant and repetitive qualifications of such theories. It would only make clear—with no ifs, ands, or buts—that one or more premises of the work are arguable, indeed so arguable that it would be laughable to presume them to be self-evidently true to any reasonable person. Such a proviso would also signal the self-awareness on the part of the scholar that seemingly commonsensical consensus scholarly judgments inevitably come under fire in and by subsequent generations of scholars. What is taken for granted today is up for grabs tomorrow. No reason to act as though that isn’t the case. Moreover, to remember as well as acknowledge it surely increases humility and fallibilism in one’s own epistemic habits.

Here’s a second way the subjunctive mode could work in scholarly writing:

In this essay/book I will follow lines of speculative reflection regarding a set of issues about which we lack anything close to sufficient evidence to support confident claims; accordingly, my ideas and proposals will follow a certain pattern: “If it is the case that X, then Y might reasonably follow,” allowing that I can make no dispositive arguments in favor of X, and that any number of alternatives to X are plausible; for that reason I will also trace some of those plausible alternatives and see what they might lead.”

Among theologians, Paul Griffiths is a model of this approach. In his book Decreation, for instance, he regularly offers forks in the road to the reader, before following one, then the other, to wherever it leads. He makes no commitment to either being true, or at least obviously true. He simply suggests that both are plausible, and makes arguments for what would be the case if either were true—admitting, too, that it may well be the case that neither is true.

I most often find myself wishing biblical scholars did this (and they do, though in my experience only in the tiniest of historical and textual details) when reading their work on the dating of New Testament texts. I am utterly uninterested in a scholar spinning 10,000 theories on the single basis—sorry, “fact”—that no Gospel was written before AD 70, or that St. James’s epistle wasn’t written before the extant letters of St. Paul, or that the latter’s so-called disputed letters couldn’t possibly have been written by him, or that Luke–Acts unquestionably belongs to the turn of the second century, or that the beloved disciple wasn’t an eyewitness of Jesus’s comings and goings in Jerusalem, or that Mary obviously gave birth to brothers and sisters of Jesus. What I see in this kind of rhetoric is, on one hand, a confounding absence of curiosity; and, on the other, a wholly unwarranted confidence in the to-any-reasonable-person-or-serious-scholar certainty of one’s presuppositions. But those presuppositions, precisely as premises, are conclusions to arguments, and those arguments comprise probabilistic judgments of contestable processes of reasoning built on slim evidence, incommensurate and inadjudicable methodological frameworks, and finally subjective acts of interpretation that depend heavily for their value on intellectual virtues like honesty, modesty, courage, and prudence. In a word, they are defeasible, even when they are defensible.

Better to say: “So far as it seems to me, the evidence suggests that St. Mark’s Gospel was written in the late 60s, and partakes of knowledge of the assault on Jerusalem and its temple. Having said that, there are reasons to suppose otherwise. So in what follows the main thrust of my proposals will presume the former dating, but where appropriate, I will suggest what might be the case if I am wrong—as I no doubt I am, if not in this then in another matter.”

I remember, for example, reading a brilliant Pauline scholar asserting as an incontestable fact that the disputed letters are pseudonymous and that Romans is the last of his “authentic” letters to have been written. I don’t mind that assertion, modestly argued and supported with evidence and reasons. But what I wanted next was this: “And if I am wrong about that—if Philippians is dated AD 62, or if Ephesians is a circular letter delegated by St. Paul to St. Timothy to write in his name, or if Paul was released in 62 and later dictated his second epistle to Timothy from another Roman imprisonment circa 66—then that would alter my account of Pauline thought in the following ways…” I mean, why not admit that one might be wrong in one’s highly speculative hypothetical reconstructions of 2,000-year old texts and events? Why not trace alternative routes?

Why not, in short, write scholarship in the subjunctive mode?

Axioms of Christian exegesis

I … rejoice, as any interpreter of scripture should, to find such a clear case of prima facie contradiction [in the text]; such instances are efficacious in prompting theological thought because of the axiom that the canon of scripture is not incoherent. …

But what about the pleonasm [in the biblical passage under consideration]? It’s axiomatic for Christians that the text of scripture has no accidental features, which entails that the pleonasm isn’t one.

—Paul J. Griffiths, Regret: A Theology (University of Notre Dame Press, 2021), 4, 20

Academic support

The academy is often a very lonely place. The work can be grueling, the odds of success long, the competition ferocious, the hours punishing, the pay insufficient, the rewards minuscule, the expectations inhuman, the atmosphere inhumane. Often as not you’re alone with a book or a laptop for hours on end, moved by some inner fire to keep chipping away at an insuperable task, secure in the knowledge that what you are doing will be of almost no significance to anyone, ever, living or unborn. Yet chip chip chip, you press on, pounding the proverbial rock.

I have been fortunate—no, the only word is blessed—to have had a uniformly positive experience in the academy. Four years in undergrad, three years in a Master’s program, six years for the doctorate, and now in my fifth year teaching as a professor. In all that time I don’t know that I can point to a single capital-B Bad experience. Not only did I love the work I was doing, the content I was learning, the classes I was taking, the books I was reading. The programs themselves were all healthy environments for a student to inhabit; or at least, to the extent that they contained dysfunction, the dysfunction was no more pronounced than anywhere else, and rarely if ever affected me.

Indeed I think I can say honestly, without an asterisk or whispered anecdotal aside, that I’ve never knowingly been caught up in, or even mildly been touched by, controversy of the typical academic sort that marks and mars so many institutions of higher education. I might even be able to say that I’ve not yet earned an enemy (or a frenemy?) in the academy. I can think of one or two candidates, but that’s probably projection on my part. No doubt my relative lack of enemies—at least who’ve made themselves known to me!—has much more to do with cowardice and a desire to please than any virtue on my part. (If you Enneagram-diagnose me from afar I swear I will cut you down where you stand.) Further, too, at least a partial explanation for this happy state of affairs is my approach to my studies: put your head down, do the work, get out as fast as you can. But mostly I ascribe it to the institutions of which I was a part. The people one learns from and the people one learns alongside make all the difference.

Nevertheless, even the most blissful academic life includes the ordinary challenges that invariably attend it. One of those is the deafening silence, the dark void, that awaits that momentous day when, after years of work, you release something into the world. That something may be a mere review; it may be an essay or an article; occasionally it is a book. And we all know, wherever we find ourselves on the map or continuum of publication-generation, that there’s nothing quite like the long labor of birthing a little, or not so little, intellectual offspring and stepping forward to share it with the world only to hear … nothing. Not a word. Not a peep. Zilch. Nada. Silence.

Even more than bad reviews, it’s being ignored that crouches in the back of your mind, grinning and holding hands with that other ever-lurking demon of academe, imposter syndrome. It’s why academics go to Twitter like moth to a flame: not only because they’re on screens all day with time to kill (and work to avoid), but because proper scholarship usually takes years to produce and still more years to generate feedback. That sweet, sweet dopamine hit of a like or a retweet or a reply is a lot more rewarding than the alternative.

Apart from a general response to one’s work, critical or laudatory or in between, the other thing we academics desperately yearn for but rarely receive is a wide network of support. Or maybe I shouldn’t put it that way. Many friends and colleagues I know do have such networks, though often at great cost, beyond the campus, and as a result of their own intentional efforts. What I mean to say is that specifically academic networks aren’t in general built for emotional and psychological encouragement. They’re more like one long intellectual boot camp. Your drill sergeant has a purpose, and you’re happy (maybe) that he made you who you are; you couldn’t have done it without him. But you don’t go to him when you need a hug.

This is all a lengthy and circuitous prelude to a very small thing I want to share. My first book was published two weeks ago. Along with book #2 (due next April), it was years in the making. In a very real sense I’ve been working toward this finish line since August of 2003. But initially, when the book came in the mail, it felt anticlimactic. There was no link yet on Amazon, no one in the world knew it existed, and certainly no one else had it in their hands (as I did). I wrote the book for others, not myself. Moreover, if we couldn’t throw a party to celebrate, given the pandemic, and if no one online knew about the thing, and it’s not like it’s a trade book meant to fly off the shelves of the local Barnes and Noble—then what to do? How to make the thing feel real, as a shared or social fact and not my own little private achievement?

So in addition to tweeting about the book once the Amazon link came online, I decided to email blast the world, or at least my world. I emailed news about the publication to—I’m not exaggerating—every friend, every extended family member, every church aunt and grandmother who helped raise me, every colleague and academic acquaintance, and every single former teacher (going back 17 years) whose contact info I happened to still have in my Gmail account. I even added scholars who have influenced me through their writing, but whom I have not met in person, or even online. I left out not a soul.

The response was overwhelming. I won’t get into all the details. But suffice it to say that people I haven’t seen or spoken to in over a decade replied with the warmest, sweetest words you can imagine, and certainly more than I was hoping for. And I’m more than willing to own what I was doing: not so much fishing for compliments as wanting quite literally to share in the occasion with others. I wasn’t surprised when my uncle texted to say he’d bought seven copies to give to friends in Dothan, Alabama. I was surprised when this, that, or another laconic, brainy, preternaturally non-emotive senior scholar gushed in congratulations. A lot of “ah, I remember the first one” and “feels like a birth, no?” and “don’t apologize, this calls for celebration!”

What I’m trying to say, what I keep circling around and not quite landing on, is simply this. It was what I needed. And when it came, I wasn’t prepared for it. The bottom fell out, and what I fell into was bottomless gratitude. It’s a wonderful thing, and wonderful in part because of how rare it is, to have people in this bemusing bizarro world of scholarship on one’s side, popping the cork right alongside you. Like your old drill sergeant giving you a bear hug in a crowded restaurant and lifting you off your feet.

The high wears off. You get back to the grindstone. But for a few days there, I was flying.

Listening to Lewis

One of my goals for 2021 was to listen to fewer podcasts and more audiobooks—a double good, that. One of my strategies was to find novels and nonfiction on the shorter side, to gain some momentum and feel like I was making it through actual books rather than slogging through interminable chapters. One successful tack I happened upon was listening to classic shorter works of Christian thought I’d first read in my teens, specifically authors like Chesterton and Lewis. Of the latter’s books, I’ve “reread,” i.e. listened to, The Great Divorce, The Abolition of Man, The Problem of Pain, Reflections on the Psalms, Letters to Malcolm, The Weight of Glory, and Miracles.

I read most of these books in early high school. That means it’s been 20 years since I’ve opened their pages (though I’ve reread some of them since then, like The Great Divorce and The Screwtape Letters). During that interim I spent 13 years earning multiple degrees in biblical, religious, and theological studies, and am now in my fifth year teaching theology to undergraduates, in between publishing my first and second books. In other words, though one never “arrives” in the realm of theology, unlike my 16-year old self, I do know one or two things about the topic now. I have, as the kids say, done the reading.

What have I made of Lewis on this side of that span, then? Before answering that question I have to address another matter. That matter is Lewis’s own stature, within the theological academy and without. There is nothing—and I do mean nothing—more plebeian, rustic, and déclassé in American scholarly theological writing, at least writing that aspires to be taken seriously, than quoting C. S. Lewis (in general, much less as an authority). The reasons for this scorn are numerous. Chief among them is Lewis’s ubiquity in American evangelicalism. It’s guilt by association. One doesn’t want to give aid and comfort to them, much less cite one of their treasured masters. But not only that. Often as not, the scholar in question was himself influenced by Lewis at some crucial point in his spiritual and intellectual journey. But now he has put away such childish things; this scholar is a man. And real men don’t quote C. S. Lewis.

You might think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not, at least in many cases. There is an element of spiritual patricide, of self-conscious graduation or expulsion or liberation from the sort of class—economic, cultural, or religious—that would think Lewis was a Serious Thinker on a par with the true leading lights of the twentieth century. And since Lewis was not and never claimed to be a formal, or formally trained, theologian or philosopher, he can justly be ignored or looked down upon as, at best, the ladder one kicks away after climbing up it; or, at worst, a second-rate apologist of the unwashed evangelical masses.

To which I say: what a bunch of bunk. Listening to Lewis these last six months has brought home to me just how silly all those patronizing caricatures of him are. His reputation among the masses is more than earned. His role as an intellectual “friend,” in Stanley Hauerwas’s words, to many a searching teenager and undergraduate, is wholly justified. I’m not going to sing all his praises—for his prose, his economy of thought, his vast erudition, his wit, his bracing moral gaze—nor overlook his shortcomings—on gender, for example, though sometimes he is prescient and insightful, other times he is a man of his time or just plain weird. No, what I want to point out is that Lewis was a “real,” that is to say a bona fide or unqualified, Christian philosopher thinker, an asterisk-free theologian in the classical mold.

Listening to stray paragraphs and casual asides in Lewis’s writing from the 1940s, one realizes that his lack of formal training protected him from every manner of silly fad then dominant in “up to date” theological scholarship. That doesn’t mean he would have had nothing to learn from, say, the late Barth. (I often wonder what Barth would have made of The Screwtape Letters, and what Lewis would have made of CD IV/1.) It just means that sometimes expertise cramps the mind instead of opening it up. Reading broadly in patristic, medieval, reformation, and early modern divines is not all one needs to do to become a theologian, or to think theologically; but it’s not far from the kingdom, either.

One finds in Lewis, for example, a systematically clear and precise presentation of the intrinsic importance and interrelatedness of an extensive array of doctrines: creation ex nihilo, the transcendence and sovereignty of God, the non-being of evil, the non-competitiveness of divine and human agency, the truth of human freedom and moral responsibility, the moral and noetic effects of sin, the status of creation as good but fallen and redeemed in Christ, and the attendant consequences for human knowledge and relation to the divine. One of the things I never realized I gleaned from Lewis before I ever read so-called “real” theology was his devastating critique of every form of scientism. He inoculates his readers against it. So often ruinous to young faith, scientism is seen, with Lewis’s help, for the philosophical sham it is. He is able to do this because he has intuited the scope and rationale of basic Christian doctrine at a deep level and, with the aid of his powers of imaginative but lucid description, reproduced it in prose that hides the enormous learning behind it and is therefore accessible to the average reader. But the latter operation does not attenuate the former fact. Indeed, combining the two is a far more demanding and impressive task than mastering a field but, as a result, being capable of speaking only in one dialect: namely, the dialect of the technical scholar.

I’m well aware that Lewis needs no defense from me. For half a century there has been a veritable publishing industry devoted to extolling his virtues, including his philosophical and theological skills. And there is a laudable freedom from anxiety in true devotees of Lewis: Why should they care whether he receives his due in the halls of power and influence? All true. And a good lesson for this status-anxious holder of an Ivy League doctorate. All the same, it was a happy realization for this lifelong student of Lewis’s to realize no shine came off his works. They’re radiant as ever.

The catholicity of art

In Jamie Smith’s latest monthly newsletter—to which I recommend you subscribe—he has a reflection on the relationship between art and faith. In particular he has a bone to pick with those well-meaning Christian writers and artists whose approach to art is (in my words) variations on, or elevated versions of, the God’s Not Dead approach. They are “BCFC”: religious art by Christians and for Christians. The result is parochial, hokey, dull, blinkered, constricted, in a word, un-catholic. Go big or go home: don’t retreat to nostalgia or to enclaves of the sub-sub-sub-group; make art for the world. It’s God’s world, after all.

With all of this, given a certain interpretation, I think we should all agree—even if we allow, as Paul Griffiths rightly reminds us, that we ought not thereby to denigrate kitsch or its audience, though we don’t mistake it for high art. But there’s also an interpretation of this approach, and perhaps an intended meaning behind it, that I want to place a question mark next to.

Here’s the way of speaking I’m wondering about: Avoiding, rejecting, or downgrading art made for “the enclave,” for “the sub-culture,” for the collective, for the “us” by contradistinction to the “them.” Such art, on Smith’s view, doesn’t have the kosmos as its subject or audience. It’s concerned only with our little corner of it. And invariably those limits restrict to the point of strangulation. They lead to myopia of the worst and most boring kind.

It’s clear who and what Smith has in mind. But I don’t think his description quite matches his object. What he’s so repulsed by is nostalgia, sectarianism, rigidity, kitsch; art that is ornamental or didactic or self-validating (or all of the above). Hallmark art. Shallow and faux inspirational “content” that fails to live up to the venerable name of art. “Art,” therefore, whose meaning and purpose are written in shining neon letters on the first page, forestalling and alleviating the challenge—the adventure—of endless and untamed interpretation.

To that I say: Amen!

But is that best described as “sub-cultural” art by and for “the enclave”? I don’t think so. Why not? Because some of the best art we have, past and present, was and is made by and for the enclave. In fact, that’s what makes the most beautiful or moving art so endlessly compelling. Better, it’s what makes it so catholic: its very particularity. The universality of a great work of art is directly, not inversely, related to its specificity, its granularity of detail. And often as not, that granularity is a function of the artist’s parochial upbringing, identity, formation, and even initial audience. It’s only once that audience expands—in the lifetime of the artist or across the generations—that it becomes clear, perhaps even to the artist and his or her sub-group, that other people are interested in this odd little corner of the world. Sometimes such artists and groups are at a loss for words why anyone else would take an interest in them!

This goes for more recent artistic endeavors (just think of the spiritual, musical, literary, and artistic contributions of African Americans, for example, or of Catholic or Jewish American immigrants) as well as long-established canonical works. Contemporary people don’t in general care about long-dead Greeks and their wars, or about the petty rivalries of fourteenth century Italy, or about medieval Japanese ladies-in-waiting. But they (we) keep reading them, and inadvertently learning about all the background details necessary to understand them, because we believe, or we have come to see, that they continue to have something to say to us—different though we may be from them.

My only point is that the criterion of “not by and for an enclave; having the whole world as an imagined audience” does not well fit these, or plenty of other, examples of lasting, “catholic” art. The proper catholicity is located in the artifact’s mysterious capacity to speak to the world, not in its maker’s worldliness, whether real or aspirational. There is no question that Christians in American today do appear to lack that catholicity; that that lack is a feature, not a bug; that it hampers serious Christian art from getting off the ground or being appreciated by fellow Christians, much less “the world”; and that it is well worth rooting out the causes, whatever they may be.

But in a sense, I want to go further and suggest that the problem is we aren’t enclaved enough. That is to say, our sub-culture isn’t some magnificent thing worth limning in everlasting vernacular lines. It’s largely defensive in posture, lacking the courage of its convictions. It’s squirmy and unsure of itself, anxious of others’ judgments. Grand sub-cultural art is born not of insecurity but of the crystal clarity bestowed by a firm identity, deeply held beliefs, and an integrated dense network of fellow members of the selfsame community. For whatever reason (and we could enumerate many reasons), Christians in America do not fit this description. Their anxiety is revealed most pitiably in the shrill spreadsheet-hollowness of their proselytizing efforts, not to mention the pure commercial parasitism of their aesthetic products.

If I were formulating a critique of the state of “faith and art” in the contemporary American scene, that’s where I’d begin.

James and le Carré (TLC, 3)

This is an entry in my “Twitter loci communes” series; read more here.

P. D. James and John le Carré are two of my favorite novelists. I’ve written about each of them before. A question occurred to me as I was reading le Carré’s Our Game this week, and that question reminded me of a question I asked on Twitter a couple years ago.

Here’s the first one, sincerely asked by one who lacks the expertise or breadth of reading to know a good answer:

If you wanted to chart the social, moral, and political changes wrought in England between the immediate postwar period and Brexit—not only the Cold War but the brave new world opened up by the fall of the Berlin Wall as well as by the fall of the Twin Towers—could you do better than reading every one of the novels written by James and le Carré?

Put differently: What would you be missing by using their novels as a window onto the successive societal revolutions that sprung up during the reign of Queen Elizabeth—or, say, between Winston Churchill’s final year in office and Theresa May’s first? I don’t mean to suggest that their work is comprehensive, much less to sound reductive. (For example, a writer like Zadie Smith comes to mind as adding something important they’re missing.) I more mean the question as a comment about the sheer expanse of James’s and le Carré’s respective powers of social observation, and the way in which the changing mores of the day reveal themselves in the little details strewn across the dialogue and narration of their stories.

That brings me to my second question, posed on Twitter in June 2019:

Of genre authors working in the second half of the twentieth century, who wrote the best English prose? On the Mount Rushmore, I think P. D. James and John le Carré are nonnegotiable. Who are the other two?

Addendum: By "genre" I mean the fictional sub-groups typically thought of as cheap paperbacks for thrills: crime, fantasy, SF. (Westerns are tough—I'll say no for now, though I'd allow a counter-argument.) Re time frame, I mean *flourished* in final 4-5 decades of 20th century.

In other words I'm framing the question this way because genre is often thought of as non-literary and thus not literature proper, and thus not deserving of literary analysis or praise. But some genre authors write gorgeous prose. Who are they?

While it’s still up, you should go check out the replies. There were a bunch, and some of the suggestions were fantastic. (Everyone seemed to agree with me about James; less so le Carré.) Some of the proposed names included le Guin, Ross Macdonald, Rex Stout, Patrick O’Brian, Charles Portis, Shirley Jackson, Octavia E. Butler, Brian Jacques, Ishigiro, Ballard, Ligotti, Gene Wolfe, Samuel Delaney, and many more. The truth is that any Mount Rushmore is going to be subjective. But perhaps there could be loose agreement on (to switch metaphors) the bullpen from which one would call up this or that writer for the honor.

Twitter loci communes

One of these days Twitter will be no more. Or at least my Twitter account. Whether that future is distant or near, it will happen. I stopped actively tweeting or even retweeting anything beyond links to my published work a couple months into the pandemic. That was after resuming “normal” Twitter activity following a self-imposed months-long hiatus. During that whole period of time, across the last two years or so, I’ve seriously contemplated deleting my account more than once. I’ve come very close. But I haven’t quite been able to quit having an account, even if I’ve successfully quit replying to mentions, liking tweets, retweeting, “engaging” in “the discourse,” etc. I also don’t scroll the feed—ever. I spend 5-15 minutes per day on Twitter, by which I mean, unless I’m sharing a new publication, I check the same 3-6 writers’ accounts the way I “follow” RSS feeds on Feedly. I’m more or less happy with my Twitter usage, then, though I continue to think the platform the purest of poisons on our common life. If I had a button to destroy it tomorrow, I’d press it in a heartbeat.

So. Since I’m not “on” Twitter in a strong way anymore, and since I’m confident neither the site nor my account is long for this world, and since before I stopped being an active user I had some pleasant conversations and wrote a few fun threads, I’ve been thinking about how to maintain, or transmit, some of that. Here’s my answer.

Twitter loci communes.

The Latin means “common places.” What I’m going to do on this blog, intermittently and with no plan of action, is reproduce topics and threads and lines of thought I developed on Twitter sometime in the years since I created an account in 2013. Not by embedding the tweets but simply by copying and pasting them here, either as normal prose or in block quotes.

In fact, I’ve already done that twice: earlier this year in response to ACU’s upset of UT in March Madness and a couple weeks back on the feast of St. Monica. We’ll count those as TLC #1 and #2. Next will be #3, whatever and whenever that may be. But I’ll link back to this page for future posts so that folks know what it is, and I’ll tag all TLC posts (including those two retroactive ones) as such, so anybody who’s interested—all two dozen of you—can track them down.

Twitter may not be all evil; perhaps it’s only 99%. This little side project is a way of preserving the 1%, if only for myself.

My new book is out! Order The Doctrine of Scripture today!

My first book, The Doctrine of Scripture, is officially out and ready for purchase. Technically it became available on Friday, August 27, but the book wasn’t yet in my hands and it wasn’t yet available for order online. (Does a book really exist if you can’t add it to your Amazon cart?) But yesterday I received my author’s copies of the book in the mail and the book appeared on Amazon. It’s real! It exists! It’s alive!

Here’s the wonderful cover, as designed by Savanah Landerholm, featuring a watercolor of the annunciation by Gabi Kiss:

And here is the full front and back, along with some of the endorsements:

Speaking of endorsements, I was and remain positively bowled over by the stature and kindness of the scholars—heroes all—who read the book and deigned to say it’s worth a read. That begins with Katherine Sonderegger, whose foreword opens the book. I won’t quote the whole thing, but here’s how it concludes:

The Doctrine of Scripture is a wonderfully ecumenical text. Here we find St. Francis de Sales next to Calvin and Turretin; they in turn next to St. Thomas, St. John of Damascus, St. Cyril, and St. Augustine. Not surprisingly, the list of authors is decidedly pre-modern. East has, it seems, followed C. S. Lewis's dictum ad litteram: Read old books! The book sings. The text displays a clear, poetic style, and wisely reserves the disputation with authors ancient and modern, across several communions, to footnotes. The whole work dedicates itself to showing how Holy Scripture, in its unique yet creaturely status, must be interpreted as the Viva Vox Dei, the living voice of the Living God. The Doctrine of Scripture is an ambitious, learned, and deeply moving work of Ressourcement theology, and I am grateful to have learned from this fine teacher.

The book sings. Can you please carve that on my gravestone? The Great Kate Sonderegger wrote those words. My work is done.

Other brilliant theologians lent a similarly gracious hand to my little book. Here is the inimitable Ephraim Radner:

A magnificent achievement! Brad East has taken his years of theological reflection upon the Bible and crafted a compelling and synoptic discussion of Scripture's divinely granted being and place within the Christian church's life and vision of reality. In the end, East's volume provides a modernized version of a generally classical view of Scripture's form and function, respectfully taking up traditional claims with a critical eye, and weaving old and new perspectives into a lucidly ordered whole that is fundamentally grounded in a living and humble faith. Sprightly written, substantively resourced, carefully argued, and pastorally adept, East's Doctrine of Scripture should be required reading for theological students and scholars alike.

And the redoubtable Bruce Marshall:

It would be hard to imagine a more winsome and helpful introduction to the Christian doctrine of Scripture than this. In an area that has been a minefield of controversy, Brad East writes with clarity yet without polemic, with ecumenical sympathy yet without failing to take a clear position on all the important and contested issues. Whatever your convictions about the Bible and how it should be read, you will benefit from this book.

And the formidable Matthew Levering:

What an exciting book! East's basic moves are recognizable: he carries forward and integrates elements of the doctrines of Scripture of Webster, Boersma, and Jenson. This would be accomplishment enough for a normal book, but East is even bolder ecumenically than the masters upon whom he builds. Without ceasing to value the Reformers, he challenges sola scriptura and the perspicacity of Scripture, and he offers a deeply Catholic account of dogma and apostolicity. This book is a rare gift—a richly comprehensive theology of Scripture that lays the foundation for real ecumenical breakthroughs.

And Darren Sarisky, a once rising star who now is unquestionably one of the leading lights in Christian theology of Scripture:

Brad East writes about the Bible with joy, verve, and insight. His presentation is highly readable, opening the subject up to all those who want to explore a theological perspective on Scripture. His strategy of working from church practice back to the nature and qualities of the text gives us all much to ponder.

And last but not least, Steve Fowl, whom I sometimes affectionately call the pope of the discipline (in his case, theological interpretation of Scripture):

Brad East's The Doctrine of Scripture raises all the key issues for theologians and biblical scholars to think about with regard to the nature and place of Scripture in a Christian theological framework. In a lucid and highly accessible style, he makes a compelling case for why these issues matter for theology and Scriptural interpretation.

When I read those names and their comments, and when that evil demon Imposter isn’t haunting my addled brain, I think, after pinching myself, that maybe I did something right. Or at least wrong in interesting ways. In either case, you should pick up a copy for yourself!

Speaking of which: I’ve buried the lede. You may want to purchase the book from Amazon or some other typical online outlet, but if you buy it from the publisher’s website, you can use the coupon code EASTBK2 to get 40% off the listed price (currently $28). Come on, y’all! You can spare an extra $20 bill for a book that sings, can’t you?

Here, by the way, is a description of the book’s contents:

When Holy Scripture is read aloud in the liturgy, the church confesses with joy and thanksgiving that it has heard the word of the Lord. What does it mean to make that confession? And why does it occasion praise? The doctrine of Scripture is a theological investigation into those and related questions, and this book is an exploration of that doctrine. It argues backward from the church’s liturgical practice, presupposing the truth of the Christian confession: namely, that the canon does in fact mediate the living word of the risen Christ to and for his people. What must be true of the sacred texts of Old and New Testament alike for such confession, and the practices of worship in which it is embedded, to be warranted?

By way of an answer, the book examines six aspects of the doctrine of Scripture: its source, nature, attributes, ends, interpretation, and authority. The result is a catholic and ecumenical presentation of the historic understanding of the Bible common to the people of God across the centuries, an understanding rooted in the church’s sacred tradition, in service to the gospel, and redounding to the glory of the triune God.

Head over to my page dedicated to the book here on the website for further information; I’ll be updating it with links, excerpts, and reviews in the coming weeks, months, and years.

I conceived the idea for this book in the summer of 2018; I drafted it, start to finish, in the fall semester of 2019; I revised it in May/June of 2020, then put the finishing touches on it last December. The copyedits came in May earlier this year, then the proofs a month later, then the physical book a couple months after that. That’s by comparison to my next book, which comes out in April, whose creation will have encompassed a full decade by the time of its publication. (It’s a former dissertation: enough said.)

All that to say: This has been an incredibly fast process, and so it’s somewhat surreal to see the physical book in my hands more or less two years to the day after I began writing it. I’m extremely proud of what I’ve written. I can’t speak to the quality, but I can tell you that it’s my best work. If I have anything whatsoever to say on this topic—if I have any skill in writing or in theological thinking—then you’ll find it on display in this book. I hope you’ll give it a chance. I hope people find it useful, thought-provoking, persuasive, invigorating. But most of all I hope it serves Christ’s church, whose sacred book is my book’s subject matter. That book is Christ’s book, and if my little book leads anyone to understanding or reading or loving it more, or more deeply, then I will be satisfied, and then some.

But right now I’m all gratitude, from top to bottom. So thanks in advance to you, too, if you end up giving it your time.

Foundation

Later this month the television adaptation of Isaac Asimov’s Foundation will premiere on Apple+. I had been planning on writing something about it, then doubled down on that plan when I read a piece resorting to that laziest but most common of critical terms of approval these days: the R-word. You know what it is. “Relevant.” As in, and I quote, Asimov’s story is “deeply relevant” and represents “something that feels more relevant than ever these days.” Foundation may be relevant, but if it is, it’s not because Asimov has something useful to say about our lives. Nor is it because Asimov offers us a critique of the late decadent phase of the American imperium. It’s because Asimov’s text begs to be read against itself, as an unconscious window on the late modern technocratic mind that believes itself to be the solution to decadence, when it is actually its principal symptom.

I have, or rather had, a lot more to say about that. But then Alan Jacobs beat me to the punch. He notes how, in both Asimov’s trilogy and Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End, which were all written between 1942 and 1952, each author is “deeply invested in thinking about the ways old political orders give way to self-proclaimed Utopias; and both, also, see that the technocratic Utopia—as distinguished, I think, from the more traditional Utopias of authoritarian and totalitarian states—is a new thing in the world.”

Let me add one thing, which concerns the protagonist, Hari Seldon, and his Foundation scheme that sets the plot going. Not only is Seldon a pure projection of Asimov, or Asimov as he imagines himself and his ilk to be. The so-called science that Seldon has cracked is the science of predicting the future based on the past with perfect exactitude. And it’s the cranks who run the Empire who are fools not to believe his probabilistic calculations. I remember, when I first read the initial novel in the trilogy, thinking that Asimov was setting Seldon up to be a fool himself. I mean, imagine thinking “psychohistory” to be a legitimate empirical-mathematical enterprise in which the custodians of trillions of living souls should place their trust! But I was the foolish one. Naturally, that is exactly what Seldon-Asimov thinks world leaders should do: believe the science—in this case, the pseudo-science of technocrats tinkering with their algorithmic prediction machines. Knowing the unlikelihood of being believed, Seldon-Asimov sets in motion a series of events leading to the hoped-for future founding of a new intergalactic civilization with far less bloodshed and destruction than otherwise would have occurred (in the absence, that is, of his genius). His well-timed appearances and messages in the centuries to come are a running deus ex machina, only the god in the machine is Hermes, bringing one more message, just in the nick of time, from the omniscient Seldon-Asimov (speaking from the past). Not to put too fine a point on it, whereas the Foundation he establishes is meant to contain all the knowledge humans have amassed across the millennia, the cornerstone of the Foundation is—you guessed it—psychohistory. (It doesn’t help that every time just what the Foundation is preserving is mentioned it’s always, or almost always, the deliverances of the technical and empirical sciences, and never, or rarely, the treasures of the humanistic arts. You can be sure the gadgets of Steve Jobs reside safely in some Foundation vault; less so the works of Bach or Rembrandt.)

All that said, the book is worth a read, not least for its influence on Frank Herbert and George Lucas. And it’s still a fun, if not especially well written, yarn. And I might check out the show; it would be nice if the showrunners signaled their having grasped the unintended subtext of the story instead of buying into its ostensible prescience and relevance to the year of our Lord 2021. But I’m not holding my breath.

A Christian university

What makes a Christian university Christian? Phrased differently, what’s the difference between a Christian university, a “Christian In Name Only” university, and a post-Christian university?

A friend put that question to me recently. I won’t answer in substantive terms (i.e., the sort of beliefs and practices that make a claim to being Christian “truly” Christian). But here’s a stab at a formal answer, in zigzag order.

1. A post-Christian university is one that was founded as a Christian institution, or still technically contains an element of Christian identity (for example, through the presence of an ineliminable but terribly embarrassing seminary on campus), but otherwise exists for all intents and purposes as if none of that were true, or at least that it exists solely in the distant past. Such a university does not advertise itself as Christian, does not encourage its faculty to profess Christian faith or to perform piety in the classroom or with students, and when and where appropriate publicizes its non-Christian bona fides through student life, faculty scholarship, courses offered, and issues and causes supported.

2. A Christian university is the inverse of a post-Christian university (or vice versa). Its Christian identity is up front and center; that is why a family or student would desire attendance there, and the university actively seeks to elicit such desire on that basis. The faculty is entirely or mostly Christian (confirmed through local church membership or the signing of a statement of faith); the staff and administration are as well; the curriculum reflects and incorporates biblical and theological teaching, just as student life does the same with holistic spiritual formation. Chapel is sometimes required and nearly always offered in some form. Professors are encouraged to be involved in students’ lives beyond the classroom and are expected to make their faith known in the classroom through various means (prayer, personal stories, connecting the faith to their discipline). A Christian university’s employees would, in general, affirm the statement that, granting the diversity of doctrinal convictions and moral and political opinions across campus, the institution as a whole is sincerely and legitimately working toward a common end: the formation of mature Christian adults ready to enter the world of work and family with as much knowledge, skills, and faith that the university could impart.

3. A CINO university is somewhere in between these two options, and invariably on a journey from the second to the first. (The transition only happens in one direction.) A CINO university maintains the trappings of its former Christian identity without the full force of its institutional muscle behind it. Its administration largely, though not wholly, lacks either personal faith or the institutional desire to make faith central to the university’s mission. Vestiges of the old way remain—a semblance of chapel, certain curricular oddities, a seminary or religious studies department—but no one quite knows what to do with them (and that includes their members): they are neither resented nor beloved, just there. A CINO university absolutely continues to permit and, at times and in certain departments, solicit and encourage the presence of faith in the classroom, or the integration of faith and learning. But many departments discourage and even look down on this as sub-scholarly practice, bad pedagogy, and/or coercive religious imposition. Above all a CINO university has the feel of a certain momentum, a wind at the back of those key figures leading the charge away from “Christian” toward “post-Christian,” while a small but noble band of resisters—call them reactionaries if you want—fights tooth and nail to preserve the “Christian” as long as possible. But most of this latter group’s allies sees the futility of their cause and can’t quite bring themselves to expend the sort of energy required to support them; best to keep one’s head down and do one’s work. Which, to be sure, they are left perfectly free to do, including if that work is explicitly Christian, theological, or contrary to the moral or cultural zeitgeist. That’s part of what makes the university CINO and not (yet) post-Christian.

In any case, that was, or rather is, my answer to my friend’s question. No doubt the definitions are fuzzy, and real-life cases would either split my terms or call for the overlap of a Venn diagram. But that’s how the situation appears to me at the moment.