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1 Corinthians 5-6

This is part of a Bible study I’m leading on 1 Corinthians.

Introduction

Chapters 5 and 6 are quite challenging. In chapter 1 through the middle of chapter 4, Paul stressed how the “foolishness” of the cross overturns human claims to wisdom and emphasized that within the church we are all “rich” and “kings” without any need to judge each other. But at the end of chapter 4, Paul begins to turn to the problems in the church at Corinth, and in Chapters 5 and 6, he both passes judgment on the cause of those problems and instructs the Corinthians to exercise their own judgment. How can we understand this dramatic shift?

We could say Paul is just inconsistent, and maybe that’s correct, but Paul also obviously is smart enough to see such inconsistency. It’s helpful here to remember that 1 Corinthians is only one piece of correspondence between Paul and the church at Corinth. We’re glimpsing part of a broader dialogue about power, influence, and corruption in the church body. At the end of chapter 4, Paul noted that “some” of the Corinthians had “become arrogant.” (4:18.) In Chapters 5 and 6, he addresses the problems caused by those “arrogant” people.

There are three large problems related to these “arrogant” people: (1) a man is sexually involved with his “father’s wife” (given the phrasing, probably not the man’s biological mother)(5:1); (2) Litigation in the Roman courts between members of the congregation (6:1); and (3) Members of the congregation were using prostitutes (6:15).

All of these problems seem to have related to an attitude or spiritual teaching among some of the Corinthian church members: “All things are lawful for me.” (6:12.) And in connection with that attitude, these seem to have been open and notorious activities, not just secret vices. The people involved in these activities were gravely wounding and dividing the church, asserting what they thought were absolute privileges against other members of the body, destroying the basis for peace.

Chapter 5: The Ecclesial Center

In Chapter 5 Paul addresses the first big problem in the Corinthian church, the man sleeping with his father’s wife. Notice that this is not merely a case of Jewish / Christian moralism: Paul says even the pagans would be scandalized by this kind of conduct. (5:2.) Paul’s judgment is harsh: “When you are assembled . . . you are to hand this man over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh, so that his spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord.” (5:5, NRSV)

“Flesh” (Greek sarx) in Paul’s letters is a term for that which is bound to the powers of the world, which Paul often contrasts with “spirit” (Greek pneuma), a term for the power of the Kingdom of God. The NRSV correctly translates “the flesh,” but it assumes “his spirit” when the article “the” (to) rather than the personal pronoun “his” (autos) is used. This is not necessarily an invalid grammatical assumption, but it can mask that Paul’s concern is not about retribution against this one man but rather is about preserving the ekklesia, the church, against the “powers” of the world.

We don’t know what may have been involved in the community “handing over” the man to “Satan.” “Hand over” (Greek paradidómi) can include delivering someone to military or judicial custody (see Matt. 10:17), betrayal (as in the betrayal of Jesus, see Matt. 10:4), and handing over goods in trust (Matt. 25:20). We might imagine some kind of rite of excommunication in which the man is put out of the assembly, but we don’t know for sure.

If the idea of formally putting someone out of the assembly isn’t difficult enough to our modern ears, the reference to “Satan” is even more shocking. In the Hebrew Scriptures, “the satan” seems to be an angelic being in God’s heavenly court whom God employs to accuse or test people (see, e.g., Job 1). In some of the Second Temple apocryphal literature, a motif develops of heavenly beings or angels who are in rebellion against God, drawn in large part from the strange mention of the nephilim in Genesis 6. Among the characters in the Second Temple literature there’s even a good archangel named “Metatron,” which to our ears sounds like something from a Transformers movie.

Remember that Paul is swimming in this Second Temple Jewish stream, in a Roman culture alive with gods and demons. That is not our culture in the modern global North. It is, though, very much part of many cultures today in the global South. Perhaps our “flat” modern worldview, so tied to our concepts of “natural laws” and physical causes, is missing something here. Perhaps we can imagine that “natural” and “supernatural” causes need not exclude each other, but might represent different facets or lenses through which we understand the phenomena we encounter.

What about the seemingly harsh instruction to exclude someone from the assembly? The fact is that any community requires boundaries. As we are working through this part of the text, we see in our nation right now the protests over the death of George Floyd. I’m sure we all agree that police officers should not use excessive force and should not target black men. I’m sure we also agree that everyone has a right to peaceful protest but not to loot and riot. Abusive police officers must be removed from the force, police officers who commit violent crimes must be prosecuted, and racism must have no home among law enforcers. Looters and rioters must be stopped and people who incite violence must be removed from the streets. Without some boundaries, we can’t have a community committed to the values we hold dear.

This is also true in the community of the church. We are more likely today to think of boundaries for behavior during public worship rather than for what we consider private conduct. Imagine, for example, a person who stood up in the sanctuary and shouted obscenities whenever one of the Pastors began to speak (or in our present circumstance, someone who flooded the Zoom chat with pornographic pictures). We would probably agree that such a person should be kept out of the public worship gathering.

It seems strange to us, though, that Paul would exclude a person for private sexual conduct, even for something as flagrant as sleeping with one’s stepmother. Yet even here, we can consider a contemporary parallel. All the Pastors and Elders in our church recently completed a “Safe Church” training regarding sexual abuse. Sadly, we know that churches are prime ground for child sexual abuse, and that Priests, Pastors, and other leaders often are the abusers. Again, I’m sure all of us would agree that a church leader who is sexually abusing children must be removed from the church and reported to authorities.

In the context at Corinth, Paul connects the problem to arrogance and employs a familiar metaphor: that of microscopic yeast leavening a loaf of dough. (5:6-8.) We all know from experience how quickly a bad attitude can spread through a community. Note how Paul connects this metaphor to Christ, and to the Lord’s supper. The “paschal lamb” is the pascha, the Greek word for the Jewish Passover and by extension for the lamb sacrificed at Passover. Paul wants to celebrate the “feast,” the Lord’s supper, “not with the old yeast, the yeast of malice and evil, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.” (5:8.) Later in the letter (Chapter 11), Paul will mention specific problems with the Corinthians’ celebration of the Lord’s Supper: “When you come together, it is not really to eat the Lord’s supper. For when the time comes to eat, each of you goes ahead with your own supper, and one goes hungry and another becomes drunk.” (11:20-21.)

Note also Paul’s instruction about the list of bad people at the end of chapter 5 — those who are sexually immoral, greedy, idolaters, revilers, drunkards or robbers: “do note even eat with such a one.” (5:11.) Assemblies of the early churches were small, often met in homes, and the Lord’s Supper was part of a communal meal. A person around the table behaving in such ways could exert significant influence over the fragile community. The communal meal was to be a time of unity and fellowship, not of sexual license, drunkenness, or nasty arguments (“revilers” is loidoros, someone who is abusive, insulting, denigrating of others’ reputations).

Perhaps it was even at these gatherings that the man boasted — maybe loudly and drunkenly, from one faction’s table — about sleeping with his father’s wife. Imagine that Paul received a report like this: “Every time we meet for the Lord’s supper, Antipas and his friends sit at their own table. They get to drinking, telling racy jokes, singing drinking songs, and inevitably Antipas begins loudly boasting about how he’s sleeping with his father’s hot trophy wife behind his father’s back. We’ve asked him to stop but he just laughs at us and says ‘Well, I’m not perfect, just forgiven.’” That’s a fictional reconstruction, of course, but maybe not too far from what was happening.

What can a text like this mean for a local church or denominational body today? Is “church discipline” a set of rigid rules through which people are shunned or excommunicated? Is it a kind of judicial process, with a body of canon law that determines appropriate penalties? Should we follow Paul’s instructions here, or Jesus’ example of eating with “sinners?” Should we refuse to worship with anyone who is greedy, who idolizes their work, or who says nasty things on social media? We might find no one left in the sanctuary if that were the case. Our primary take-away from this section of 1 Corinthians, perhaps, should be that the community will always need to discern ways to protect its integrity. We will learn elsewhere in 1 Corinthians about doing so in love and with respect for legitimate differences in belief and conduct.

Another important qualifier in this section is Paul’s comment about judging “outsiders” versus those on the “inside.” Paul says the members of the church are not to withdraw from the world or judge the world. (5:10, 14.) These matters of judgment are for the internal health of the church community.

What about Paul’s statement in chapter 4 that we should not pronounce judgment on others within the church (4:1-5)? Again, this could just reflect confusion or inconsistency in Paul’s thought, but it seems unlikely someone as skilled as Paul would make such an obvious mistake in the span of a few paragraphs. In chapter 4, Paul focuses on the final judgment of whether or not someone’s work has built up the church. In chapter 5, Paul focuses on questions of discipline related to specific kinds of conduct. There seem to be two different levels of “judgment” at work here: a final, broad evaluation of work using different ideas or methods that is within the general scope of the community’s purpose; and an immediate, discrete response to a clear, specific threat to the community. The first kind of judgment Paul says we should leave to God. The second kind of judgment Paul says we must employ when necessary to protect the community’s health.

Some Discussion Questions on Chapter 5

  • How would you understand the “natural” and the “supernatural?” How can we modern people in a scientific age relate to the “supernatural” worldview of a text like 1 Corinthians? Are there things about this we can learn from cultures in today’s Global South?
  • What do you think about the comment above that “any community requires boundaries?” Are the concepts of “welcome” and “boundaries” mutually exclusive?
  • Do you have a concept of church discipline? If so, how do you think it should function?

Chapter 6: Boundaries, Lawsuits, Cosmic Judgment, and Sex

In chapter 6, Paul introduces a third kind of judgment, that of the secular law courts. Paul’s consternation that members of the church at Corinth are taking their disputes to the secular law courts connects with his discussion of “insider vs. outsider” judgment in Chapter 5. The church community should manage its own affairs, according to its own values and standards. One mark of maturity within a church community, Paul says, is the ability to resolve disputes internally, without airing those disputes before the world, even if one of the parties does not recover all of the money that might be available in the secular courts. (6:1-8.)

This section presents its own challenges in our context. The clerical sexual abuse scandals in the Roman Catholic Church were abetted by a culture of silence, in which offenders were lightly disciplined internally and governmental authorities were not involved. We are beginning to learn that this kind of problem extended to other church polities as well. Sadly, it is not only a Catholic problem.

If we use this text to justify a church polity’s institutional abuses, obviously, we miss the point. The kinds of lawsuits in the church at Corinth seemed to a claim of financial fraud, and the plaintiff in the case also appears to have been engaged in his or her own fraud (6:7-8.). If you’ve ever been involved in a lawsuit among the owners of a small, family-owned business, you might have a feel for what this kind of dispute is like. That kind of case, among the families in a close-knit church community, is something the community should find a way to mediate before it hits the courts and the newspapers. (Even here, we will find it difficult to draw lines. What about a diamond-studded televangelist who defrauds his followers out of their life savings based on false claims that the money is going to mission work, and who refuses all efforts at mediation?)

Paul also introduces a fourth kind of judgment in Chapter 6, often overlooked in discussions about whether or when Christians should judge each other: an eschatological judgment, but not the kind we might expect. Paul says “the saints” will judge the world (cosmon) and angels. (6:2-3.) Remember that in chapter 4, Paul told the Corinthians they owned “all things,” including the present and the future, and that they were already “kings.” (1 Cor. 3:21-22, 4:8.) And remember that many of the people in the Corinthian congregation were not from the higher classes of society. Paul again dramatically turns the social order on its head, not only the Greco-Roman social order, but also the Jewish expectation of warrior king Messiah in the line of David. This group of common people is so important that the fate of the cosmos and of the angels is held in its hands.

In verses 9-11 Paul recites a list of types of people who will not “inherit the kingdom of God.” These “vice lists” are common in Paul’s letters, as are “virtue lists,” and such lists also were a feature of Greco-Roman Stoic moral literature. Paul says that some of the Corinthian church members used to be people on the vice list, but that they have been “washed,” “sanctified,” and “justified” “in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God.” (6:11).

These terms in verse 11 are theologically rich. The use of the word “washed” in conjunction with the phrase “in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God” suggests a baptismal connection, particularly in light of Paul’s discussion of baptism in Chapter 1. “Sanctified,” as we said in our discussion of Chapter 1 (see 1:2), derives from the word hagios, meaning “holy.” “Justified,” as we saw in our discussion of Chapter 4 (4:4), derives from the word dikaioo, which entails righteousness and justice.

Paul tells the Corinthians they have been washed, sanctified, and justified in the midst of his harsh criticism of their conduct. This suggests that there is an already / not yet quality to these terms. By virtue of their baptism and because of the Spirit of God, the Corinthians are already washed, sanctified, and justified, even though their conduct, at present, is not living up to those terms.

There are major, intractable debates among the different Christian denominations, and even within the different denominations, about the precise nature of baptism, sanctification, and justification. With our focus on this particular text in 1 Corinthians, however, we can at least say this: our baptism is a defining event; the “name” of Jesus Christ is a defining name for us; the event and the name are not static or mechanical but are connected to the Spirit of God; and the result is that we actually become clean, holy, and righteous/just, even as we remain in a struggle with sin.

A few aspects of this vice list deserve some special comment. The NRSV translates one of the words “fornicators” and two other words “male prostitutes” and “sodomites.” Some translations have rendered the last two words “homosexuals” or “men who have sex with men.” These are among the “clobber texts” in our current culture wars within the churches about homosexuality.

The word translated “fornicators” is pornoi, which you will recognize is the source of our word pornography. Pornos in the New Testament is a generic term for sexual immorality. Of course, the Jewish culture that gave birth to the New Testament considered any sexual relations outside of marriage immoral. The word translated “male prostitutes” in the NRSV is malakoi, which was a term used for effeminate men. In its broader cultural usage, it does not really refer to male prostitutes or to any specific sexual conduct. The word translated “sodomites” in the NRSV is arsenokoitai, a word that Paul seems to have invented. We can’t be sure exactly what Paul meant by arsenokoitai, although there is a plausible argument that it refers to elements of the Greek translation of a text in the Old Testament about men lying with men. Although it is mentioned only briefly in the Old Testament, ancient Jewish teaching forbade same-sex conduct.

The traditional view is that Paul likewise condemns all same-sex conduct, at least between men, as a permanent moral norm. This is consistent with some even more difficult sayings of Paul about same-sex conduct in Romans chapter 1. But it’s also true that there was no category of stable, inherent “homosexual” identity in the ancient world, nor was there any social structure for same-sex marriages. The same-sex conduct with which Paul would have been most familiar would have involved prostitution and/or abusive relationships between men and boys — often boys who were slaves or under the man’s tutelage. This has led some scholars and church leaders to conclude, given our contemporary understanding of sexual identity, that a Christian sexual ethic can incorporate same-sex marriages. In North America and Europe, this issue currently is dividing many of the churches. (For one good discussion of the hermeneutical question as a matter of corporate discernment, see Oliver O’Donovan, Church in Crisis: The Gay Controversy and the Anglican Communion (Eugene: Cascade Books 2008)).

We might also ask some broader questions about Christian sexual ethics. We think of marriage ideally as a union between two adults who have fallen in love and who both freely and equally enter into the union. In the ancient Roman world, things were more complicated. There were different marriage and divorce rules and norms practiced by the Roman elite and common people. Marriage among elites often involved property, political status, and family alliances rather than romantic love. Among the elites, celibacy was discouraged and sometimes penalized because marriage was considered a duty to the state (marriage produced children, who were new subjects of the state, and increased taxes). Roman women enjoyed a relatively greater degree of freedom than in other parts of the ancient world, but they were still considered subordinate to men. A Roman married man could indulge in informal polygamy with slaves and prostitutes without adverse legal or social consequences. In the Jewish subculture during Roman times, people likewise married young (usually between puberty and the age of 20) and with help from community match-making.

Even though Paul does not completely reject the Roman-Jewish view of marriage, he does say a number of counter-cultural things about the marriage relationship in 1 Corinthians, particularly in Chapter 7, where he advocates celibacy. In Chapter 11, Paul reiterates traditional Jewish and Roman views about the priority of the man / husband, but there and in other letters he also emphasizes the man’s dependence on the woman. This emphasis also may have been somewhat counter-cultural, or at least drew out themes from Jewish and Roman sources concerning the mutual interdependence of the man and woman / husband and wife that were often ignored in practice.

Perhaps the over-arching point we can take from this vice list is that in matters of sexuality no less than in matters of honesty and commerce, there are forms of behavior that foster the kind of community God desires and forms of behavior that destroy such community. To “inherit the kingdom of God,” now and in the eschatological future, is to be part of God’s peaceable community. It’s not a list of arbitrary rules that we must keep on pain of exclusion, but the relationships truly matter, and sex is a foundational element of deep human relationships.

Paul makes this connection clear at the end of Chapter 6 in his discussion of members of the Corinthian community who were consorting with prostitutes. The “body” metaphor for the church is important to Paul and he will come back to it later in the letter (Chapter 12). If we are united to God by his spirit, we in our bodies are the temple of God (6:17-20). Paul has already employed the “temple” metaphor in Chapter 3, in connection with the community as a whole (3:16-17). The individual body, the individual temple, is interwoven with the corporate body, the corporate temple, the church. This kind of personal sexual sin, then, hurts not only the individual involved, but the corporate body.

Some feminist commentators have observed that Paul pays no attention to the plight of the prostitute — a good point. In the ancient world, like today, women who worked as prostitutes usually had little choice, because they were enslaved or impoverished. We can also suggest that using prostitutes is a moral problem because it so often involves a terrible power dynamic, in which a man exploits a woman. Of course, as in the ancient world, today there are male prostitutes as well as female, and, as in the ancient world, today some people choose to engage in sex work without physical or economic coercion. The broader issue of prostitution / sex work is more complicated than a single moralistic statement can capture.

Nevertheless, with whatever careful qualifications we might make about our cultural differences from Paul’s context, a Christian sexual ethic will emphasize the proper place of sex within marriage. This is not because we’re prudes but because we value the unique commitment of marriage and the gift of sexuality that seals this commitment. When we abuse the gift of our sexuality we move ourselves and our community away from the kingdom of God.

Some Discussion Questions on Chapter 6

  • When, if ever, do you think it is appropriate for Christians to bring other Christians before the secular law courts? Have you ever thought of the secular law courts, and the temporal law, as a locus of “power” that can conflict with the kingdom of God?
  • How do you understand your baptism? How do you think Paul’s concepts of “washed,” “sanctified,” and “justified” relate to each other?
  • What do you think is the significance of Paul’s eschatological comment that we (the church) will judge the cosmos and judge angels?
  • How can we express, and live, a Christian sexual ethic in our culture?
Categories
1 Corinthians Job

Paul’s Use of Job and Psalms in 1 Cor. 3:19-20

In his letters, including in 1 Corinthians, Paul often quotes from or alludes to other sources. This includes the Hebrew Scriptures, apocryphal texts from the Second Temple period, and Greek texts. It’s particularly interesting to consider how Paul uses the Hebrew Scriptures. A good example is 1 Cor. 3:19-20, where Paul quotes from Job 5:13 and Psalm 94:11.

I just finished reading through the Psalms again, and I also just started reading through Job again — both good reading in this time of pandemic — so these references by Paul caught my attention.

In the first few chapters of 1 Corinthians, Paul is responding to divisions in the church at Corinth caused (in Paul’s view, at least) by a faction led by Apollos, a highly educated teacher. The Apollos faction (again, in Paul’s view, at least) thinks it possesses superior knowledge to other groups within the church. Paul emphasizes that the cross of Christ is foolishness to the world and turns claims to superior knowledge or wisdom upside-down. This theme is summarized in 1 Cor. 3:19-20, supported by the quotes from Job 5 and Psalm 94:

For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written,
“He catches the wise in their craftiness,” [Job 5:13]
and again,
“The Lord knows the thoughts of the wise, that they are futile.” [Ps. 94:11]

The quote from Psalm 94:11 tracks the Septuagint version (a Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures) exactly, with the omission of one word (in the Septuagint, Psalm 94 is Psalm 93). The quote from Job 5:13, if drawn from the Septuagint, is a paraphrase. Perhaps Paul quotes here from the Hebrew text, or perhaps from a Greek version that differs from the version of the Septuagint that comes down to us — though there are some significant word differences. Of course, we don’t know if Paul has scrolls of these texts handy while he is composing the letter, or whether he is quoting from memory, which could explain some of the differences.

The quote from Psalm 94 seems more or less in context. It’s a typical imprecatory Psalm that calls for God’s judgment on arrogant, abusive, proud people who oppress the poor:

They pour out arrogant words;
all the evildoers are full of boasting.
They crush your people, Lord;
they oppress your inheritance.
They slay the widow and the foreigner;
they murder the fatherless.
They say, “The Lord does not see;
the God of Jacob takes no notice.”

Psalm 94:4-7

The quote from Job 5, however, is odd, because it comes from the first speech from one of Job’s “friends,” Eliphaz the Temanite. In the book of Job, after terrible calamities befall him, Job hears from three friends, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite, with whom he carries on an argument about the reason for suffering. Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar suggest Job must have done something wrong to deserve his fate, which is not true. After the dialogue with these three concludes, Elihu son of Barachel the Buzite speaks up: “when Elihu saw that there was no answer in the mouths of these three men, he became angry.” (Job. 32:5). After Elihu concludes, “the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind,” and the Lord famously does not offer any answers either. (Job. 38:1). (I hope to write some more about Job, but as a side note, I suspect Job was a kind of drama or play, in which each of these characters speaks from the stage.)

The curious thing about Paul’s quote from Eliphaz is that Eliphaz does not correctly diagnose Job’s condition. Job has not been “crafty” in way that caused God to punish him. To the contrary, Job is being tested by “the accuser” (ha-satan, a being in the Heavenly Court who roams the Earth on God’s behalf) because Job has done everything right.

It seems that Paul is using this quote from Job as a sort of stock saying, and not in connection with its original context. It seems kind of like a print or needlework of Jeremiah 29:11 that you might find in a home or on a graduation card (“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'”) — exegetically completely unsound and out of context, but edifying anyway. (Paul seems fond of stock sayings: another is in 1 Corinthians 4:6 (“Nothing beyond what is written”), which is not from any known scriptural or apocryphal text.)

I don’t want to suggest Paul’s practice gives us license to ignore sound exegesis. But, maybe Paul’s tendency to paraphrase, gloss, and repurpose texts does suggest something about the dynamic, mulitvalent nature of the scriptures.

Categories
1 Corinthians

1 Cor. 3-4

This post continues materials for a Bible study I’m leading on 1 Corinthians.

Constructing the Building and Managing the Household: 3:1 to 4:7

In chapters 3 and 4, Paul moves deeper into a discussion about ecclesiology — that is, about the the nature of the church — in response to the divisions in the church at Corinth. Paul pictures the church first as a garden and then as a building. Leaders such as Paul and Appollos might have different roles — planting, laying a foundation; watering, building a structure on the foundation — but in either case they are working together. (The Greek term here is synergoi, from which our word “synergy” derives.) And, in either case, the true foundation of the church is Jesus Christ, so whatever the worker’s role, it is only to build on what Jesus has already done.

Verses 12-15 seem to provide some more mixed metaphors. At first Paul seems to say that, after a day’s work is completed on a building and everyone goes home for the night, the quality of the work might not immediately be evident, but it will become clear the next morning when it is inspected in broad daylight. But he then talks about the work being tested by fire — perhaps by a fire that breaks as the work is being completed, or perhaps as an intentional test of the final construction as a sort of building inspection. Verses 14 and 15 might refer to the wages the builder receives when the building is finished and a fine that could be levied against a builder if shoddy construction causes damage. The phrase “as through fire” was a common idiom, like “by the skin of your teeth.”

Many commentators over the ages have seen references in this part of the text to the final judgment. The “day” in verse 13 could allude to the “Day of the Lord,” a concept often used in the Hebrew Scriptures for to refer to a time of reckoning when God would judge the kingdoms of the Earth. We should be careful, however, about using this kind of text to support elaborate theories of the final judgment. Paul’s overall point here is not about individual judgment but about the church. This is evident in verse 16: the church, to which Paul is writing, collectively, is God’s temple, a temple not comprised of a literal building, but of a community of people. The issue for Paul in this section is how the church will fare when it is tested.

Verses 21-23 of Chapter 3 offer a kind of lyrical flight encompassing the cosmos that we often see in Paul’s letters: “For all things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world (kosmos) or life or death or the present or the future. All belong to you, and you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God.” Notice that Paul, Apollos and Cephas are subordinated to the Corinthian church, which in turn is subordinated to Christ, who is subordinated to God.

In the beginning of Chapter 4, Paul introduces an important concept for his idea of church leadership: leaders are “servants of Christ” who are “stewards.” The word “steward” here is oikonomous. The oikos was the Greek household, which was the basic unit of society. The concept Paul employs, then, is of a trusted servant who is the manager of a household.

Paul says he is not concerned about human judgment of his stewardship, and that he does not even judge himself. The only judge is God, and God’s judgment reveals the purposes of the heart, which are often concealed. He tells the Corinthians they likewise should not judge each other but rather should recognize God has given them gifts that are meant to build up the church.

These words about judgment, acquittal, and distinctions all come from the Greek word dikaioó. This is another important concept that shows up throughout Paul’s letters. It is the word from which we derive the theological concept of “justification.”

In his commentary on Chapter 3, Charles Campbell says:

Ministry is a bold and risky adventure in which Christians build as faithfully as we can without fully knowing the quality of our work. Most of us wonder from time to time, ‘What if I’m wrong?’ What if I do the wrong thing or speak the wrong word?’ It is an understandable question as one occupies the space between the ages with a ‘weak’ and ‘foolish’ gospel seeking to discern fitting words and deeds. Paul provides no clear assurances. Maybe we are building with silver and gold. Maybe we are building with hay or straw. All Paul offers is the proper foundation of trust in the Spirit. Ministry remains risky. (Campbell, 68.)

Some questions on this section:

  • How does the concept of stewardship inform your understanding of your place in the community of the church? What synergies do you see in your role in the church in relation to others?
  • Really listen to these words: “all things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the cosmos or life or death or the present or the future. All belong to you, and you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God.” How does this make you feel about yourself? What insights does it give you about you role in the church, and in the universe?
  • Do you judge others? Do you judge yourself — either negatively, or by seeking to justify yourself in front of others or God? What does might it mean for you to leave judgment to God?

Spectacle and Power — 4:8-21

Paul tells the Corinthians they have become “kings,” even without the Apostles’ help. Remember that the Corinthian congregation was mixed and would have included slaves and common laborers along with some more wealth members, so in cultural context this is an astonishing statement. Paul then says the apostles have become a “spectacle” and “fools.” The word “spectacle” is theatron. The apostles are like the comic relief in a stage play. Paul then uses some crude terms to describe the apostles, translated “rubbish” and “dregs” in the NRSV, that refer to the scum and crust scraped off of things during a cleaning and thrown out.

But in verses 14-21, Paul’s tone begins to shift. He says the Corinthians might have many “guardians” (paidagogos, teachers) in Christ, but that he, Paul, is their “father” in Christ. Paul says he plans to visit soon and find out “not the talk of these arrogant people but their power.” The kingdom of God, Paul says, “depends not on talk (logo, word) but on power (dynamei).” Verse 21 seems to suggest Paul might come to them with a stick to hit them with, but the term refers to the rod or staff carried by a ruler. Paul seems to suggest, then, that he could assert his authority as an apostle after all.

Some questions on this section:

  • As a member of the Church, do you feel like a king? How might it change your perspective to realize that, as a steward of God’s household, you are like a king?
  • There is a tradition in some mystical Christian circles of the “holy fool” — a person who does things that seem to make no sense in the oikonomia (economy) of the world. Have you ever felt like a “holy fool,” a player in a theater of the absurd? When is this concept helpful? When is it not helpful?
  • Consider these words: “the kingdom of God depends not on talk but on power.” How do these words sit with you? As you reflect, remember a key theme of chapters 1 and 2: “God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.” (1:25).
Categories
1 Corinthians

1 Cor. 2:6-16: The Powers of the Age and the Power of the Spirit

This short section is incredibly theologically rich. Paul refers to a theme that appears often in his letters: the contrast between God’s kingdom and the “rulers of this age.”

Paul and Apocalyptic

In his commentary on 1 Corinthians, Charles Campbell notes that, in chapter 1, Paul developed “a dynamic apocalyptic theology of interruption.” In this “dynamic apocalyptic” theology, God breaks into the present with a new and very different future, but that future is not yet fully realized. As a result, Paul pictures a “liminal, threshold space between the ages, in which the church is being saved as it lives in the tension between the old age and the new.” (Campbell, 43 (emphasis in original)). This liminal space is explored further in 1 Corinthians chapter 2 (remember that the entire text is a letter — there were no “chapters” or “verses” in the original text).

The word “apocalyptic” here might call to mind a grim end-of-the-world scenario, particularly during these times of pandemic. It’s true that the genre of “apocalyptic” literature in the Bible often supplies fearsome imagery of judgment. There was in fact a significant amount of “apocalyptic” literature produced in Jewish communities in what historians call the “Second Temple” period, between about 516 BCE to 70 CE. A little bit of history helps put this literature in perspective.

The first Temple was the Temple of Solomon that existed in Jerusalem until it was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE. Construction of the Second Temple was begun by groups of Jewish exiles who were allowed to return to Jerusalem from captivity in Babylon under a decree by the Persian King Cyrus issued in 538 BCE. The Second Temple was modest at first, but it was made into a magnificent structure by Herod the Great, ruler of Judea at the time of Jesus’ birth.

Herod was declared “King of the Jews” by the Romans, who controlled Judea. Jewish purists believed Herod and his sons had corrupted true Jewish worship and the true Jewish state. This tension is reflected among the various parties referred to in the Gospels, including the Pharisees, and in the ironic title “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews” placed over Jesus on the cross. Herod’s sons were eventually replaced by Roman governors and the Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans in CE 70 under the Emperor Titus after a failed Jewish revolt. There was never a “Third Temple.” The Jews were dispersed (the “diaspora”) and the practices of Rabbinic Judaism centered on the local synagogue, without any King, Priests or central Temple, continued to develop, including into forms we are familiar with today.

The Second Temple period apocalyptic literature, then, can be viewed as a way in which different Jewish communities expressed the hope that the oppression of Greek and Roman rule, and the perceived compromise with wealth and power made by some other Jews, would come to an end through God’s judgment, and that a new and more just Jewish kingdom would be established under God’s rule. Some this apocalyptic literature, such as the book of Daniel, is found in the canon of the Hebrew scriptures. Some of it, such as 2 Ezra, is in the “apocrypha” — writings that only some Christians think are part of the canon of scripture or that some Christians think are valuable but not part of the canon. Many of the texts in the famous “Dead Sea Scrolls” are apocalyptic and other texts relating to a sectarian community that existed during Jesus’ time, some of which are part of the canon of the Hebrew scriptures or the apocrypha and some of which are not.

Paul began his career as a Pharisee, before his calling as an Apostle of Jesus, so he certainly was familiar with some of this literature and with the spirituality it reflects. Paul himself seems to have anticipated a sudden end to the present order in an act of Divine judgment. So, we shouldn’t be surprised to find echoes of this kind of thinking in Paul’s letters. Of course, we also find Christian versions of apocalyptic in the New Testament outside the Pauline corpus, most notably in the Apocalypse of John (Revelation), and there is plenty of Christian apocalyptic literature dating from the first few centuries after Christ that was not incorporated into the Biblical canon.

Unmasking the Powers

Although some apocalyptic imagery in the texts we have been discussing seems strange and violent to us today, in a broader sense, “apocalyptic” is a form of unmasking the pretenses of the present in the hope of a better, truer future. In 1 Corinthians, this way of thinking appears in Paul’s stark contrast between “God’s wisdom” and “the wisdom of this age or of the rulers of this age, who are doomed to perish.” (1 Cor. 2:6 (NRSV)).

The word “age” in Greek here is aiōnos, and the word “rulers” is archontōn. You might notice some English words that have been derived from these Greek words (by way of Latin): “eon” from aion and the ending “-archy” from arkhḗ (as in “patriarchy,” “oligarchy,” or “anarchy”). “Eon” in English means an undetermined, very long period of time. In the New Testament, aion is often used to contrast the present age and the future age, so it is a term that relates to eschatology, that is, to the things to come. An archon in the New Testament can be an individual leader, such as the head of a synagogue, but it also often refers to spiritual rulers or powers. You could translate the phrase “archonton tou ainos” as “powers of this age.”

Paul’s picture of “rulers” or “powers” that are both earthly and super-earthly was consistent with how the Romans imagined themselves. This was a time when the was no “secular” space — everything tangible and visible was impregnated with the spiritual realm. The Romans believed that their society, including its politics, arts, commerce, and social order, depended upon relationships with their gods, including, eventually, a deified Roman Emperor. A claim that the Roman gods were false powers was equivalent to a claim that Rome’s authority itself was illegitimate. The Jews dispersed through the Roman empire made such a claim when they recited the shema — “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One” — and they were warily tolerated in Roman cities, though as a people whose center of authority, the Jerusalem Temple, had been razed by Titus. Paul makes the same kind of claim when he says the cross of Christ belies the “powers of this age.” Paul does not rally around the hope of a rebuilt Third Temple against Rome, but he rallies around Christ raised up on a Roman cross.

Some discussion questions on this section

  • What are some “powers” — “–archies” — you see at work in our world today? How would the cross of Christ defuse those powers?
  • Do you think the “powers” at work today are entirely “material,” or do you think there are also “spiritual” powers? How can we in a modern, scientific, secular age relate to Paul’s ancient understanding of a world in which material and spiritual realities coincide?
  • Paul declares that the “rulers of this age” are “doomed to perish” against the backdrop of a historical narrative that shaped his life — the history of Israel discussed above. What historical narratives shape us? In what ways does the cross of Christ call those narratives into question?

The Spirit, the Depths, and the Mysteries

In the remainder of chapter 2, Paul dives deeper into the ideas about knowledge and wisdom mentioned in chapter 1. In verse 7, Paul says, “we speak God’s wisdom, secret and hidden, which God decreed before the ages for our glory” (NRSV) — or in the NIV translation, “we declare God’s wisdom, a mystery that has been hidden . . . .” The NIV translation captures the Greek word mystēriō, a term often used by Paul to mean something God had not previously disclosed.

Paul offers here a kind of theology of history. God has a plan for the aionon — the ages — that differs from the plans of the “rulers of this age” and that is right, good, and glorious. God has not previously disclosed all of this plan but now it is being made known (or at least, an important part of it is being made known) in the cross of Christ. This plan is not merely otherworldly — a way for some people to “go to heaven.” It is a plan to bring history to a resolution.

The ekklesia to whom Paul is writing — the community centered on the cross of Christ — can perceive how God’s plan is working through “the Spirit that is from God” (NRSV), in contrast to “the spirit of the world.” The word Paul uses for “world” here is “kosmou” (the Greek kosmos, from which we derive our words cosmos and cosmic). Again, what Paul is describing is a temporal, material reality, but also a cosmic reality.

Notice that in the first section of chapter 2, Paul says he came to the Corinthians in weakness, without fine speech, but he quickly moves into this section addressed to “the mature” — in Greek, teleiois, from telos. This word reflects an important concept in ancient Greek philosophy (from which we get our words “teleology” and “teleological”). It meant the end to be achieved, the thing toward which a good person, or a good society, should be pointed. So the teleiois here are those who have achieved that end, who have become ethically perfected in virtue. Paul will go on to criticize the Corinthians, so he doesn’t, in fact, think they have yet “arrived.” Paul seems to be making a rhetorical move towards the disciples of Apollos, who think they are superior to others in the congregation and superior to Paul.

What can be discerned through the Spirit of God seems like foolishness to “the unspiritual” (NRSV) — to the “natural person.” Looking at the Greek words here is interesting again: the “unspiritual” or “natural person” is psychicos anthroposPsychicos is from psyche — our words psyche, psychological, relating to the mind. For the ancient Greeks, there was no sharp distinction between the “mind” and the “soul,” and the word psyche referred to the “soul,” which included the capacities we today attribute to the “mind” (or perhaps for modern neuroscience, to the “brain”). Paul often contrasts the “spiritual” and the “natural,” what can be known through the Spirit and what can be known by the human mind or “soul” without the Spirit.

Also notice that in this section, Paul has referred to Jesus Christ, God, and the Spirit. Neither in 1 Corinthians nor in any of his other letters does Paul have a worked-out theology of the Trinity. There is no worked-out theology of the Trinity anywhere in the New Testament. Christian theology about the Trinity developed, often contentiously, in the early centuries of Church history, and what is considered “orthodox” thought about the Trinity only began to become codified in 325 CE at the Council of Nicea. I put “orthodox” in scare quotes here, because there is an enormous amount of historical baggage behind what did and didn’t become recognized by the Council, and there never really was, and still isn’t, full agreement about exactly what the doctrine of the Trinity means or how to express it.

But — we do see here the lineaments of Christian thought about the Trinity — a concept that is indeed central to all of Christian thought. Paul’s thought — and any deeply Christian thought — is entirely consistent with the Jewish shema — our God is “one.” And yet, Christian though must account for the person of Jesus Christ and the person of the Spirit as well as the person of God whom Jesus called “Father.” There is already a Trinitarian shape to Paul’s expression in 1 Corinthians.

Some discussion questions on this section

  • Do you experience understanding, illumination, or knowledge from the Holy Spirit? How? How does the Spirit shape your psyche?
  • How do you think about a “theology of history?” How do you see God at work in the broad sweep of events in the world? How do you see God at work right, now, in the pandemic?
  • What liminal spaces are you inhabiting today? What hope do you have for the future? Is there a word of hope we might hear from the Spirit right now?
  • Does the concept of the Trinity make any difference to how you see the world?
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Barth Hauerwas and Willimon

Reading Barth: Knowledge and Creation

During this time of lockdown and social distancing, I’m grateful for the moments of enrichment and connection people are making available through technology. One of them is a study of Karl Barth’s Dogmatics in Outline led online by Will Willimon and Stanley Hauerwas. I love Willimon and Hauerwas, and I really love Barth. “Love” them, though, doesn’t mean agree without nuance or qualification. The subject of this week’s discussion was chapters 5-9 of the Dogmatics in Outline, which treats the doctrines of God and creation. It happens that this discussion coincides with the section of 1 Corinthians I’m covering in a local Bible study tonight regarding Paul’s epistemology of the cross.

In 1 Corinthians 1:17-25, Paul says God, paradoxically, is known in the weakness and foolishness of the cross of Christ. Paul says the cross exposes the pretense of claims to superior wisdom: “Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” (1:20). In the context of 1 Corinthians, Paul is addressing the “Apollos” faction in the Corinthian church (see my Introduction). But he’s also saying some rich and important things about human knowledge generally.

In my notes on 1 Cor. 1:1 to 2:5 I mentioned how Luther’s “theology of the cross” emphasized this Pauline theme. Barth’s theology meditates extensively on this theme as well. Indeed, in many ways, Barth’s theology is an extension of Luther’s theology of the cross, as both Luther and Barth learned it from Paul.

Barth famously said “no” to any kind of “natural theology” through which we could gain knowledge of God outside God’s revelation of Himself in Christ. In Chapter 5 of Dogmatics in Outline, for example, Barth says

And it is part of this, that God is not only unprovable and unserachable, but also inconceivable. No attempt is made in the Bible to define God — that is, to grasp God in our concepts. In the Bible God’s name is named, not as philosophers do it, as the name of a timeless Being, surpassing the world, alien and supreme, but as the name of the living, active, working Subject who makes Himself known. The Bible tells the story of God; it narrates His deeds and the history of this God in the highest, as it takes place on earth in the human sphere. . . . And so the Bible is not a philosophical book, but a history book, the book of God’s mighty acts, in which God becomes knowable by us.

Dogmatics in Outline, 38.

This kind of emphasis is a balm for many people, like me, who find analytic “apologetic” arguments that try to prove God’s existence from neutral first principles, or that try to rationalize big questions like the problem of evil or the outlines of the eschatological future, exhausting, counterproductive, and really soul-sucking. Who cares about proofs for “theism?” I’m not a “theist,” I’m a Christian.

But . . . this kind of emphasis also opens Barth (and Hauerwas) up to the charge of fideism. It can’t be the case that the “ordinary” operation of human reason is completely incapable of knowledge, or else Barth couldn’t make the arguments he’s making, using human words and human appeals to argument. This points to a well-known and much-discussed debate regarding Barth’s use of the concept of “analogy.”

Barth’s claim that God is inconceivable is not at all novel in Christian (or Jewish, or Islamic) theology. It’s at the heart of the scriptures that God infinitely exceeds human creaturely capacities — see, for example, the locus classicus of the scriptural basis in Isaiah 55:8-9:

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
    nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so are my ways higher than your ways
    and my thoughts than your thoughts.

Is. 55:8-9 (NRSV)

Every great Christian thinker in the tradition works from this premise — even Anselm and Aquinas, the most famous Medieval expositors of “proofs” of God’s existence, though they are often misread otherwise.

So how then can we say anything about God? Several related concepts developed from the Patristic through the Medieval eras: participation, mediation, and analogy.

“Participation” is a concept drawn from Platonic thought. It says that, although no particular thing in this world is the perfect form of the thing, still the particular relates to the universal form by participating in the universal form, which inheres in the particular. If I draw a triangle, because of the inherent limits in the medium of my drawing, the drawing will never be perfect. But the drawing does call to mind the perfect form, the absolutely perfect triangle, and therefore the particular imperfect drawing does give me some knowledge about the abstract perfect form.

“Mediation” is a related concept also drawn from Platonism. Plato used the term metaxis to refer to the way in which human beings are “suspended between” the world of the particular and the ideal — the physical world and the immaterial world of thought. Although we as humans do not exist in the perfect world of the forms, our reasoning intellect is capable of abstract thought, which mediates the perfect realm to us, even if we cannot access it perfectly and directly.

Finally, “analogy” is another related concept, also drawn from Plato as well as Aristotle. Analogy means that, although my human thoughts are not themselves the perfect, ideal form of things, because the human intellect does mediate the ideal, and human concepts participate in the ideal, human beings can talk meaningfully about what the ideal is like. This like-ness is a way of reasoning by analogy. The Triangle, then, is like the triangle I draw, only infinitely better.

Barth vigorously rejected a theological concept in Roman Catholic theology called the analogia entis, or the “analogy of being.” This was a way of reasoning from what we can know directly, the “being” of the physical universe, to knowledge about the being of God. In other words, the creation gives us meaningful analogical knowledge of what God is like — and this includes the created human capacity to reason. Instead of the analogia entis, Barth proposed an analogia fidei — an analogy of faith — we know what God is like not from abstract reflection on being, but from the specific story of faith narrated in scripture and disclosed in Christ.

This can be positioned as a kind of Protestant vs. Catholic polemic, and in some ways that’s correct, but the reality is more subtle. In Reformed theology, Barth engaged in a vigorous debate with Emil Brunner about the possibility of natural theology, and the Catholic theologian Hans Urs von Bathalsar, a friend of Barth’s, thought in the end Barth’s ideas were actually consistent with Catholic thought. There’s been some good ecumenical work on these questions in recent years. One excellent guide to the conversation is Steve Long’s book Saving Karl Barth: Hans urs Von Balthasar’s Preoccupation (Minneapolis: Fortress Press 2014).

In my view, there’s no reason to “choose” between the analogia entis and the analogia fidei. It’s more important to remember first that both agree on the notion of “analogy.” Neither the analogia entis nor, of course, the analogia fidei propose that humans can know God directly at all, or that we can know anything about God by our own powers of human reasoning. What we can know about God is always known by analogy, and God always infinitely exceeds our analogical knowledge. And we we can know about God by analogy is only possible because of the mediation of grace — God’s gracious acts of creation and redemption, which allow us to participate in God’s own being.

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1 Corinthians

1 Cor. 1:1 to 2:5: The Call and the Appeal

These are notes for a study on 1 Corinthians.

Greeting and Recognition: 1:1-9

In this opening section of the letter, Paul greets and recognizes the Corinthian church. Paul names Sosthenes as a co-author of the letter. Sosthenes could be the person referred to in Acts 18:12-17, which recounts events that occurred when Paul was first in Corinth:

When Gallio was proconsul of Achaia, the Jews with one accord rose up against Paul and brought him to the judgment seat [in Corinth], saying, “This fellow persuades men to worship God contrary to the law.” And when Paul was about to open his mouth, Gallio said to the Jews, “If it were a matter of wrongdoing or wicked crimes, O Jews, there would be reason why I should bear with you. But if it is a question of words and names and your own law, look to it yourselves; for I do not want to be a judge of such matters.” And he drove them from the judgment seat. Then all the Greeks took Sosthenes, the ruler of the synagogue [in Corinth], and beat him before the judgment seat. But Gallio took no notice of these things.

It appears from Acts 18 that some members of the synagogue in Corinth became irate because of Paul’s teaching about Jesus and then resorted to violence against a synagogue leader they considered too tolerant when they could not get the civil authority to intervene. If this is the case, Sosthenes may have accompanied Paul after he left Corinth, or Paul could have been in contact with Sosthenes in Corinth about the contents of the letter before it was delivered. Other scholars think this is not the same Sosthenes who was the ruler of the Corinthian synagogue mentioned in Acts 19.

Paul’s greeting in verses 1-3 is theologically rich. In verse 1, Paul says he is “called to be an apostle of of Christ Jesus by the will of God.” An “apostle” is a messenger, a person sent on a mission. Paul’s status as a messenger of “Christ Jesus,” he claims, comes from being “called . . . by the will of God.” These are extraordinary claims!

In verse 2, Paul identifies his audience as “the church of God that is in Corinth.” We hear the word “church” and we think of a denomination and a building, but the word ekklésia has a richer meaning not necessarily tied to one building or place. Paul then offers some attributes of the ekklésia: its members are “sanctified in Christ Jesus” and “called to be saints.” “Sanctified” and “saints” are part of the same group of words meaning “holy” or “sacred” (hagios). Paul further extends the greeting of this letter beyond the ekklésia at Corinth: “together with all those who in every place call on the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, both their Lord and ours.” Paul thereby unites the ekklésia at Corinth with a broader concept of an ekklésia that goes beyond any one place.

In verse 4-9, Paul gives thanks for the Corinthians and notes that they have been “enriched [in Christ], in speech and knowledge of every kind” and “not lacking in any spiritual gift.” But as we’ll see in a moment, Paul will soon criticize the Corinthians for abusing their speech, knowledge, and gifts. This part of the introduction might serve at least two purposes: it may “butter up” the Corinthians a bit for the criticism that will follow; but it also may suggest that what the Corinthians need to heal their divisions is already present within them (see verse 8: “He will also strengthen you to the end. . . .”).

Some discussion questions on this section:

  • What strikes you about Paul’s calling and title? Are there still “apostles” today?
  • What do you seen in Paul’s “ecclesiology” — his vision of the church? How are we still “the church” today? What does it mean for us to be “the church?”
  • What do you think is the purpose of Paul’s positive words to the Corinthians in verses 4-9? Could you hear Paul saying something similar to us today?

The Appeal: 1:10-16

Starting in verse 10 Paul turns to his appeal for unity. Paul has heard “from Chloe’s people” — probably servants (slaves) of a wealthy woman who was one of the leaders in the Corinthian church that had been dispatched to visit Paul in Ephesus — about divisions and quarrels in Corinth. In the Introduction to our study we noted the conflicts Paul was facing with Peter (Cephas) and Apollos. Paul says he does not want to be the leader of a faction, which is backed up by the fact the he did not personally baptize any of the Colossian church members except Crispus and Gaius — but then he also recalls he baptized the household of Stephanas and maybe some others. Some commentators suggest that Paul is being intentionally dismissive here — “who cares who baptized, that’s not what care about, it’s not about me.”

Epistemology and Community of the Cross: 1:17 to 2:5

In 1:17-25, in the context of disputing claims of the various Corinthian factions to superior knowledge, Paul offers an extraordinary epistemology — an understanding of “knowledge” — centered in Christ. He couples this epistemology with a vision of community rooted not in power but in weakness.

Verse 18 says “the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.” (NRSV). As the NRSV correctly translates, the words “perishing” and “saved” here are in the “middle” or passive voice. The action is occurring to the subject now, not something that happened in the past, nor something that will happen only in the future.

Where the NRSV and NIV use the word “message” here, the Greek word is logos. For those of you who were part of our Gospel of John Bible study, this word should resonate! Paul is not directly paraphrasing John 1 here, but it’s fair to see a common theological theme present in Pauline and Johanine literature, even if there was no actual cross-fertilization within these texts. The logos, the “word” that causes everything to be, the logic of all of creation, is Christ.

Paul says “it is written” that God “will destroy the wisdom of the wise” and thwart “the discernment of the discerning.” (1:19). This is a reference to the Greek version of Isaiah 29:14. This text in Isaiah speaks of God renewing Israel by raising the humble and destroying the proud:

Shall not Lebanon in a very little while
    become a fruitful field,
    and the fruitful field be regarded as a forest?
On that day the deaf shall hear
    the words of a scroll,
and out of their gloom and darkness
    the eyes of the blind shall see.
The meek shall obtain fresh joy in the Lord,
    and the neediest people shall exult in the Holy One of Israel.
For the tyrant shall be no more,
    and the scoffer shall cease to be;
    all those alert to do evil shall be cut off—
those who cause a person to lose a lawsuit,
    who set a trap for the arbiter in the gate,
    and without grounds deny justice to the one in the right

Isaiah 29:17-21 (NRSV)

Paul says that to the supposedly wise, the knowledge of Christ is “foolishness.” To the supposedly strong, the knowledge of Christ is “weakness.” In a great rhetorical flourish, Paul asks “Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” (1:20).

In 1:26-31, Paul ties this epistemology to the social status of many of the Corinthian church members, and in 2:1-5, he ties this epistemology to his own weakness and fear as an apostle.

Passages such as this were important to the Protestant Reformer Martin Luther. Luther often spoke about a “theology of the cross” in contrast to a “theology of glory.” The “theology of glory,” for Luther, was about a person’s own power and good works, while a “theology of the cross” was a theology of a person’s weakness and need. Luther also emphasized how God is “hidden” in weakness, not least in the weakness of the crucifixion. Of course, Luther was not the first to notice these themes — they are present in many great earlier Christian thinkers and mystics.

There is an important stream of contemporary theology that takes up Luther’s idea of the “theology of the cross” and the “hiddenness” of God to ponder one of the central mysteries of our faith: the problem of evil. Why does a good God, creator of everything, allow evil? A theology of the cross doesn’t answer this question — in fact, a theology of the cross would say that any merely philosophical answer to this question is bound to be foolish. But a theology of the cross does suggest that the cross of Christ is somehow at the very heart of creation. This means creation’s suffering is known intimately to God and participates in the power of God’s salvation. Creation’s suffering, our suffering, is not meaningless, and is not the last word.

Some discussion questions on these sections:

  • How would you define “knowledge?” Does Paul’s epistemology in this section challenge your definition?
  • What does it mean that we are in the process of being saved — or, alternatively, that there are people who are in the process of perishing? What does it mean to live as a person, or a community, that is arriving but has not yet arrived?
  • Does Luther’s idea of a “theology of the cross” in contrast to a “theology of glory” resonate with you? How can a “theology of the cross” help us in our present suffering through this pandemic?
Categories
1 Corinthians

1 Corinthians Study: Introduction

I’m leading a Bible study on 1 Corinthians starting this week. One thing I love about leading Bible studies is digging into what I need to lead and teach. Here’s my introduction to the study.

Reading Paul Today

In this study we encounter the Apostle Paul: difficult and dazzling, pastor and preacher, theologian and teacher. Our text is a letter (“epistle”) Paul wrote to the Christian church in Corinth around 53-54 C.E. Like all of Paul’s letters, 1 Corinthians is “episodic” — that is, it addresses some specific episode, a specific time and place and specific questions and problems, facing the people to whom Paul wrote. We are literally “reading someone else’s mail” when we read any of Paul’s letters. But this letter, of course, is included in the canon of the Christian scriptures, so we also expect that, in some way, this letter still speaks to us, the Church gathered in Ridgewood, New Jersey, today.

Our study of this letter together therefore involves at least two things: first, trying to understand what Paul was communicating to those first century Christians in Corinth; and, second, trying to hear what the Holy Spirit is saying to us in and through this letter as twenty-first century Christians in Ridgewood. Those are not necessarily the same things — after all, we don’t live in first century Corinth — but as we listen, study, and contemplate the text prayerfully and reflectively we expect themes and patterns to emerge that will guide our faith and lives in our time and place.

Ancient Corinth

Corinth is located in Greece, on the Gulf of Corinth, which separates the Peloponnese peninsula from mainland Greece:

Google Maps
Google Maps

Ancient Corinth was a very large and important city in ancient Greece. It was destroyed by the Romans in 146 BC, but was restored and rebuilt in 44 BC, after which it was made the Roman provincial capital of Greece. By Paul’s time, Corinth was a bustling port city with two large harbors, an amphitheater, and numerous temples. It was a center of trade, power, and politics, and an important location for the imperial cult — the political-religious worship of the Roman Emperor.

You can get a bit of a feel for what it must have been like to walk down one of the city streets in this photo:

By Michael F. Mehnert – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0

Imagine bustling shops and stalls, smells of animals and cooking food, people talking and going about their business, political and military people hurrying to their meetings, pilgrims coming to the large Temple of Asclepius for healing, slaves buying things to supply the villas of their rich masters, sailors coming in from the ports bringing goods from around the empire, some of them also probably them looking for a brothel or a place to gamble, and on the Sabbath, Jews walking to the synagogue.

In the First Century CE — that is, within the decades after the death and resurrection of Christ — the church in Corinth was one of the early Christian communities that developed in cities in the Roman world, in what is today Greece, Italy, Turkey, and the Middle East. You’ll recognize some of the names of these cities from Paul’s letters — Rome, Corinth, Thessalonica, Ephesus, Philippi. These churches reflect Paul’s missionary activity, described both in his letters and in the book of Acts. Others you’ll recognize from the text of the book of Revelation — including Ephesus as well, but also Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicia. These may represent another stream of Christian communities originally associated with the Apostle John.

From the Baker Atlas of Christian History
From the Baker Atlas of Christian History

Within the New Testament corpus, you can see a strand of texts with a “Pauline” theology — Paul’s letters and other texts attributed to Paul — and another strand with a “Johanine” theology — the Gospel of John, the epistles attributed to John, and Revelation. There are also other texts with perhaps a different kind of “Jewish” wisdom emphasis — the epistle to the Hebrews, the author of which is uncertain, and James, attributed to the James the brother of Jesus, along with the letters attributed to Peter, which are strongly apocalyptic. (I put “Jewish” in scare quotes here because modern scholarship emphasizes the Jewishness of Paul’s letters as well.) Of course, the map also includes the Church at Jerusalem, a center of where the Jesus movement first began, as narrated in the Gospels and in Acts.

Paul and the Corinthians

Paul was an educated and zealous Jewish person, a Pharisee, who persecuted the early church. His life changed when he dramatically encountered Christ on the road to Damascus, where he had intended to arrest Christians (people “of the Way” in the language of Acts) present in the synagogue. (See Acts 9.) Contemporary scholars debate whether to call this event a “conversion” or a “calling” or “commissioning” of Paul. Paul did not renounce Judaism, but understood the revelation of Christ as belonging to the Jews first, so Paul was not really converted “away” from Judaism (see Romans 1:16). Yet, Paul did consider himself an emissary, and Apostle, of God’s mission of reconciliation in Christ to the Gentiles — “to the Jew first, and also to the Greek” (Rom. 1:16).

Paul’s missionary activities eventually took him to Corinth. In his excellent survey The Writings of the New Testament, Luke Timothy Johnson explains that

Paul established the first Christian community in Corinth (1 Cor. 4:15). . . . Paul came to Corinth from Athens and met Aquila and Priscilla (see 1 Cor. 16:19), who had recently been expelled from Rome with other Jews by [the Emperor] Claudius (Acts 18:2). Paul joined them [in their trade of] tentmaking, and began preaching in the synagogue. Rejected there (18:6) and rejoined by [delegates he had previously sent to Corinth] (1 Thes. 3:6), Paul moved next door to the house of Titus Justus (Acts 18:7). He converted Crispus, the ruler of the synagogue (Acts 18:8; 1 Cor. 1:14), and stayed in Corinth some eighteen months (18:11). During that time, he was brought before the proconsul Gallio (Acts 18:12). When Gallio dismissed the case, a Jewish crowd beat Sosthenes, whom Acts refers to as a ‘ruler of the synagoge’ (18:17) and who appears as Paul’s ‘brother’ and co-writer in 1 Cor. 1:1.

Johnson, 262.

If this run-up isn’t dramatic enough, Johnson further explains the tension that will develop when Paul leaves Corinth to continue on his journeys:

When Paul left Corinth to return to Antioch, he took Aquila and Priscilla with him as far as Ephesus (Acts 18:18-21). In his absence, Priscilla and Aquila encounter the charismatic Apollos, instruct him, and support his journey to the province of Achaia (18:24-28).

Johnson, 262

Acts 18 describes Apollos as follows:

He was a learned man, with a thorough knowledge of the Scriptures. He had been instructed in the way of the Lord, and he spoke with great fervor and taught about Jesus accurately, though he knew only the baptism of John. He began to speak boldly in the synagogue. When Priscilla and Aquila heard him, they invited him to their home and explained to him the way of God more adequately. .

Acts 18:24-26

As we’ll see, Apollos’ influence in Corinth became troublesome. The Corinthian Christians were from mixed backgrounds — Jewish and Greek (pagan), lower class and wealthy. Some of the more refined members of the community apparently gravitated to Apollos’ intelligence and rhetorical skill. Others defined themselves against the “Apollos” faction by identifying with Paul or Peter. Further, some members of the community felt empowered by the freedom and charismatic gifts they were experiencing as Christians, and that empowerment slipped into spiritual elitism. On top of all that, tensions were simmering between community members from Jewish and Greek backgrounds over questions about how to live a holy life in a pagan metropolis. As Johnson puts it, “[t]he Corinthians’ faults came from over-enthusiasm, not tepidity.” (Johnson, 263.)

1 Corinthians was not Paul’s only correspondence with this community. Paul’s letter that we call 1 Corinthians responds to a letter he received from the Corinthian Christian community about how to respond to the problems they were experiencing. (See 1 Cor. 7:1.) There were at least five letters between Paul and the Corinthians, and as Johnson notes, “probably more,” including the other letter in the Biblical canon, 2 Corinthians, which might be a collection of several edited letters, as well as letters that have been lost. (Johnson, 264.) Therefore, in 1 Corinthians, we have one piece of a broader pastoral and theological reflection and instruction from Paul to this disputatious early Christian community that he founded and loved.

The Corinthian Correspondence in Context

It’s also helpful to note that 1 and 2 Corinthians also relate to Paul’s epistle to the Romans. Romans appears first in the order of texts collected in the New Testament, but that doesn’t mean Romans was written before the Corinthian correspondence. A common theme in the Romans and 1 Corinthians is a collection these and other churches are taking that Paul plans to deliver for the poor in the church in Jerusalem. (1 Cor. 16; Romans 15:25-28). In 1 Corinthians 16:1-4 Paul instructs the Corinthians to take up the collection, and in Romans 15:25-28 he says he is on his way to Jerusalem to deliver a collection, so the Corinthian correspondence seems to precede Romans.

Pauline scholar Douglas Campbell, in his interesting book Framing Paul: an Epistolary Biography (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans 2014), argues based on the data in Paul’s letters alone that Paul likely wrote

  • 1 and 2 Thessalonians in 40-42 CE — about 8 years after his initial conversion / calling / commissioning — followed by a ten-year period of travel and mission work, from which we have no surviving correspondence (which Campbell calls the “years of shadow”);
  • Ephesians, Colossians and Philemon while imprisoned in the mid-50’s CE;
  • 1 Corinthians in the Spring and 2 Corinthians in the summer of 51 CE, while Paul was visiting Ephesus;
  • Galatians in the fall-winter of 51-52 CE and Philippians while imprisoned during that end of that period; and
  • Romans in the Spring of CE 52 after being released from prison, after which Paul left to deliver the collection to Jerusalem.

Much of this timeline, including whether Paul himself actually wrote Ephesians or Colossians, is debatable (there is no serious debate, however, that Paul wrote 1 and 2 Corinthians). For our study, a very important, and contested, position Campbell takes is that 1 Corinthians is the “letter of tears” referred to in 2 Corinthians 2:4: “I wrote you out of great distress and anguish of heart and with many tears, not to grieve you but to let you know the depth of my love for you.” This could frame 1 Corinthians as a harsher correspondence that Paul softens in some respects in 2 Corinthians after hearing that the first letter has caused great upset. But scholars disagree about this and propose various other chronologies and ideas about what the relationships between 1 and 2 Corinthians.

Also, unlike the narrative from Luke Timothy Johnson’s introductory survey, Campbell’s more detailed reconstruction does not integrate any information from Acts. Campbell says he is working on another book that will consider the timelines in Acts, but he notes that it is difficult for a number of reasons to know whether Acts always presents information that can be taken at face value chronologically. The most interesting question, for our discussion, is the often fraught relationship Paul had with the Church leaders in Jerusalem, including Peter. Acts at times seems to portray Paul in a more subordinate role to Peter, while Paul at times seems to offer a different picture. In Galatians 2, Paul vividly describes his perspective on the a conflict with Peter about the place of Gentiles in the church, which came to a head when the two men met in Antioch:

When Cephas came to Antioch, I opposed him to his face, because he stood condemned. For before certain men came from James, he used to eat with the Gentiles. But when they arrived, he began to draw back and separate himself from the Gentiles because he was afraid of those who belonged to the circumcision group.The other Jews joined him in his hypocrisy, so that by their hypocrisy even Barnabas was led astray

Acts 2:11-13

This could add a little more flavor to the collection Paul wants to deliver to Jerusalem: it could be a symbol of goodwill and unity between these “Pauline” congregations and the Jerusalem church, and also a way for Paul to subtly reinforce his authority as an Apostle against various kinds of opposition he has faced. Paul may have been facing a personal crisis around 51-52 CE, when it seemed that conflict with Peter / Jerusalem over the role of Gentiles in the church (see Gal. 2:11-21) and opposition within his own church plants might cause his entire missionary project to crumble. 1 Corinthians is one of several letters from Paul that survive from this time of crisis in his life and ministry.

Categories
Epistemology Psalms

Psalms and Secondary Causes

Lately I’ve been reading through the Psalms. I’ve read the Psalms many times and find them deeply comforting but also challenging. One thing I’ve noticed on this reading is how nationalistic — I’d dare say jingoistic — many of the Psalms sound, while at the same time coming across as whiny and self-justifying. Some of them must have been, originally, quite a bit of propaganda. But this post is about theology and philosophy, and how the Psalms help us understand primary and secondary causes, so I’ll leave this part of the discussion for another day.

Discussions about theology and science often go awry when people assume that God must “intervene” in nature in order to act. The Psalms regularly attribute natural events to Divine action. A good case study is Psalm 135:

For I know that the LORD is great
And that our LORD is above all gods.
Whatever the LORD pleases, He does,
In heaven and in earth, in the seas and in all deeps.
He casues the vapors to ascend from the ends of the earth;
Who makes lightnings for the rain,
Who brings for the wind from His treasuries.

Ps. 135:5-7

Perhaps the ancient Psalm writer really thought God dipped into a storehouse of clouds and lightning kept at the ends of the earth and pushed them along over Jerusalem with his literal hand and breath. We know today there are no literal “ends of the earth,” no storehouse of clouds and lightning waiting for God to scoop them up. We know how weather forms, and we don’t need to invoke direct Divine intervention to explain the origin of a storm.

But I wonder if the Psalm writer really was that naive. The Psalm continues with a discussion of God’s mighty acts of justice (grisly justice that doesn’t seem all that just — but I’ll leave that for another day as well):

He smote many nations
And slew mighty kings,
Sihon, king of the Amorites,
And Og, king of Bashan,
And all the kingdoms of Canaan;
And he gave their land as a heritage,
A heritage to Israel His people.

Ps. 135:10-11.

In Numbers 21, and Dueteronomy 2, Sihon was King of the Amorites, who was not willing to let the Israelites, led by Moses, pass through his land. Numbers tells us that

So Sihon gathered all his people and went out against Israel in the wilderness, and came to Jahaz and fought against Israel. Then Israel struck him with the edge of the sword, and took possession of his land from the Arnon to the Jabbok.

Num. 21:21-31.

After dispatching Sihon, the Israelites came upon Og the King of Bashan:

But the Lord said to Moses, ‘Do not fear him, for I have given him into your hand, and all his people and his land; and you shall do to him as you did to Sihon, king of the Amorites, who lived at Heshbon.’ So they killed him and his sons and all his people, until there was no remnant left him; and they possessed his land.

Num. 21:33-35. (See also Deuteronomy 3)

The Israelites met Sihon and Og in battle, and these Kings died by the sword. There’s no indication that God directly struck them dead. The “natural” cause of their deaths was the injuries they received in battle, which required the action of Israel’s soldiers. It’s possible to describe that event without references to Divine action. But the Psalms say God slew Sihon and Og, and Numbers and Deuteronomy say God delivered the armies of Sihon and Og to Israel for victory.

Reformed Divines sometimes referred to this as concurrence – God concurred in the actions of the human warriors to achieve God’s end. Perhaps this is a decent way to think about it, but it also seems to cramp the agency of the human actors, and it doesn’t really get at events that don’t involve intelligent agents, such as the weather. (Yes, intelligent agents can affect the weather, as in climate change, but weather happens whether any agent acts or not.)

The Medieval theologian Thomas Aquinas, using Aristotle’s four-fold concept of causation, spoke about primary and secondary causes. The primary cause is God’s will, which in Aristotelian terms relate to the formal and final causes. God established the original design of things like storm clouds and humans, their formal cause, which enables them to achieve certain things. God also established — or, more accurately, God is — the final cause of all that He created, the purpose and end for which they are made. The secondary cause is the action of the thing itself — what Aristotle called material and efficient causes. A thing has capacities relating to its properties — the material of which it’s made. When a thing causes effects, putting something into motion, that is an efficient cause. So evaporation, air pressure, ocean temperatures, and so-on producing a storm are water, air, and temperature acting in accordance with their material properties to produce effects. Warriors using their intelligence and strength to produce weapons and kill enemies are using their material properties to produce effects.

These secondary causes, in Aquinas’ theology, have their own integrity. This means we can examine the relationship between properties and effects scientifically without looking for Divine intervention. We can describe a thunderstorm, or a battle, in terms that don’t invoke God, and the resulting narrative is true at its own level of description.

So do we need God at all? In the modern period, many streams of philosophy rejected Aristotle entirely, and in particular rejected Aristotle’s ideas about causation. This did free up the energy and imagination of the modern scientific revolution from certain dogmas relating to Aristotle’s cosmology. But material and efficient causes alone don’t tell as anything about the significance of any events, including their moral or ethical significance. Is there a purpose to existence? Are there better and worse ways to be in light of any such purpose? These are questions relating to what Aquinas called primary causes and to Aristotle’s formal and final causes.

But how can we know there really is something like formal and final causes? Maybe scientism is right: the universe is a brute fact, there are only secondary causes — matter and physical effects — and the effort to find any transcendent design and purpose is a delusion. But most people, anyone who really thinks about it, I’d say, knows this can’t be right. The fact that anyone cares about the truth of this claim shows that we know it matters and that we can actually reason about it beyond the scope of mere matter and physical effects.

But — one very important thing to note here is that we can’t know there really is something like formal and final causes by searching for God at the end of a chain of material or efficient causes. If we’re looking for the literal storehouse God reaches into to dig out lightning, we won’t find it; if we’re looking for the “irreducibly complex” part of evolution that could only have been assembled directly by God, we won’t find it; if we’re looking for a physically measurable soul or Divine or Evil Spirit that physically alters our brains to produce good or bad actions, we won’t find it. Such efforts miss the point entirely.

To dig further into this question of epistemology, we’d need to get into some deep and contested waters. In short, I think some kind of externalism must be correct, and in particular that Plantinga and the “Reformed Epistemologists” are on the right track about basic beliefs that can’t be proven by the kinds of evidence demanded by internalists. I would suggest that “Reformed” epistemology is also consistent with early/mid-Medieval and Patristic Christian epistemologies, properly understood within their own contexts. Aquinas is often portrayed as an internalist, offering rational proofs based only on self-evident truths, but I don’t think that’s really what he was doing in the Five Ways or otherwise. Certainly it’s not what Augustine or the Greek Fathers did. But this gets way deep into the weeds. I’m not really sure any of these pre-modern thinkers fit neatly into modern internalist / externalist boxes, and I’m not sure I do either (really these boxes seem to me a symptom of some excesses of modern analytic philosophy and I lose patience with them quickly).

Looping back to Psalm 135: how does the Psalmist know God commands the storms? How does he know God was behind Israel’s victories over Sihon and Og? In the first case, this doxological statement is based on the Psalmist’s experience of majestic, powerful storms in relation to his experience of God. It is an analogical observation. The storms reveal God’s power. In the second case, God Himself revealed to Moses that God would ensure the victory. The “evidence” for the primary causes was grounded in revelation.

So how did the Psalmist or Moses know, or how do we know, that there is revelation, or if there is revelation, that it is God’s revelation? In Plantinga’s terms, this gets into the question of “properly basic” beliefs. I think Plantinga properly refers to the testimony of the Holy Spirit here, but I also think in this way he is not sufficiently Trinitarian and Christological. I don’t see in Plantinga very much about the Son — the Son’s incarnation, death, resurrection and ascension, but also the Son’s preexisting nature as the Logos of creation.

You could say the Son’s nature as the Logos cuts against Plantinga’s program — the Logos is the reason of creation, the natural law that allows rational reflection to lead us to the truth of God. But this leads us to ask a related theological question about the relationship between “nature” and “grace.” If creation is a gift, an act of grace, the Logos‘ self-donation in creation is also an act of divine self-disclosure — an act of revelation. There is no “pure,” unmediated nature; there is no “pure,” unmediated reason. To know anything, human creatures must always refer to something external to their own minds, not least when employing human reason, which is a human way of partaking in the Logos.

Categories
Philosophical Theology

Wandering in Darkness

Eleonore Stump is my favorite analytic theologian / philosopher. I say this as someone not particularly drawn to “analytic” philosophy / theology. If the human mind and human language cannot capture God, then the effort to describe God in ever more discrete units of analysis is bound to fail — indeed, it’s bound to become idolatrous. But there are different kinds of analytic philosophy and different kinds of analytic theology — not all are bastard stepchildren of logical positivism. What I appreciate about Stump is her effort to bring together what she calls “Dominical” — logical and propositional (and for Stump, drawn from the Great Dominican Doctor, Thomistic) — and “Franciscan” — narrative and intuitive — approaches to theology.

In her book Wandering in Darkness: Narrative and the Problem of Suffering (Oxford: OUP 2012) Stump draws these threads together in a “Thomistic theodicy transformed into a defense” of God in light of suffering. (Wandering in Darkness, 452.) I offer here a few reflections on this project, not really a detailed review, because I only picked this book up when I realized I needed it to understand Stump’s more recent book on the atonement, which I’m still reading, and therefore (and also because it’s a big book!) I’ve read Wandering in Darkness only selectively. And, of course, in the midst of the COVID-19 crisis, it seems like a good time to reflect on the meaning of suffering.

I think the strength of Wandering in Darkness is Stump’s development of a Thomistic psychology of suffering. The human person, Stump says, is fundamentally fractured. We long for love, but we choose evil, which divides and disintegrates us. Human psychology is only healed, or integrated, as we surrender to love — that is, to God. Surrender to God is not “submission” in the sense of the human person giving up the capacity to make truly human choices. Rather, “surrender” is receiving love, which brings with it the freedom to make truly human choices.

Surrender doesn’t mean we have arrived. In fact, surrender remains compatible with any number of ways in which we continue to make bad choices because we are not yet fully integrated and healed. In our state of disintegration, Stump argues, suffering is often necessary to bring us to the place of surrender, the place at which we realize we have turned away from love, as well as to continue in our progress towards integration. Suffering not only helps us see our own faults, it also helps us exercise love towards others who are suffering.

These general principles, Stump suggests, are illustrated in various Biblical narratives in which great suffering is redeemed through greater blessing. Sampson loses his sight and his life, but completes one last great act of heroism against evil; Job loses everything but has it restored many times over; Mary loses her son Jesus but bears the world a savior.

I think there’s lots of merit in the Thomistic psychology Stump develops. It’s not only Thomistic — I’d say, and I’m sure Stump would agree, it’s Patristic and Biblical. Stump’s reading of it, however, seems inconsistent at points. She insists that Aquinas believed in libertarian free will — a subject of enormous debate in the secondary literature on Aquinas — and Stump’s own reading of Thomistic psychology seems more in line with some kind of compatibilism than with any modern take on libertarian freedom. Maybe this just reflects the fact that the “libertarian” and “compatibilist” categories of modern analytic philosophy are foreign to Thomas’ Aristotelian thought or to the Platonism of the earlier Church Fathers.

I’m also not so sure of the Biblical narratives Stump chooses. I’m not sure the Bible offers any one consistent narrative concerning the problem of suffering. Even that bit tacked on to the Book of Job feels inauthentic, maybe an ending added by someone who didn’t like the unresolved feeling in the original story. But, certainly, many Biblical narratives point toward the hope that God can bring about good things from suffering.

What I bump up against most directly, though, is Stump’s emphasis that she offers a “defense” rather than a “theodicy.” What’s the difference? In a defense, she says “there is no need for a defender . . . to argue that [the claim defended] is true. Because it is a defense and not a theodicy, it needs only to be internally consistent and not incompatible with uncontested empirical evidence.” (Wandering in Darkness, 452.) This relates to the idea of “defeaters” in epistemology, notably developed in the philosophy of religion by Alvin Plantinga — though Plantinga’s “Reformed Epistemology” will differ at important points from Stump’s Thomism.

On one hand, I get it: we’re only human, there’s very little we can establish with empirical evidence and logic alone, and we’re entitled or justified or warranted in believing certain things absent some kind of final proof as long as we have reasons and no defeaters. But there’s more than a smackerel of self-justification in this idea, and sometimes it leads to some “defenses” that seem morally reprehensible. I don’t think the Biblical narratives give us a picture of philosophers building a hedge of internally consistent monstrosities resting smugly content their defense of God — or when it does give us that kind of picture, it’s usually so Yahweh (think Job’s friends) or Jesus (think the Pharisees) can smack that smirk off their analytical faces.

Stump understands this, and to her credit notes several times that Thomistic psychology isn’t really an emotionally satisfying answer in many cases of real, personal human suffering. I think I’d say it’s not really a “defense,” it’s one pointer toward something deeper — that the suffering is not all there is, that the suffering leads to the transformation of the cross and the resurrection. Is it all really “necessary?” No, nothing is “necessary” but God’s self — everything else, all that is created and not God, is only contingent. So why did God do it this way? I’m not sure that’s something a human gets to know, or even defend.

Categories
Uncategorized

Stephen R.L. Clark: Can We Believe in People

Stephen R.L. Clark is a philosopher I never quite warmed to, until now. His work is in the Christian Platonist vein of some of the Radical Orthodoxy folks I studied under at Nottingham. I suppose I’m still too modern and Protestant to consider myself a Christian Platonist, but I do agree with that school of thought that modern theology and philosophy need to recover some things from Platonist substance metaphysics and Aristotelian causality. In any event, Clark’s Can We Believe in People?: Human Significance in an Interconnected Cosmos (Brooklyn: Angelico Press 2020) is a delightful and accessible study of human significance and purpose in our vast, evolving cosmos. With endorsements ranging from David Bentley Hart to Simon Conway Morris, you can be sure you’re in for an eclectic treat.

Clark presents an argument against scientism that I make in some of my own work and that I find inescapable: popular advocates of scientism argue like moral realists even though their position must reject moral realism. They’re convinced they are right about the world-as-it-is, and they argue as if it’s morally blameworthy to believe otherwise. But in claiming to be right about the world-as-it-is, they claim more knowledge than their reductive origin story would allow. As Clark notes,

Darwinian selection does not produce what would probably, in the abstract, be ‘the best’ or most successful outcome: the very point of the theory is that the competing variations have been thrown up at random. . . . We are, perhaps, fairly well adapted as wandering primates in and between Ice Ages: how should we expect that our talents are well suited to discovering the powers and principles that rule the world at large? Why should we expect any congruity between those principles and those that govern human thought? (Can We Believe in People, 21.)

The “atheistical cases against God and against ‘religion,'” Clark notes, “must chiefly be founded on moral indignation of a kind that only makes sense if there indisputably are Absolute Moral Norms which we can at once discern, which are more than maxims drawing their strength from the likely consequences of obeying or disobeying them, and if things could, somehow or other, be otherwise.” (Can We Believe in People, 52.) But if this is so, then the argument against God and religion is self-contradictory.

Clark acknowledges that this epistemological argument has been hashed out endlessly without resolution since it was advanced in the literature by Plantinga, but in fact, I think Plantinga’s version of it is mistaken. Plantinga, as I read him, argues for the plausibility of some kind of intelligent design theory based on the claim that human knowledge capacity shows that the theory of evolution by natural selection must in some basic way be false or incomplete. Plantinga’s overall project ends up looking like a kind of ontotheology — even though, within his Reformed Epistemology, Plantinga offers a non-naturalistic basis for knowledge of God — because Plantinga’s view of causality is flat. This is where a Christian Platonist / Aristotelian like Clark can do better: even though the efficient cause of the structure of the human brain and mind is natural selection (or more accurately, biological evolution, including by natural selection), the formal cause is the “form” of the human and the final cause is the human end in God, both of which transcend matter by participation in God. Or, in Thomistic terms, the primary cause of human knowledge is God while the secondary cause is our physical, evolved capacities.

In a marvelous chapter titled “Is Human Kind a Natural Kind,” Clark does do better. There’s a persistent myth that Plato, Aristotle, and their early Christian heirs rejected the possibility of change in nature because they were chary of difference. By the time of the Medieval Synthesis, the story goes, Christian / Western thought was rigidly wedded to a static kind of Aristotelianism, which impeded the development of science, art, and culture, until the Renaissance weakened the glue that ultimately came apart at the seams in the Enlightenment. It’s not that this story is completely false, but it’s become a lazy way to dismiss the past. In fact, as Clark notes, “the classical Greek philosophers were much more open, in principle, to the thought that one creature can change into another, or beget creatures of another sort than itself, than is usually supposed.” (Can We Believe in People, 78.)

Clark’s argument is not, however, yet another tiresome, absolutist diatribe by a right-wing apologist against The Evil Atheists. It’s a much more subtle and beautiful celebration of truth within difference, or maybe better put, the truth of difference. As Clark says, “[d]ifferences are not diseases. And variations are always variations on a theme.” (Can We Believe in People, 89.) More to the point of the book, Clark argues, “[d]ifferences need not be defects, and there is no one right way of being human (or canine or what you will).” (Can We Believe in People, 91.) Later, discussing the possibility of other non-human intelligence in the Universe, Clark notes that “[i]t is after all a primary claim of Christians both that one and the same Logos makes creatures ‘logikoi‘ and that “to all who have yielded him their allegiance he gave the right to become children of God, not born of any human stock, or by the fleshly desire of any human father, but the offspring of God himself (Jn 1:12-13).” (Can We Believe in People, 99.) The various kinds of creatures, not least human creatures, proceeding from God’s creative Word and returning to their source in God, are the dance of creative difference united in the plenitude of the One infinite God. (That is my gloss on what Clark is saying, in the Christian Platonist key, which I find compelling).

There are places where I disagree with the direction of Clark’s thought. Clark is an important philosopher of animal rights and correctly, I think, emphasizes and ethic of creation care. At times, though, I’m not sure he thinks humans are unique enough. I’ll say something quite unpopular in the area of modern Christian ecological ethics, but I do think the material creation, at least the Earth we inhabit, is in part given to us humans for our thoughtful, curated use. Even if you’re a vegetarian or vegan (I’m not either), I think you have to agree, or give up eating altogether — along with wearing clothes and living in any sort of constructed dwelling. And, as I suggested at the outset, I find Christian Platonism helpful in small doses, as a path to reflection, a set of insights, subject to the reminder from Protestant thought (not least from Barth) that God remains completely Other and that the Word is always surprising. But I’ll leave those qualms aside and suggest that this is one of the most winsome “theology and science” books I’ve read in a very long time.