We have recently concluded the book of 1 John in church, and the Bible Study I attend should finish it this week, Lord willing.
1 John is an interesting book for a lot of reasons. It contains probably the simplest Greek of any New Testament book, evincing none of the polish of Dr Luke or Paul, but rather uses short and simple phrases. The book describes a number of tensions, usually resolved by treating the participles in chapter three as we treat the English progressive tense.
It is generally interpreted, I think, as a response to libertine Gnostic influence in the church, especially due to repeated emphasis that Christ came in the flesh. As a rule, I am generally wary of hermeneutics that rely overmuch on historical positioning, since I think they lend themselves to abuse,1 but in this case I am somewhat more supportive. First, because 1 John, despite its grammar and vocabulary, is a difficult book. Second, because it helps to unify things nicely.
There were evidently a wide variety of Gnostic groups, but they generally shared a common soteriology (salvation by knowledge) and, as I see it, a denial of physical reality. The flesh is seen either as evil of itself, or as a cosmic mistake of sorts, and so the idea of the humanity of Christ was, to a Gnostic, reprehensible. To the Christian, of course, Christ is more human than his followers.
The libertine Gnostics (there were plenty who were ascetic) evidently felt that due to the flesh's inferiority, fleshly actions were inconsequential—somehow less real than the spiritual. So it was acceptable, for example, to live licentiously because the spiritual world was untouched by the physical.
The Gnostics found in Christianity the logos that they desired; Christ was sent to enlighten and reveal divine knowledge. The notions of enlightenment and reason (whence, I suppose, comes knowledge) are pertinent especially because the Gnostics used similar terms with dramatically different meanings.
John begins the letter very explicitly arguing for the physical nature of the incarnation. The gospels, especially Luke and John, record that he appears physically after his resurrection. He was tangible—the wounds remained, and the disciples could probe them. He ate food, and made careful effort to demonstrate he was not a phantasm or spirit, but a flesh-and-blood human being.
He carries the theme of the incarnation throughout. We see it interspersed often with the strong moral overtones of the book: the repeated emphasis from John is that we are to love one another. At the outset, we see that the book concerns fellowship, both with God (through, e.g., confession), and with each other (through, e.g., love).
It is important to see the anti-gnostic perspective in the verse, "If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, ... his blood cleanses us from all sin" (1Jn 1.7). We err, I think, if we suppose that "walking in the light" means "not sinning"; if we didn't sin, then we would not need cleansing. To the sort of gnostic John preached against, one who was enlightened knew that there was no sin—naturally the sort of reaction we would get in this case is, "But I don't sin!" or "Sin is made up!" But 1.8 follows, which plants us firmly in the reality that sin exists.
The topic of love is not disconnected from this. If we forsake the reality of sin, we lose our understanding of love. Why? Because Christ was manifested to take away our sin. Our understanding of love is depends on how we perceive his sacrifice, and since the gnostics disclaimed the reality of the flesh and thereby the reality of sin, they could not love. We see it distorted into lust by the libertines and condemned by the ascetics. One of the most powerful revelations of God's love for us is given in 1Co 13.
I think we may also find here an oblique statement about the spiritual corporeality present in Christianity. We perceive, and rightly, the corruption of our flesh, both material (we start to die the moment we're born) and spiritual (it is bound by sin). But we are not allowed to believe that this is the purpose and end of the flesh; rather, we are told that we will be raised in incorruption (1Co 15).
This is, I think, why Christ is called the firstfruits. As he was raised, so shall we: in bodies that do not decay. We shall be like him, in that we have no sinful nature. We'll finally be free.
The Gnostics, I think, treated the flesh as inherently corrupted. This leads us in two different paths, both expressed in Gnosticism: licentiousness and aceticism—lives of wantonness and deprivation. This is not what we look forward to.
[1] In particular, I worry that we may be inclined to treat the Scriptures as time-bound when implementing an historical hermeneutic. Some are inclined to look at the moral commands of Scripture as culturally irrelevant, as evidenced by a number of groups that wish to remove bans on homosexuality or to ordain women. Not surprisingly, I find that those who are loose in their theology also tend to be loose in their morality (in the sense that they have a much-reduced perspective of sin; I am not saying that people with loose theology perforce live licentiously).
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Friday, April 6, 2007
Epistemology
In some respects, it's interesting how many of my own studies coincide with events as they happen in others' lives, also. So as I read through Job, I have been confronted with different views of substitution, for example. I find again, reading through a pre-print manuscript for a book that Job has appeared again, this time in the realm of epistemology.
A family friend has written about his own search for a valid epistemology (his words, not mine) and sent the book to my father, who has loaned it to me. I don't intend to review the book here, but perhaps to regurgitate some of the questions it asks. How we know what we know is an interesting question, and not an easy one to answer.
What I have enjoyed in the reading is getting to know a different side of a man I've known by name most of my life. His questions often parallel mine and always provoke thought. In the past several months, I have found myself confronting the same questions he asks and searching for an adequate means to answer them. I have found friends in distress and been asked to answer some of their questions.
It is extremely difficult for me to write coherently on this subject. Epistemology really begins with infinite regress. We pose a question, "How can I know that the answers to my questions are true?" Unfortunately, the answer to this question must validate itself. This sort of self-reference is a recipe for broken systems; Gödel had something to say about that with his Incompleteness Theorem.
At least to a degree, the answer to that question lies for me in Realism. I suppose my brand is a bit different than Plato's and his students'. Christianity has, however, a very realist bend. We see glimpses of it in Hebrews, where Moses was instructed to create an earthly tabernacle (the particular) based on a heavenly pattern (the universal). We see it in the doctrine of redemption, in which corruption (the particular) is subsumed by incorruption (the universal). We see it, too, in the writings against Gnosticism. There is a spiritual corporeality to Christianity that I find extremely persuasive.
Lewis argued in Surprised by Joy that materialism (contemplation) could not explain what he experienced (enjoyed). The mere act of thinking about Joy distanced himself from the experience; he could not simultaneously experience Joy and think about it. It was this that convinced him, I think, of the truth of Realism. That experience should be separate from thought does not at first blush seem that profound. But it was, I think, the realization that he couldn't manufacture Joy that convinced him it existed objectively.
Once this is admitted, the floodgates open, and we find ourselves ready to begin, I think.
I am pushed further towards the realist position by discontent with the anti-realist one. One of the difficulties with the postmodern truth-is-relative approach is that it has to argue from a perspective that there is at least one objective truth: that all other truths are relative. The obvious contradiction here is that the postmodern anti-realist has already admitted first, that there is a frame of reference that holds all observers, and second, that there is at least one truth in that frame of reference that holds for all observers.
The problem here is that this line of thinking must be accepted a priori. Axioms are a good thing, normally; they're what made Euclid's geometry so powerful. But in this case, the axiom dismantles the framework in which the observer operates. If I am to accept that there is a universal frame of reference, then why should I accept that this axiom, and this axiom only, holds for it? Postmodern anti-realism begins and ends with this point; it can't go any farther.
For some, this is probably comforting because of their own fears about what is Real. But I have only ever seen it as a haven for the cowardly.
One of the other reasons I think some trend away from Realism are the results of scientific investigation. Heisenburg told us that we change the outcome of an experiment by observing it. Gödel told us that we have mathematical systems that contain true theorems that aren't provable. There is inherent uncertainty, in other words, in materialism.
What did not happen, however, was that previous understanding was invalidated. Euclidean geometry didn't suddenly become invalid when Gödel published his groundbreaking paper (I believe it is easily the most significant mathematical achievement of the 20th century). What did happen was that the mathematical community realized that the goal they were seeking—a complete and consistent mathematical system—was impossible.
The postmodern axiom has neither the force nor the conviction of the Uncertainty Principle or the Incompleteness Theorem. While uncertainty is a part of empiricism, it is not the catastrophic sort that we find in postmodernism. We find statistical boundaries and tolerances, but never P and not-P.
When we come back to where we begin with epistemology, I think we have a good ground for knowing what is True. We can start with the assumption at the least that there is something—and in our case, Someone—to know.
The case developed here is rather short, and doesn't really answer the question that the study of knowledge poses; but at least, I think, it argues that we can answer it to at least some degree.
A family friend has written about his own search for a valid epistemology (his words, not mine) and sent the book to my father, who has loaned it to me. I don't intend to review the book here, but perhaps to regurgitate some of the questions it asks. How we know what we know is an interesting question, and not an easy one to answer.
What I have enjoyed in the reading is getting to know a different side of a man I've known by name most of my life. His questions often parallel mine and always provoke thought. In the past several months, I have found myself confronting the same questions he asks and searching for an adequate means to answer them. I have found friends in distress and been asked to answer some of their questions.
It is extremely difficult for me to write coherently on this subject. Epistemology really begins with infinite regress. We pose a question, "How can I know that the answers to my questions are true?" Unfortunately, the answer to this question must validate itself. This sort of self-reference is a recipe for broken systems; Gödel had something to say about that with his Incompleteness Theorem.
At least to a degree, the answer to that question lies for me in Realism. I suppose my brand is a bit different than Plato's and his students'. Christianity has, however, a very realist bend. We see glimpses of it in Hebrews, where Moses was instructed to create an earthly tabernacle (the particular) based on a heavenly pattern (the universal). We see it in the doctrine of redemption, in which corruption (the particular) is subsumed by incorruption (the universal). We see it, too, in the writings against Gnosticism. There is a spiritual corporeality to Christianity that I find extremely persuasive.
Lewis argued in Surprised by Joy that materialism (contemplation) could not explain what he experienced (enjoyed). The mere act of thinking about Joy distanced himself from the experience; he could not simultaneously experience Joy and think about it. It was this that convinced him, I think, of the truth of Realism. That experience should be separate from thought does not at first blush seem that profound. But it was, I think, the realization that he couldn't manufacture Joy that convinced him it existed objectively.
Once this is admitted, the floodgates open, and we find ourselves ready to begin, I think.
I am pushed further towards the realist position by discontent with the anti-realist one. One of the difficulties with the postmodern truth-is-relative approach is that it has to argue from a perspective that there is at least one objective truth: that all other truths are relative. The obvious contradiction here is that the postmodern anti-realist has already admitted first, that there is a frame of reference that holds all observers, and second, that there is at least one truth in that frame of reference that holds for all observers.
The problem here is that this line of thinking must be accepted a priori. Axioms are a good thing, normally; they're what made Euclid's geometry so powerful. But in this case, the axiom dismantles the framework in which the observer operates. If I am to accept that there is a universal frame of reference, then why should I accept that this axiom, and this axiom only, holds for it? Postmodern anti-realism begins and ends with this point; it can't go any farther.
For some, this is probably comforting because of their own fears about what is Real. But I have only ever seen it as a haven for the cowardly.
One of the other reasons I think some trend away from Realism are the results of scientific investigation. Heisenburg told us that we change the outcome of an experiment by observing it. Gödel told us that we have mathematical systems that contain true theorems that aren't provable. There is inherent uncertainty, in other words, in materialism.
What did not happen, however, was that previous understanding was invalidated. Euclidean geometry didn't suddenly become invalid when Gödel published his groundbreaking paper (I believe it is easily the most significant mathematical achievement of the 20th century). What did happen was that the mathematical community realized that the goal they were seeking—a complete and consistent mathematical system—was impossible.
The postmodern axiom has neither the force nor the conviction of the Uncertainty Principle or the Incompleteness Theorem. While uncertainty is a part of empiricism, it is not the catastrophic sort that we find in postmodernism. We find statistical boundaries and tolerances, but never P and not-P.
When we come back to where we begin with epistemology, I think we have a good ground for knowing what is True. We can start with the assumption at the least that there is something—and in our case, Someone—to know.
The case developed here is rather short, and doesn't really answer the question that the study of knowledge poses; but at least, I think, it argues that we can answer it to at least some degree.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Elihu and Job
One of the interesting follow-ups in the discussion on Penal Substitution is the definition of justice. This theme is woven throughout Job, which I have been reading for two and a half months or so. There's a lot of repetition in the arguments and speeches.
For example, Job's argument may be essentially encapsulated as: "I didn't do anything wrong. God is finding occasions against me. He has taken away my justice." (The last sentence is more or less a direct quote.)
The three friends say, "Bad people get theirs in the end. Bad things happen to bad people. Bad things have happened to Job. Therefore Job is a bad person." This syllogistic reasoning is wrong and fails to persuade Job.
We go through roughly 32 chapters of these sorts of arguments, with some variation (mostly on the side of the friends, who occasionally concede Job's points and set their own in a different context). Job concludes his defense by calling down a lengthy set of curses upon himself if he's not speaking the truth.
At this point, Elihu steps in. He sort of appears out of no where, like Job's initial answer (Job 3.1 says that Job answered, but there isn't anything for him to answer actually recorded) and the whirlwhind that evidently accompanies Elihu's final words. I've not finished all of Elihu's discussion, but he goes to some length to establish his relationship and Job's vis-a-vis God.
Job has styled himself throughout the book as a claimant against God. Elihu accepts that position, and will serve as the mediator between the two.
I can't help but see a type of Christ here. That's one of the reasons I found the following so poignant (Job 33):
There's a succinct comfort in this, and that is that when Christ stands between ourselves and God to mediate his wrath, he does so as a human. He is not remote, nor unconcerned with our weaknesses. He knows them intimately. He does not come to terrify, but to comfort. He is, in this respect, a peer and a confidant. He is our Advocate (1Jn 2.2).
This is a bit separate from the issues of justice, but we'll get there soon enough. Elihu will spend a bit of time dismantling Job's righteousness, and his argument differs fundamentally from that of the three friends.
This is going to provide, I think, a good and different perspective on the issues of righteousness and justice that are such a key part of penal substitution.
For example, Job's argument may be essentially encapsulated as: "I didn't do anything wrong. God is finding occasions against me. He has taken away my justice." (The last sentence is more or less a direct quote.)
The three friends say, "Bad people get theirs in the end. Bad things happen to bad people. Bad things have happened to Job. Therefore Job is a bad person." This syllogistic reasoning is wrong and fails to persuade Job.
We go through roughly 32 chapters of these sorts of arguments, with some variation (mostly on the side of the friends, who occasionally concede Job's points and set their own in a different context). Job concludes his defense by calling down a lengthy set of curses upon himself if he's not speaking the truth.
At this point, Elihu steps in. He sort of appears out of no where, like Job's initial answer (Job 3.1 says that Job answered, but there isn't anything for him to answer actually recorded) and the whirlwhind that evidently accompanies Elihu's final words. I've not finished all of Elihu's discussion, but he goes to some length to establish his relationship and Job's vis-a-vis God.
Job has styled himself throughout the book as a claimant against God. Elihu accepts that position, and will serve as the mediator between the two.
I can't help but see a type of Christ here. That's one of the reasons I found the following so poignant (Job 33):
6 Behold, I am according to thy wish in God's stead: I also am formed out of the clay. 7 Behold, my terror shall not make thee afraid, neither shall my hand be heavy upon thee.
There's a succinct comfort in this, and that is that when Christ stands between ourselves and God to mediate his wrath, he does so as a human. He is not remote, nor unconcerned with our weaknesses. He knows them intimately. He does not come to terrify, but to comfort. He is, in this respect, a peer and a confidant. He is our Advocate (1Jn 2.2).
This is a bit separate from the issues of justice, but we'll get there soon enough. Elihu will spend a bit of time dismantling Job's righteousness, and his argument differs fundamentally from that of the three friends.
This is going to provide, I think, a good and different perspective on the issues of righteousness and justice that are such a key part of penal substitution.
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