The TSA as a Tower of Babel

“Modern man is in danger of forgetting two things: first, that his plans and undertakings should be guided not by his own desires for happiness and security, usefulness and profit, but rather by obedient response to the challenge of goodness, truth and love, by obedience to the commandment of God which man forgets in his selfishness and presumption; and secondly, that it is an illusion to suppose that real security can be gained by men organizing their own personal and community life. There are encounters and destinies which man cannot master. He cannot secure endurance for his works. His life is fleeting and its end is death. History goes on and pulls down all the towers of Babel again and again. There is no real, definitive security, and it is precisely this illusion to which men are prone to succumb in their yearning for security.”

—Rudolf Bultmann, Jesus Christ and Mythology (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1958), 39-40.

Review: Van Driel, Incarnation Anyway

I have a new book review up at the Center for Barth Studies on Edwin Chr. van Driel’s Incarnation Anyway: Arguments for Supralapsarian Christology. Here’s the opening paragraph of the review:

The debate between infralapsarianism and supralapsarianism is often treated as a matter of only historical interest. The perceived esotericism of the words and their connection to speculative flights of scholastic fancy have led many to believe that these positions are irrelevant to contemporary constructive theology. It is therefore much to Edwin van Driel’s credit that he demonstrates the significance of this debate for theological work today. The question raised by these two positions is whether “the incarnation is contingent upon sin” (4). Does the divine will to become incarnate logically precede or follow the will to allow sin? The majority report throughout Christian history has been the infralapsarian thesis that incarnation follows sin. That is, God would not have become incarnate had humanity not fallen into sin. Van Driel presents a case for the minority view that God would have become incarnate regardless.

Read the full review.

The varieties of divine transcendence

There has been some concern recently that defenders of divine transcendence are attempting merely to perpetuate a dead concept, one that has long-since been obliterated by modernity (for various reasons). I have a vested interest in this debate, insofar as I agree with those who wish to dispense with metaphysics, mythology, and other forms of theological discourse that only reinforce the ideological confinement of religious God-talk. For the sake of discussion, I will accept that the burden of proof rests with those like myself who wish to continue to speak of a transcendent God after the death of God (understood in both its christological and modern-historical senses). What follows then is a very brief list of the varieties of divine transcendence, beginning with the two versions to be rejected. It also goes without saying that these are not all mutually exclusive. Finally, I do not claim that this list is exhaustive, and I am happy to add further items based on suggestions in the comments.

1. Metaphysical (or analogical) transcendence. This is the form of transcendence as posited by the via triplex and other forms of classical analogical modes of God-talk. Here transcendence is defined either as the projection or the negation of some mode of finite immanence. Both of these modes are grounded in the more basic form of metaphysical transcendence, which is causal: God is here the Prime Mover or First Cause.
2. Mythological transcendence. I take this point from Bultmann, who famously defines myth as representing the transcendent as “spatially distant,” as in the three-tiered cosmos. Myth is understood thus as a crude, primitive version of metaphysics.
3. Reformational transcendence, or transcendence as deus absconditus. The transcendence of the “hidden God” is a prominent theme in Luther’s theology, and it appears in Calvin and others as well. Here there is a sharp distinction between the hidden and revealed God that corresponds to the distinction between law/wrath and gospel/grace. Transcendence in this sense is posited on the basis of our human sinfulness, rather than our finitude. God is transcendent in the sense that God is removed from us as our judge.
4. Mystical transcendence. The description “mystical” is hotly contested and I use it tentatively, but in essence I refer to the notion that God is transcendent as “wholly other” in a timeless and ahistorical sense. It often takes a Platonic or Neoplatonic form, as in Meister Eckhart, and in this sense overlaps with metaphysical transcendence. But the crucial difference is that this form of transcendence is not simply an idea to be posited and analyzed through the faculty of reason; it is instead a transcendence to be practiced and experienced through forms of spiritual ascesis. Mystical transcendence is primarily a mode of orthopraxis rather than orthodoxy.
5. Dialectical-eschatological transcendence. What I call dialectical-eschatological transcendence is the form of divine transcendence represented by Bultmann and the early Barth, where God is understood as “wholly other” but in a concrete and historical sense. Transcendence is here not a “realm” to be reached by reason or experience; it instead refers to the fact that God cannot be objectified or mastered. God is not an object available for our investigation, neither a “thing-in-itself” nor a thing as it appears to us, to use Kantian distinctions. Instead, God is a particular event or encounter within history and only perceptible to faith. Bultmann writes: “The idea that divine action is unworldly or transcendent is preserved only if such action is represented not as something taking place between occurrences in the world but as something that takes place in them .... God’s act is hidden from all eyes other than the eyes of faith. The only thing that can be generally seen and established is the ‘natural’ occurrence. In it God’s hidden act takes place.” This notion of transcendence is thus set wholly against all forms of supernaturalism, which attempt to identify places within history where God is directly accessible, i.e., where a miracle occurs. Dialectical-eschatological transcendence reserves no space for the supernatural. It therefore also excludes all natural theology, since there is no way from “here” to “there,” because there is no “there” as an identifiable place or object. The “there” (or the divine) occurs within the “here” (or the worldly). Eschatological refers to what is qualitatively different from the world as available to scientific and historical research. Some opponents might also refer to this as fideistic transcendence, since there is no proof for such divine action; certainty only comes within faith, not outside of it.
6. Dialectical-analogical transcendence. What I am labeling dialectical-analogical transcendence is that form of divine transcendence often associated with the middle-to-later Barth—though whether rightly or wrongly is still a matter of much debate. It refers to the relation between the immanent and economic Trinity as a dialectical and analogical relation. Three features of this model make it differ from the metaphysical model noted above: (a) the basis for the analogy is strictly located in Jesus Christ as God’s self-revelation; (b) there is nothing about God’s immanent transcendence that is not revealed in God’s economic immanence; and (c) the entire relation between transcendence and immanence is known only to faith. This version of transcendence is grounded in what Barth calls the analogia fidei, as opposed to the analogia entis that grounds the metaphysical version. What makes this model differ from the dialectical-eschatological model is that what occurs in time and space is identified as a communication or manifestation of what is already actually the case in eternity.
7. Analogical-ontological transcendence. This is the version represented by Radical Orthodoxy and its fellow-travelers, the most brilliant version of which is found in David Bentley Hart’s The Beauty of the Infinite. The emphasis here is on the ontological plenitude of God’s transcendent being, which is analogically mediated to the world. The analogia entis is, on this account, the sine qua non of Christian theology. For the most part, this is a subset of the metaphysical transcendence mentioned above.
8. Apocalyptic transcendence. This model, which I derive from Nate Kerr’s writings (particularly his 2009 essay in Political Theology), understands transcendence non-analogically. It opposes both the “univocal production of pure immanence” and the “analogical mediation of transcendence in immanence.” For this reason, apocalyptic transcendence is a thoroughly non-ontological conceptuality, leaving the sphere of ontology to materialist ontologies of immanence. As Kerr defines it, transcendence is here understood in terms of (a) the “priority of grace”—God is “beyond” as the free initiating action of God’s subversive reign within the world—and (b) the doxological response of the human person to this initiating action. Transcendence thus takes place as a form of theopolitical agency, simultaneously divine and human, initiating and following. The main point is that God’s transcendence refers to a particular mode of action within the world that suspends immanence and funds a new form of human action in response. It is therefore, in my view, a political and doxological variation on the dialectical-eschatological model.
9. Postmetaphysical transcendence. A number of theologians could claim the label of postmetaphysical, but in this instance I define it according to Eberhard Jüngel’s theology, particularly as represented by Gott als Geheimnis der Welt. This work does not use the term “transcendence” very often in a positive way; this is because the book is directed against any notion of God as an ens necessarium or supreme being. Moreover, his analogy of advent is directed against thinking of God as “wholly other” or “beyond.” He repeatedly uses the line from Luther that quae supra nos, nihil ad nos: “things that are above us are of no concern to us.” And yet one can discern in the midst of all this a creative renewal of the language of transcendence in his radical identification of God with the dead Jesus, such that God is defined as the concrete unity of life and death on behalf of life. This (Hegel-inspired) unity of life and death in God that Jüngel posits allows for transcendence to be understood as the soteriological otherness of God in the word-event (Wortgeschehen or Sprachereignis). God is transcendent in the sense of being the word of address that comes from outside of us (extra nos) and so separates us from ourselves. God is the qualitative distance between the old self and the new self, between sin and grace. God’s transcendence is thus an existential distancing of the ego through the event of the word, in which God is present as absent, transcendent as immanent. As Jüngel puts it, “God is my neighbor. He comes nearer to me than I am to myself. Faith opens itself up to this nearness of God. ... In the word, God is present as the absent one. Faith allows God as the absent one to be present. ... Without a fundamental extra nos faith knows of no deus pro nobis and certainly no deus in nobis. God is only near to us in that he distances us from ourselves” (God as the Mystery, 182).
10. I-Thou transcendence. By this I mean all of those conceptions of transcendence that locate the “beyond” in the neighbor or the Levinasian “Other.” The absolute alterity of the Other is the encounter with the absolute horizon of our future. The Other is the limit of our existence, and so the experience of transcendence. This of course need not be theological, insofar as such I-Thou transcendence can be thoroughly atheistic.
11. Religionless transcendence. Bonhoeffer’s prison writings are replete with powerful insights into a post-metaphysical, post-religious way of speaking about God. I am calling his model religionless transcendence simply because he refers to the need for a “religionless Christianity.” But a more descriptive term would be socioethical transcendence. Of course, the seeds for this are sown already in his earliest works. In Sanctorum Communio, he speaks of the “transcendence of the You” as an “ethical transcendence,” and in Act and Being he refers to the “illusory transcendence” of the analogia entis formulated by Przywara. Then in his 1933 lectures on christology, he says that the question of transcendence is the “question of the neighbor.” All of this leads to his famous “Outline for a Book” written in prison in 1944. The description of the second chapter reads:
    

    Jesus’s “being-for-others” [Für-andere-dasein] is the experience of transcendence! Only through this liberation from self, through this “being-for-others” unto death, do omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence come into being. Faith is participating in this being of Jesus. (Becoming human [Menschwerdung], cross, resurrection.) Our relationship to God is no “religious” relationship to some highest, most powerful, and best being imaginable—that is no genuine transcendence. Instead, our relationship to God is a new life in “being there for others” [Dasein-für-andere], through participation in the being of Jesus. The transcendent is not the infinite, unattainable tasks, but the neighbor within reach in any given situation. God in human form! Not as in oriental religions in animal forms as the monstrous, the chaotic, the remote, the terrifying, but also not in the conceptual forms of the absolute, the metaphysical, the infinite, and so on, either, nor again the Greek god—human form of the “God-human form of the human being in itself.” But rather “the human being for others”! therefore the Crucified One. The human being living out of the transcendent. (DBWE 8:501)

    Here I think we find a version of transcendence that shares aspects with the dialectical-eschatological, postmetaphysical, and I-Thou models of transcendence. But that it remains a conception of divine transcendence is indisputable, however much it departs from the tradition.
12. Eschatological transcendence. Under this heading I include all those theologians who understand God’s transcendence as his eschatological futurity. God is transcendent as the coming horizon of the future that transforms our present. There are a number of variations of this view. Robert Jenson and the early Moltmann embrace this form of transcendence. But it is the early Pannenberg, with his affirmation of the retroactive ontological significance of God’s eschatological future in Jesus Christ, that is the most extreme form of this model.
13. Maqom transcendence. The most recent works by Jürgen Moltmann speak of God as the Maqom (מָקוֹם)—which means, in its fullest theological sense, “sacred dwelling place,” though Moltmann generally refers to it as the “broad room” or “living space.” The word has its traditional home in Jewish theology of the temple, and it is associated in the Hebrew scriptures with everything from the Israelite tabernacle to sites of theophanies to the promised land itself. God as Maqom is the “broad room” who invites us into covenantal fellowship, who proclaims the mystery of divine grace: “I will dwell among the Israelites, and I will be their God” (Exod. 29:45). Jürgen Moltmann adds to this the notion that God not only dwells with creation but creation dwells in God. He thus speaks about an asymmetrical mutual indwelling of Creator and creature: “God’s indwelling in the world is divine in kind; the world’s indwelling in God is worldly in kind” (God in Creation, 150). This version of transcendence is thus dependent on a certain kind of panentheism.
14. Transcendence as wonder. In her excellent new blog post on “Thinking Otherwise,” Mary-Jane Rubenstein summarizes a key point from her book on Strange Wonder as a way of overcoming the impasse between the religious and the secular. The religious perspective (she uses RO as the key example) advocates for transcendence as the way to justify and ground a theocratic imperialism; divine transcendence legitimates a tyrannical theology and politics. The secularist perspective cuts itself off from the surprising encounter with anything new; it makes everything that is all there is. The “third way” is to see “the extraordinary in and through the ordinary.” Following Heidegger, Rubenstein calls this “wonder” (thaumazein), which is a way of seeing the world that marvels “at the strangeness of the everyday.” There is a remarkable similarity between this account of transcendence and Bultmann’s dialectical-eschatological account described above, which is to be expected considering Bultmann and Heidegger were friends and colleagues who learned much from each other. Interestingly, Bultmann has an essay on “The Question of Wonder [Wunder]” (Glauben und Verstehen 1:214-28; Faith and Understanding, 247-61) where he articulates a non-miraculous conception of divine action which makes it “really possible for the Christian continually to see new wonders.” For Bultmann, anything in the world at any moment can become the shocking occasion for encountering “the extraordinary,” which he understands as God’s action in the world. 
15. Noncompetitive transcendence. Many of the above models could rightly claim the label of “noncompetitive,” but I include it here to acknowledge the distinctive contribution of Kathryn Tanner to the conversation about divine transcendence. Tanner’s work intends to show the radical political potential in classical Christian concepts, and transcendence lies at the heart of her project. Her position is opposed to competitive or contrastive notions of the divine-world relation: “Divinity characterized in terms of a direct contrast with certain sorts of being or with the world of non-divine being as a whole is brought down to the level of the world and the beings within it in virtue of that very opposition: God becomes one being among others within a single order. Such talk suggests that God exists alongside the non-divine, that God is limited by what is opposed to it, that God is as finite as the non-divine beings with which it is directly contrasted” (God and Creation, 45-6). Against the competitive model (which I would identify with the metaphysical and ontological models), she argues that “an extreme of divine involvement requires, one could say, an extreme of divine transcendence” (ibid., 46). Divine action and creaturely action do not function in a zero-sum game. God’s increase does not require our decrease, nor does our increase require God’s decrease. It is precisely God’s absolute otherness from the world that allows God to be absolutely with the world. This way of understanding the transcendence of God allows Tanner to argue in Christ the Key that grace is not some “extrinsic addendum,” but is rather more “natural” to us than so-called “nature”; the gratuity of grace is not a function of some presupposed contrast between creatures and God, between nature and grace. It is this absolute transcendence of God that funds Tanners account of radical politics, particularly her understanding of a noncompetitive economy.

I welcome your thoughts and your input regarding other versions not included in this list. I know there are many that I have overlooked. Please feel free to add them in the comments.

On the speciousness of the charge of “decadent Barthianism,” or, the problem with fundamentalism

Let’s be honest and admit: there are indeed “Barthian scholastics” or “Barthian fundamentalists” who seem to think that the Swiss theologian could do no wrong and that any real criticism of him is based on a misunderstanding or is the result of a faulty presupposition. I have met such people in the past and I know they exist. In fact, if I am honest with myself, I was probably such a person at one time—though I am certainly not guilty of that today, as all of my friends can well attest (for ample evidence, see the comments here). But the truth is that such Barthian fundamentalism is actually rather rare—or at least all ostensible instances of it cannot simply be lumped together into some abstract category of “decadent Barthianism.” The truth of the matter is much more complicated.

The problem here is not that so-called Barthians are blind to Barth’s errors. The problem is rather with the way that these critics of Barth are approaching the conversation. There are two presuppositions for all meaningful dialogue:

1. Careful engagement with the texts or ideas in question; and
2. A mutual willingness to learn from another and to have one’s horizon of understanding expanded through the dialogical encounter.

The first point refers to the necessary scientific understanding that seeks to learn the facts of the matter: e.g., what is being argued here, what are the terms being used, and what is the logic being employed? The second point refers to the participatory understanding that requires one to approach the subject-matter with an existential openness to the new and unknown. As Rudolf Bultmann rightly puts it, “To understand history [or anything, for that matter] is possible only for one who does not stand over against it as a neutral, nonparticipating spectator but also stands within it and shares responsibility for it” (New Testament & Mythology, 150). These two points—which we might distinguish in terms of knowledge and truth, or science and existence—are directed against two errors: the first is the error of anti-intellectualism (the notion that one can make a judgment without attending to the materials at hand), while the second is the error of fundamentalism (the notion that one’s judgments are not open to criticism and reassessment, i.e., the confusion between history and eschatology, as if one’s position is already the final telos of all possible positions).

In a fascinating 1961 letter to Geoffrey Bromiley, Karl Barth identified both of these points as the reason why he would not respond to the questions put to him by American evangelicals. It is instructive, I think, to quote him at length:

Such a discussion would have to rest on the primary presupposition that those who ask the questions have read, learned, and pondered the many things I have already said and written about these matters. They have obviously not done this, but have ignored the many hundreds of pages in the C.D. where they might at least have found out—not necessarily under the headings of history, universalism, etc.—where I really stand and do not stand. From that point they could have gone on to pose further questions. ...

The decisive point, however, is this. The second presupposition of a fruitful discussion between them and me would have to be that we are able to talk on a common plane. But these people have already had their so-called orthodoxy for a long time. They are closed to anything else, they will cling to it at all costs, and they can adopt toward me only the role of prosecuting attorneys, trying to establish whether what I represent agrees or disagrees with their orthodoxy, in which I for my part have no interest! None of their questions leaves me with the impression that they want to seek with me the truth that is greater than us all. They take the stance of those who happily possess it already and who hope to enhance their happiness by succeeding in proving to themselves and the world that I do not share this happiness. Indeed they have long since decided and publicly proclaimed that I am a heretic, possibly (van Til) the worst heretic of all time. So be it! But they should not expect me to take the trouble to give them the satisfaction of offering explanations which they will simply use to confirm the judgement they have already passed on me . . . These fundamentalists want to eat me up. They have not yet come to a ‘better mind and attitude’ as I once hoped. I can thus give them neither an angry nor a gentle answer but instead no answer at all. (Letters 1961-1968, 7-8)

The problem with every fundamentalism is the adoption of the role of “prosecuting attorney,” the identification as “heresy” that which violates one’s securely-held orthodoxy. And this is the crucial point: by and large those who criticize Barth scholars for a “decadent Barthianism” are simply unaware of their own basic fundamentalism. One can find such fundamentalism in both conservative evangelicals and in dialectical materialists. The securely-held orthodoxy can be almost anything, from the decretum absolutum of Reformed orthodoxy to the “ontology of peace” of Radical Orthodoxy, from the absolute rejection of German idealism to the idolization of German idealism, from the doctrine of inerrancy to the rejection of all divine transcendence as the theological instantiation of a Big Other. Heresy takes any number of forms and, in a post-dogmatic or post-conciliar age, is always in the eye of the beholder. (Parenthetically, when your position is one that rejects all divine transcendence, along with the concepts of sin and grace, as a religious imposition that merely subordinates human persons to a “master signifier,” then it is not Barth with which you have a problem but rather the entire Christian faith.)

It is certainly the case that in many situations the problem is simply a failure of scientific understanding, i.e., a lack of careful engagement with Barth’s massive oeuvre. There is the additional—not to be underestimated!—problem of the fact that Barth contradicts himself numerous times over the course of his career and changes his mind on dozens of issues. The result is that, like the Bible, one can justify almost any interpretation of Barth’s text so long as one remains on a surface-level interaction. But for the most part the source of the problem is a fundamentalist approach towards others, one that divides the world into black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. Either you affirm the notion of inerrancy or you don’t; either you accept the concept of divine transcendence or you don’t. There are no grades or variations, no nuances on either side; there is only the stark Either-Or which determines whether a person is a “heretic” or not.

If theology is going to be more than an academic brawl, and thus a conversation that is actually worth listening to, then we need to set aside our fundamentalisms. I don’t excuse myself from this imperative. I’ve been quite guilty of overly zealous heresy-hunting myself, as this blog’s history can attest on numerous occasions. And while there is a place for such criticisms, that place has to be within the scope of a more generous openness to others. A hermeneutic of suspicion has to be located within a larger and more dominant hermeneutic of charity; that is, the No has to be in service to the Yes, as Barth would have it. I am as willing and ready to critique Barth as anyone else, but this critique is first located within a prior desire to give him the best hearing possible, to treat him as I would be treated. It is only after listening to him as a friend and neighbor that I can then properly point out his flaws.

C. S. Lewis captures this hermeneutic of charity quite well in his An Experiment in Criticism, where he writes:

“No poem will give up its secret to a reader who enters it regarding the poet as a potential deceiver, and determined not to be taken in. We must risk being taken in, if we are to get anything.” (94)

“We can find a book bad only by reading it as if it might, after all, be very good. We must empty our minds and lay ourselves open. There is no work in which holes can't be picked; no work that can succeed without a preliminary act of good will on the part of the reader.” (116)

Fundamentalism refuses to be “taken in”; it refuses to “lay itself open,” to demonstrate any “preliminary act of good will.” Fundamentalism lacks the willingness to establish a “common plane” for mutual, participatory understanding.

To conclude, the charge of a “decadent Barthianism” is specious insofar as it is born of this nonparticipatory fundamentalism that can only converse with like-minded fundamentalists, and which approaches all others with a silencing hermeneutic of suspicion. The irony is that, on this score, the materialists and atheists stand as one with the conservative evangelicals that they so virulently oppose.

2010 KBBC: Week 3

The third and final week of the 2010 Karl Barth Blog Conference begins tomorrow. See the introductory post at DET for more details.

Confession: on negotiating my ecclesial identity

This past week, Amy and I became new members (or as they would rightly prefer to say, new disciples) at Prince of Peace Lutheran Church—no doubt to the chagrin of many friends, colleagues, and professors. This is the first time either of us have ever belonged to a mainline denomination, having spent our lives primarily in non-denominational evangelical churches. And I always assumed, being at Princeton Seminary, that we would end up as Presbyterian, not Lutheran. But we feel really good about this decision. It represents the culmination (for now) of a long transformation in our theological commitments and ecclesial identity. While we still identify ourselves as “evangelical”—taking advantage of the term’s ambiguity, diversity, and multivalence—we also identify with many of the concerns and traditions of the mainline churches.

Because most of my friends and colleagues are of the Reformed persuasion, I want to use the remainder of this post to make explicit where I stand in terms of my Reformational identity. Before I outline in detail where I agree and disagree with Lutheran and Reformed theology, let me begin with a biographical note. I knew next to nothing about Lutheran or Reformed theology prior to coming to Princeton Seminary. I had read Bonhoeffer in college and fell in love then with Christian theology, and I read extensive amounts of Eberhard Jüngel between college and seminary. But I had only the faintest notion of them as “Lutheran” theologians, and I really didn’t know what distinguished them confessionally from someone like Karl Barth.

All that’s to say, I was a theological and ecclesial neophyte when I came to seminary. I approached these and other figures with no confessional agenda, no preconceived notion of what was “right” or “wrong” regarding the Reformation. I have always been and always will be a “free church” theologian, in the sense that I serve no particular confession or denomination, but rather serve Jesus Christ alone. I do not engage in theological work in order to bolster or defend a particular ecclesial identity. I am always ready to rebel against a tradition, institution, or theologian when I have reason to go in a different direction, but I am equally ready to make alliances in the most unusual and unexpected places (e.g., Barthian-liberationist or Anglican-Anabaptist).

Those trained to see Christian identity as the rigorous and faithful extension of a secure tradition will no doubt see this as a kind of radical voluntarism, the kind born of a Western spirit of individualism that leads precisely to today’s self-centered, seeker-sensitive, church-hopping culture. In response, I would reject both the notion of a “secure tradition” that only needs to be extended (rather than reinterpreted and renegotiated anew every day) and the notion of a traditionless voluntarism that refuses all norms apart from the sovereign preference of the individual will. Instead, I seek to embody a missionary openness to the claim of the moment, to the word of the gospel that addresses me here and now with God’s sending command. Our identity is never a secure possession, never a settled fact; ecclesial identity has to be discovered ever anew as we encounter the word of God today.

With this preface, let me now identify where I stand in the debate between Lutheran and Reformed theology. I will proceed as follows: (a) agreement with the Lutheran tradition over against the Reformed, (b) agreement with the Reformed over against the Lutheran, and (c) disagreement with both in favor of other ecclesial options.

A. Lutheran against the Reformed

1. The first point to make is simply that I identify with Lutheran theologians far more than with Reformed. To be honest, apart from Barth, Schleiermacher, Calvin (and Calvin only read in light of Barth), and the Heidelberg Catechism, I would have virtually no interest in the Reformed tradition. While I have certainly learned much from Reformed theologians (though almost exclusively from “Barthians”), I have been under the tutelage of Lutheran theologians. These include Eberhard Jüngel, Rudolf Bultmann, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Gerhard Ebeling, G.W.F. Hegel, Søren Kierkegaard, and Robert Jenson. The fact is that I read Barth in the light of what I have gained from these Lutheran thinkers, particularly Jüngel and Bultmann, though of course the influence is mutual.
2. Of the two central theological points of agreement with Lutheran theology, the first to note is the emphasis on the concrete and present-tense over against the abstract and past-tense. Put differently, I agree with the Lutheran emphasis on the present proclamation of the word as the decisive event over against the Reformed emphasis on God’s abstract, pre-temporal predestination (Barth, I want to say, represents a complicated via media that is neither Reformed nor Lutheran).
3. The second central theological point concerns christology. Historically, of course, this is what separated the Lutherans and the Reformed. Here my views are quite complicated, since I both agree and disagree with both Lutheran and Reformed views on Jesus Christ. In terms of agreement, I side with Lutheran theology in emphasizing the radical unity of divinity and humanity in Jesus Christ. That is, I see myself as standing in the so-called Alexandrian tradition of Athanasius and Cyril, though perhaps more accurately in the neo-Chalcedonian tradition of Maximus the Confessor. Of course, I submit this tradition to a thoroughly historical-critical revision in the wake of Schleiermacher, Strauss, Troeltsch, and Bultmann. So I would prefer to speak of a non-competitive “paradoxical identity” of divinity and humanity in Christ, rather than speak in terms of a logos-sarx relation as favored in the ancient church. And I would start “from below” with the concrete human person, Jesus, rather than “from above,” with the Logos, as did the Alexandrian tradition. It is the human Jesus who is identical with and constitutive of God, not a metaphysical Logos who then assumes human flesh. But I nevertheless rigorously reject the quasi-Nestorian christology manifest in the Reformed tradition, which is so concerned about protecting the sovereignty and majesty of God that it all-too-often forgets that Jesus redefines divine majesty in the form of a humble servant who suffers and dies. For this reason, I cannot accept the concepts of logos asarkos and extra Calvinisticum without serious reinterpretation.
4. Less important, but no less true, is my rejection of the Reformed opposition to art and iconography within the church. On this point I stand with the Eastern Orthodox, Catholics, and Anglicans, in addition to the Lutherans. Theologically, of course, this is derivative of the christological point made above in #3.
5. Liturgically and sacramentally, I firmly believe that the eucharist should be celebrated as often as the community gathers. For this reason, the Reformed practice of at least once every quarter (or as often as monthly) simply does not suffice.

B. Reformed against the Lutheran

1. Returning to the christological debate, I agree with the Reformed against the Lutheran doctrine of ubiquity—both the Swabian doctrine of absolute ubiquity and the Martin Chemnitz’s relative ubiquity or multivolipraesentia. This means I also reject the Lutheran use of the genus maiestaticum (genus of majesty), which involves a communication of attributes from the divine to the human nature as part of the perichoretic union of the natures. Against this, I hold to a kind of genus tapeinoticum (genus of humility) in which human attributes are communicated to the divine. The point is: I do not accept the Lutheran christology that undergirds its eucharistic theology. (But neither do I accept the Reformed christology that threatens the unity of deity and humanity in Christ. My christological moves are possible within a broadly Lutheran framework, even if I disagree with standard Lutheran orthodoxy.)
2. Along with my rejection of the Lutheran genus maiestaticum, I also side with the Reformed in terms of eucharistic theology. The Lutherans, holding to the ubiquity of Christ’s body, advocate a kind of consubstantiation, in which Christ’s body is substantially given “in, with, and under” the eucharistic elements. My view would be closer to Calvin on this point, who argues instead that the Holy Spirit makes Jesus Christ present in the elements, but without substantially localizing him on the basis of a doctrine of omnipresence. I prefer the Reformed view primarily because of its pneumatological orientation and its actualistic character: Christ is present in the Spirit and in this concrete moment of word and sacrament. I prefer to ground the eucharistic presence of Christ in the pneumatic epiclesis than in the priestly consecration. Having said that, I would still construe my theology of the Lord’s Supper in modern Lutheran terms as a visible word-event (Wortgeschehen) in which the elements become the tangible signs of God’s kerygmatic presence in the moment of word and faith.
3. Finally, because of the genus maiestaticum and other tendencies, Lutherans tend to favor notions of deification and mystical union. While there are strands of this in the Reformed as well, by and large I agree with the Reformed in rejecting all notions of divinization. Of course, figures like Jüngel and Bonhoeffer are quite adamant on this point as well, so the problem is not the Lutheran tradition per se but certain contemporary versions of it.

C. Against both Lutheran and Reformed

1. I stand against both of these traditions in their Constantinian legacy. Both Lutheran and Reformed churches failed to break free from the catastrophic church-state partnership that has characterized the Christian faith since Constantine. While the Reformed have been more successful than the Lutherans in this regard, I actively stand with the Anabaptists in their non-conformist rebellion. This coincides with my views on mission and missiology. A Constantinian church believes that mission takes the form of extending the structure of the church to unreached people groups. A “free church” missiology recognizes that the church has to be freely translated from one culture to another. Mission is translation, not diffusion and expansion. Here I would borrow from Bultmann and Barth, along with contemporary voices in the field of missional theology (e.g., Guder, Flett, Sanneh, and Newbigin).
2. Along with the rejection of the heresy of Constantinianism, I also reject the tendency and temptation to turn a particular confession, such as Augsburg or Westminster, into a norm of orthodoxy. To be sure, this is a temptation that threatens the Lutheran tradition more than the Reformed (with its stress on the semper reformanda), but it is nevertheless a battle that wages in both churches. I firmly believe that we are faithful to God alone, and to the scriptures that bear witness to God. All creeds and confessions have only a relative authority, and they are entirely provisional in nature.
3. While I have come to embrace infant baptism as an acceptable rite—rightly understood, of course—I also affirm adult baptism (perhaps even as the norm).
4. Again with the Anabaptists, and John Howard Yoder in particular, I would also insist that the Christian church must be confessionally nonviolent. Participation in the military, for example, is a violation of one’s commitment to Jesus Christ.
5. Finally, as a “free church” theologian, I have doubts about all denominations, not only because I have an issue with static institutional identities that are by nature conservative and resistant to change, but also because I do not think the future of the church is going to be found in religious brick-and-mortar congregations that have visible, public properties with salaried staff. If there is a future for Christianity, it will be located in the marginalized homes and communities that serve as nodes in a global matrix of concrete social action and worldly solidarity.

These are not all of the factors involved. This list could easily be twice as long. But I hope this gives at least a glimpse into what I think it means to be a “free church” Reformational Christian. While my family now belongs to a Lutheran church, I do not think this makes us “Lutheran,” as if our faith now receives an indelible label. Like many in my generation, I disdain attempts to locate my faith within predefined categories. But I also do not believe that I am “cherry-picking” my allegiances. Instead, as with theology, I find myself compelled by my confession of Christ’s lordship to transgress boundaries and erect new ones in pursuit of a more faithful Christian self-understanding. Theology, as Barth said, must always begin again at the beginning. Perhaps the same is true in our confessional and ecclesial identity.

Koinonia Journal: Call for Papers on Religion and Popular Culture

As the new executive editor of the Koinonia Journal, I want to share the following call for papers/proposals regarding our upcoming annual spring forum. I should have posted this earlier, but hopefully there will be a few readers out there who can still submit something. If you have any questions, leave a comment or send me an email.

Religion in Popular Culture

We live today in a world in which popular culture—Hollywood, Billboard Hot 100, professional sports, New York Times bestsellers, etc.—constitutes our lingua franca, our society’s “common language.” Pop culture functions today as a key location for the shared exploration of what it means to be truly human. For this reason, it is appropriate that Christians attentively engage pop culture in a scholarly fashion. Doing so not only helps to bridge the divide between the academy and the wider society, but it also disrupts the temptation toward religious insularity and creatively expands the horizons of Christian self-reflection. For these and other reasons, the thoughtful analysis of religion in popular culture is an important task today.

Koinonia is seeking original paper proposals on religion in popular culture that interact with recent discussions in a particular area of study. Suggested topics include, but are not limited to:

Theology of Culture – Film and Theology – Cultural Theory – Postmodernity – Sacred and the Profane – LOST – Myth and Fantasy – Horror and the Horrific – The Hollywood Jesus – Christ-figures – Stories of Sin and Redemption – Sport and Spectacle – Technology – Image and Icon – Pop Music – Philip Pullman – Cormac McCarthy – Apocalypse and the Post-Apocalyptic – The Question of “Redemptive Violence” – Cultural History – World Cinema – Harry Potter – U2 – Sexism and Heterosexism in Contemporary Culture – Avatars and Virtual Reality – Superheroes

Submissions are encouraged from a variety of disciplines, including philosophy, biblical studies, church history, theology, ethics, and practical theology. Proposals that approach the topic from a feminist, African American, Latino/a, and/or other similar context are especially encouraged. Winning proposals will be selected based on strength and originality of argument, as well as the potential for interdisciplinary dialogue.

One or more author/s will be invited to present a paper at the Koinonia Annual Forum during a visit to Princeton Theological Seminary in February 2011. All expenses for attendance at the forum, including travel and lodging, will be paid for these authors. Forum papers will be published in the 2011 issue of Koinonia Journal.

Authors must currently be enrolled as doctoral students in an accredited graduate program. Paper proposals should be 750-1500 words in length. Proposals may be sent via email to koinonia.journal-at-ptsem-dot-edu, as may inquiries or requests for an expanded prompt.

Koinonia is published annually by Ph.D. students under the auspices of Princeton Theological Seminary and is indexed in the ATLA Religion Database and available in theological libraries across the country.

DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSION: November 1, 2010