The Language of the Gospel Monday, Nov 23 2009

I have recently been thinking a lot about how we approach the way in which we, as Christians, approach the preaching of the Gospel. How do we know what kind of language to use?

I think, for example, about the Christian teaching on homosexuality. It’s pretty common knowledge that the Bible makes no bones about the fact that it’s wrong. Yet is it always right to refer to it the same way? Some have suggested that we ought to be clear and defiant about it, using terms like “sodomy” just for effect. On the other hand, some would suggest just ignoring the biblical teaching.

What would Jesus have done, though? Jesus had no problem with being controversial, calling the Pharisees a “brood of vipers”–no conciliation there. Yet at the same time, Jesus was accused of hanging out with tax collectors, prostitutes, and drunkards–these were *gasp* sinners! Yet Jesus came to save sinners.

It is with this in mind that I would suggest two different approaches–one for the church, and the other for outreach, discipleship, and apologetics. On the one hand, there should be no tolerance for unorthodoxy on this (or any) subject in the church. If a pastor or anyone else starts to speak as if this issue is not one of sin, it’s time to tell them to stop talking damned nonsense.

On the other hand, when interacting with non-Christians or even a struggling Christian, our job is to lovingly point out their sin. The idea is to say, “brother, you have a problem and so do I. You’re a sinner who needs a savior and His name is Jesus Christ.” Whenever dealing with a sin issue, be it homosexuality, adultery, dishonesty, whatever, one has to consider 1) is the person being willfully sinful or are they just lost and broken? 2) is this a time to speak about this or is it a time to shut up or is it a time to talk about the real issue.

Fact is, whenever faced with a sin issue like this, the only way to avoid legalism and antinomianism is to point it back to Christ. If Christ is not at the center of your moral teaching, then you are in error. Christ railed against the moralists of his day, yet He was the friend of sinners, outcasts, broken people who knew how much they needed a savior.

As the Church, it is our duty to show the world how much it needs a savior. Our moral teachings ought to flow from this–”Christ is the savior: follow Him. What you are looking for in (fill in the blank: sex/drugs/greed/whatever) just reflects that you need Christ. I’m broken too–let me help you see the great repairman. I was once dead like you–here’s the great resurrector.” The Gospel of Christ crucified ought to be our focus–not moralism. If you want moralism, go be a Mormon or a social reformer. Otherwise, preach Christ the Son of God, crucified and raised from the dead. The rest follows from this one fact.

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The Importance of Being Orthodox Wednesday, Nov 18 2009

Many Christians today are afraid of their own past. They look at creeds and confessions as “mere products of man” to be re-examined and scrapped at will. Indeed, such statements should be held against the standard of the Scriptures, but these prophets of postmodernity claim that we should abandon them altogether. No need to nail down our doctrine–doctrine comes second (or third, or fourth) to unity. We can simply be all loving and inclusive—no need for dogma, that nasty word.

Oh really?

What are we to be unified about if not common dogma, common doctrine? What, oh wise ones, is to define Christians contra mundum? The creeds and confessions are not merely dividing, but uniting. They divide Christianity from the world and unite it in Christ. The Nicene Creed does, indeed, divide Christians from Mormons, Arians, and Muslims, but it unites Roman Catholics, Eastern Orthodox, Anglicans, and Presbyterians. Here is common ground aplenty—courtesy of orthodoxy.

The trouble with this view that we don’t need creeds is that other religions define themselves this way. How can we answer the Muslim who says “There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet” unless we say, in response, “There is no God but Jahveh and Jesus Christ is His Son”? The word “heresy” has become anathema to our thinking and yet it is apt—Mohammed was a heretic and we can say that because we have orthodoxy.

If we didn’t have orthodoxy we might become confused. In his epistle to the Galatians, St. Paul commands the church “If we or an angel from heaven preach any other Gospel than the one you received, let him be accursed”—damned. The apostle is not afraid of condemning heresy—and one cannot condemn heresy unless there is orthodoxy to be defended. Therefore, we must stand firm by the orthodoxy that the Church has always preached, in accordance with the scriptures, because everything else is damned nonsense—that is, nonsense that can damn.

“But I could be wrong” cries the believer. If you really believe that (as opposed to being aware intellectually of your fallibility), then you have no business calling yourself a Christian. Indeed, you could be wrong–just as you could be wrong that 2+2=4 or that letting go of a pencil will cause it to fall to the ground. Where’s your faith? Where is the testimony of the Holy Spirit? Look inside your life and see His work bearing witness to the truth of the Gospel! The dogmatic, orthodox truths of the Gospel are not opposed to reason.

Is our faith personal as well as propositional? Absolutely–mere assent to propositions does not save–only faith saves. However, no one can be saved or call himself a Christian unless he assents to the fact, both personally and intellectually, that Christ is the Son of God. One cannot pursue passionately a God who is not there. Without the propositions, there is nothing to be related to and nothing to be unified about. Without the dogmas, the Christian faith becomes just a set of feelings—and I can get feelings at a Unitarian Universalist Church. Feelings are just a temporary bunch of mush—in order to have something real to hold onto and sustain, one must have dogmas—firmly held truths. These are absolute—orthodox, as truth must be.

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Common Sense: the Reductio Monday, Nov 9 2009

This is the first in a series of posts on the subject of common sense. These articles will focus on either how the common sense method works, or on how it is applied.

The principle that I would like to talk about is the reductio. Most philosophers, when they use a reductio are using a reductio ad absurdum where they take whatever view that they are critiquing to its logical conclusion and show how it is self-defeating and logically incoherent. This reductio is very useful in many cases.

However, common sense recognizes that there may be systems which are logically coherent, but nonetheless wrong. Here, another kind of reductio is called for: the reductio ad rism, where the critic takes the argument and shows just how ridiculous it is.

An example is required: there’s a story of a philosophy professor who one day was asked by a student, “Sir, how can I know if I exist.” The professor answered, “Who shall I say is asking?”

Another example would be the questioning of the existence of the professor, where the professor responds, “See if you can deny it if I give you an F.”

These sort of speculations, while interesting and entertaining, have no more place being taken seriously in philosophy than do the ravings of Norman Bates from Psycho. In other words, these kinds of questionings and skeptical doubts deserve to be placed in the same category with the question of whether I am a poached egg. They are entertaining, but not to be taken seriously.

On a broader level, the reductio ad rism may be used to debunk intellectual common nonsense outside philosophy.

One example of this would be the psychology of Sigmund Freud. Freud was taken seriously fifty years ago, but has been displaced in psychology since that time. However, I question whether it really should have taken seriously to begin with. Honestly, who really thinks that a five-year-old has sexual desire at all, much less for his mother? The concept is clearly absurd.

Or how about Skinner’s idea that we are not in any way responsible for our actions because of upbringing and social conditioning. I remember an episode of Andy Griffith where an idea like this was brought up and Barney simply replies, “Try that one on the local judge and let me know how you do.” The idea is simply hilarious when applied in any discipline other than psychology.

In short, this is a good part of what (un)common sense does: it exposes the falsity of ideas by simply pointing out their inadequacy and laughability. This is why, with Chesterton, I try to maintain a philosophy of “Uncommon sense for the world’s common nonsense.”

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The City Sunday, Nov 1 2009

It is a sad fact that today, cities are underrated. Granted, I like countryside and landscape as much as the next man, but I wonder if, as a culture, we have neglected the city too much. Cities were once centers of cultural and political life. Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci  produced their greatest works in cities. The world’s greatest architecture is urban, and even religious life once centered around cities like London and Wittenberg and Geneva.

The Church seems to have forgotten this last aspect. When Paul went on missionary journeys, where did he travel? To the cities. Why is it, then, that modern Christians seem to be afraid of cities? Are there safety issues? Yes, but it doesn’t help for Christians to be away from the cities. Is it pretty? No, but neither is the Church.

There is a reason why the Church is described as a city. “Glorious things of thee are spoken, O City of God” says the psalmist. Like any city, the City of God is full of imperfect and broken people. There are fights, people get hurt, and sometimes it just isn’t pretty. Yet, through it all, Christ is king and will bring all to perfection. The City of God is full of people who are simultaneously saints and sinners.

Since it is All Saints’ Day, I suppose that it is appropriate to talk about the City of God–an eternal city that, unlike the cities of man, will stand forever because it stands on Christ, the rock of our salvation. The inhabitants of this city comprise a mighty army spread through time and space that makes even the demons tremble.

Yet, though we know this, we still seem to fear the cities of the world. Why is it that we choose to build our churches in the suburbs? Why is it that we make so little effort to make the church a witness to the community around it? There was a time when churches were the vital social focal points of the community, not just the Christians–why the change?

This is not to say that this happens everywhere: I know of several examples of thriving inner-city churches with great focus on community. Yet for all that, the church today, as a rule, fears the city. We have become a people intoxicated with the safety of pastoral values, thinking of the city as a wilderness. Yet a wilderness must be tamed, for all things must be brought under to dominion of Christ.

Much of the problem with cities can be traced to this: that people have moved out of cities rather than in and when they go back in, they do so with economics alone in mind and forget about the community that they are supposed to be fostering. I am just as bad as the next man when it comes to this: I think I have all the answers and I don’t. When I think about cities at all, I think that my ideas of what a city ought to be should be adopted–and that’s not always the case.

It is not my intention here to say what a city should be, but what a city is: a place full of broken people, like you and I.

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Is Chivalry Dead? Thursday, Oct 22 2009

I’m going to take a break from Gordon Clark for a bit, for various reasons (aka: my philosophical thought has been concerned with an argument for the trinity–yes, it may find its way here). Instead, I wanted to embark on a cultural rant–that is, a rather disorganized but relevant annoyed commentary on the state of the culture.

Why is it that when I put on a sport coat, people ask me what the occasion is? Why is it that wearing a tie with an untucked shirt and jeans with holes is viewed as dressing up? Why is it that guys who hold doors open for women are the exception rather than the rule? Is the art of being a gentleman dying?

I hope not. Today’s casual culture has led to men who behave the same with acquaintances as they do with family. Men who need real help tying their own tie and couldn’t tell the difference between business and evening attire. Gone are the days when men were expected to help if a lady dropped something or needed help finding her car.

Why is it that often, men don’t understand that favors are to be returned, that invitations are to be responded to, and that the part of the purpose of having a home is to be able to entertain guests? The counterculture of the 1960s has become the mainstream today.

I watch films from the 1940s that show college students wearing ties to class nearly universally whereas today, even the professors usually don’t wear ties. Casual Friday has turned into casual every day. If I wear a sweater and button-down shirt to class, I get compliments about how nice I look–really? Is our culture so casual that wearing a sweater counts as “nicely dressed”?

Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I enjoy dressing up rather than down. I enjoy taking care in the morning to look well-groomed. I enjoy opening doors for ladies, assisting the elderly, and being able to return favors. I enjoy being able to compliment the chef, tip a waiter well, and asking sincerely how the barista is doing. Maybe I’m just an old-fashioned southern guy.

Granted, it wasn’t perfect fifty years ago: there was racism, sexism, and uncertainty. But sometimes I do wonder how members of the “greatest generation” feel about their children and grandchildren and what they have done with the peace and freedom that the sacrifices of World War II bought. Sure, we congratulate them on veterans day and listen to the stories, but do we really consider what we have done with that legacy? We take that freedom for granted because we were born into it–they didn’t. They grew up during the depression and fought during the war and now I wonder if their grandchildren even consider what they owe.

It’s no wonder that they were chivalrous and good citizens after the war–they knew what freedom can cost. I think my generation needs a good reminder of the cost of freedom. It’s not just about saving things out there or political activism–it’s about treating others with dignity and respect–even while fighting with blood, toil, tears, and sweat. Are we willing to give up privileges now so that our children can have them? Are we willing to give up life and limb so that others can live in peace? Are we willing to challenge evil and call it what it is? I hope so, otherwise there is no future and it’s our fault.

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Gordon Clark Part 2: Language and Certainty Thursday, Oct 8 2009

Though there is much more that could be said about Clark’s axiom, let us assume that Scripture is, in fact, axiomatic and, further, the most basic axiom from which all other knowledge proceeds (except, maybe, the laws of logic).

Here we are faced with yet another epistemological problem: how do we know what Scripture says, that is, what it means? At this point, I must explain my position.

Suppose that I state proposition A: “All borogroves are mimsy” (apologies to Lewis Carroll for his terminology). Naturally, the reader scratches his head and inquires as to my meaning. The point is that, for there to be communication, all parties involved must be at some agreement regarding the vocabulary used.

This is a problem for Clark because he implicitly assumes the absoluteness of language yet he claims that his only basic axiom is Scripture (and the laws of logic, possibly). He naively assumes that we know English absolutely. Further, Clark would say that man is in disagreement with God–so how do we know that our definitions are God’s definitions?

How do I know, for certain, that when Scripture talks about a horse, that the words mean what I think they mean? Even if, for example, we grant that God imposes knowledge on the mind, how can we be absolutely certain that He has done so? As a matter of fact, we don’t, at least not with absolute certainty.

The trouble is that, since man is fallible, he can be absolutely certain of nothing, even with an axiom. His logic may be flawed and he not see it; he may have his axiom wrong; all manner of ways exist that he could be wrong. Like Descartes, Clark is naive to think that we can actually have absolute indubitable certainty about anything, even given an axiom. The fact of the matter is that even a set of axioms may be false–we don’t know. We may be able to prove, via a reductio ad absurdum that it is, in fact, false, but we can never prove that it is true. Clark can attempt a reductio of all other systems, but in order to have absolute certainty, he would have to a) know all possible systems b) be able to refute all of them. However, the fact is that we are finite and do not know all possible systems. Therefore we have no absolute certainty, even about the truth of the axioms.

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Gordon Clark Part 1: the Axiom Monday, Sep 28 2009

Following a recent discussion of my post on Gordon Clark in my “How Do You Know” series, I thought I would devote some time to fleshing out some of my objections to his philosophy. Since I wrote the original post, I have read some Clark and have interacted with some followers of Clark and thus I understand his position better.

This morning in a philosophy class, the professor remarked on a tendency of Germans and Calvinists to build huge systems of thought on a few axioms without giving a thought to reality. The end result is a cohesive, elegant system that is quite logical and also has little correspondence with reality. Such is the system of the late Gordon Clark.

Clark is, in many ways, simply expanding Van Til’s view of revelation and boiling it down when he claims that Scripture is axiomatic: that is, that Scripture is the first principle upon which any knowledge is built. Further, Scripture’s authority cannot be proved and therefore any attempt to do so is doomed to failure.

My question here is one of why we ought to simply accept that Scripture is axiomatic. How do we know that it is the axiom upon which everything else rests apart from Dr. Clark’s say-so? With any other discipline, such as mathematics, the axioms are self-evident–that is, they are proved by means of a reductio ad absurdum. For example, we take the axiom 2+2=4 and we take the position that 2+2=5, demonstrate that it is false, and then conclude that 2+2 necessarily equals 4.

Unlike Van Til, Clark makes no attempt at a reductio ad absurdum of the alternatives, instead maintaining what he terms “dogmatism”: that is, since other systems are failing to justify knowledge we must try something to avoid skepticism. Unfortunately, this is the fideistic irrationalism that Clark was trying to avoid. We end up at a Pascal’s wager of sorts where we take a guess that the Bible provides a good basis and put our money on the table and cross our fingers. He can critique rationalism and empiricism, but he can’t provide a viable alternative criterion–at least not one that leads to any practical knowledge.

Instead, Clark dogmatically asserts that Scripture is axiomatic and gives no reason to think so–not even God’s authority. Clark expects me to accept Scripture on the basis of faith alone, which is the definition of fideism.

Ultimately, therefore, Clark has to admit that he knows nothing except on faith alone. He has constructed a beautiful castle of a system that rests on the clouds of irrationality. Ultimately, Clark is a fideist.

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St. Anselm and the Roots of Reformation Sunday, Sep 20 2009

Recently, I have had to read Cur Deus Homo, St. Anselm’s classic work on the connection between the incarnation and the atonement. What follows is an edited version of a report I did following my reading:

Martin Luther is often quoted as having said that the doctrine of justification by grace alone through faith alone is the doctrine on which the Church stands or falls. However, in saying this Luther forgot a more fundamental doctrine without which justification through faith alone would not be possible: the doctrine of the atonement. Without the doctrine of substitutionary atonement through the work of Christ, the tower of reformed theology comes crashing down. In his classic Cur Deus Homo or Why God Became Man St. Anselm of Canterbury tackles this very question in the midst of his defense of the Biblical doctrine of the incarnation. In so doing, he shows how the atonement is the key not only to our understanding of salvation, but to our understanding of the person of Christ.

One particularly interesting section of this work in terms of historic reformed theology comes in Book I Chapter Ten, where Anselm is explaining how, though the Father willed the Son to die, yet the Son went willingly to die for the sins of His people. Anselm explains that the effort was co-operative in that the Father gave the Son the will to obey and that the Father then commanded the Son to offer Himself up. Thus, as Barth would do in the twentieth century, Anselm presents Christ Himself as an object of Divine election and reprobation.

Interestingly, Anselm makes no connection here to the election of other individuals or to human freedom of the will. Instead, election is addressed in Chapter Sixteen. Here Anselm maintains that the number of the elect is intended to replace the number of fallen angels and even to exceed it. While to the twenty-first century mind, this may seem to be idle speculation, he uses it to cement a powerful point about the similar means by which God used the rejection of Christ by the Jews as His means of bringing Gentiles into the fold of His people as well as Jews.

The real undergirding point that Anselm makes, however, in terms of later reformed theology is in Chapter Nineteen of Book I where, following the discussion of election, Anselm argues that satisfaction for sin is necessary in order for God to forgive it, since God is holy. This point is, of course, odious to many in the twenty-first century, yet it is crucial, Anselm argues. Without the need for satisfaction, there is no need for cleansing of sin or salvation. Anselm uses the illustration of mire and filth to convey our own puny sinfulness in comparison with God’s holiness.

Further, in Chapter Twenty, Anselm argues that man cannot pay this debt on his own. Man cannot wash himself clean to make himself holy before God. In Chapter Twenty-Five, Anselm argues that only through Christ can there be any satisfaction for sin, challenging the unbeliever to find another way, knowing that there is none. While Aquinas and other scholastic theologians would use this idea as the basis for the so-called “treasury of merit”, the reformers saw Anselm’s point more clearly and used his point as the basis for double imputation, whereby the righteousness of Christ is imputed to the believer and his or her wickedness is imputed to Christ. It is on this point that the whole of reformed theology rests.

Cur Deus Homo is possibly the best work on the incarnation and the atonement since the completion of the New Testament. Though some of Anselm’s reasoning seems antiquated and obscure to twenty-first century readers, the main points are clear and well-argued even today. Further, this work is an excellent resource in combating the emergent tendency to downplay the substitutionary atonement. In the final analysis, Anselm successfully explains why the atonement was necessary and thus, why it is necessary to our understanding of who Christ is.

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Words of Wisdom from Will Durant Friday, Sep 18 2009

While I don’t always agree with what Will Durant had to say, I thought this quote from the Will Durant Foundation page of quotes deserved to be read. His words regarding the role of religion in society are prophetic:

A certain tension between religion and society marks the highest stages of every civilization. Religion begins by offering magical aid to harassed and bewildered men; it culminates by giving to a people that unity of morals and belief which seems so favorable to statesmanship and art; it ends by fighting suicidally in the lost cause of the past. For as knowledge grows or alters continually, it clashes with mythology and theology, which change with geological leisureliness. Priestly control of arts and letters is then felt as a galling shackle or hateful barrier, and intellectual history takes on the character of a “conflict between science and religion” Institutions which were at first in the hands of the clergy, like law and punishment, education and morals, marriage and divorce, tend to escape from ecclesiastical control and become secular, perhaps profane. The intellectual classes abandon the ancient theology and — after some hesitation — the moral code allied with it; literature and philosophy become anticlerical. The movement of liberation rises to an exuberant worship of reason, and falls to a paralyzing disillusionment with every dogma and every idea. Conduct, deprived of its religious supports, deteriorates into epicurean chaos; and life itself, shorn of consoling faith, becomes a burden alike, to conscious poverty and to weary wealth. In the end, a society and its religion tend to fall together, like body and soul, in a harmonious death. Meanwhile, among the oppressed, another myth arises, gives new form to human hope, new courage to human effort, and after centuries of chaos builds another civilization.

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Catholicism and Preaching Monday, Sep 7 2009

I have recently begun reading the blog of Father Joe, not because I am by any means a Roman Catholic (let me state again the near-impossibility of such a switch), but because he has a biblical perspective on life and a variety of interests. In other words, I don’t mind reading Catholics as long as they are somewhat orthodox.

In particular, I was recently reading his post from a while back on preaching, where he talked about preaching and why many Catholics migrate to Protestantism. It reminded me of a conversation years ago where a Roman Catholic friend and I were discussing Jonathan Edwards’ Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, and he remarked that, “We Catholics don’t have sermons, we have homilies.” It marks a serious deficiency in the Church of Rome that in general, the preaching of the word is downplayed.

The reason is obvious to me: every time that the word is preached in the Catholic Church like it has been in historic Protestantism, it has spawned a questioning of Roman Catholic doctrine. Just how did Jan Hus start to question the doctrine of the church? It was in his preparations for expository preaching at Bethlehem Chapel in Prague. It was a stated goal of the Reformers to make the Church a place where the word of God was preached faithfully. John Calvin reputedly spent twelve whole years preaching through Romans, doing his utmost to exposit the word carefully.

In this, the Reformers were seeking a return to the early Church, where preachers like St. Ambrose of Milan and St. John Chrysostom preached through the Bible from their “pulpits” (ok, so the pulpit was invented in the medieval period) and shook the foundations of the Roman Empire to the point where Theodosius the Great humbled himself in Milan’s Cathedral after St. Ambrose condemned him for the slaughter at Thessalonica in a series of sermons. When the word is faithfully preached, powerful things happen.

Father Joe, you’re right: the Roman Catholic Church ought to be better about preaching, but not for the reason you think. When the word is preached in the Catholic Church, maybe then there will be a new reformation.

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