Can the Church Bless Divorce?



A man and a woman stood before an altar that was properly dressed with flowers, candles and the elements necessary to celebrate the Eucharist. A priest and a lay reader waited in the sanctuary, fully vested. The small congregation of some 25 people gathered in the chancel to share this moment of worship was made up of invited guests --  close friends, in many instances, of both the man and the woman. A couple, perhaps the closest friends of both, came in and took their places just before the service started: the man beside the man, the woman beside the woman. as if to play the roles of best man and matron of honor.

But this was not a marriage. It was, rather, A Service for the Recognition of the End of a Marriage,” a liturgy designed to offer to God the pain of a divorce. This man and this woman had once stood before the altar and, in the words of the prayer book, pledged their troth each to the other, til “death us do part.” It was a vow that they had not been able to keep.

Theirs had been the not unfamiliar experience of growing alienation. There had been more hurt than healing, more offense than forgiveness in their marriage. An increasing inability to communicate had seemed to result from the radically different life paths that each partner was taking.

Finally each realized that there was no more life or potential for life in their relationship. Lacking the capacity to try again, they decided to part: they separated, divided their property and made provisions for caring for their children, and, finally, divorced.

Because the man and the woman remained committed Christians, the church which had been a central focus of their marriage somehow also had to be a part of their separation. Hence, this service -- painful, traumatic but intensely real -- was planned to offer the all-too-human reality of divorce to God, and to seek God’s healing and new directions for their lives.

The opening hymn, “Abide with Me,” announced firmly that this would be no Pollyanna attempt to gloss over human pain. The eventide of death had fallen on this couple’s relationship. They had experienced the deepening darkness of human brokenness. Although they had sought help, it had failed. So we sang help of the helpless, O abide with me.”

The call to worship used some of the words of the Psalms, speaking of God as shelter and strength in the time of a shaking earth, when mountains fall into the ocean depths. Then, the liturgist announced that this man and this woman have decided after much effort, pain and anger that they will no longer be husband and wife. They wish to be friends and to respect and care about each other. They are now and will continue to be parents to their children, and they wish to be responsible for each of them.

The congregation responded, “In this difficult time we join with you as your friends. We have been with you in your joys, your struggles and your tears. We have not always known how to be helpful. Although we may not fully understand, we honor your decision. We care and we give you our love.” We joined in a confession asking God to “embrace us when frustration and failure leave us hollow and empty . . . in the confession of our lips show us now the promise of a new day, the springtime of the forgiven.” The Lessons followed. Isaiah exhorted us to remember not the former things”; the psalmist proclaimed the reality of the God who hears when we call “out of the depths”; Paul reminded us that nothing in either life or death ‘‘can separate us from the love of God”; and John echoed Jesus’ words that when we trust in God we can “let not our hearts be troubled.”

The man and woman faced each other land spoke of their pain and failure, and of the seemingly inexorable nature of their separation; of loneliness and the need to learn new ways of relating; and of the sense of death, which both were experiencing. They asked each other for forgiveness, and pledged themselves to be friends, to stand united in caring for their children and to be civil and responsible to each other. They thanked their friends for their willingness to share that moment of pain.

And it was painful for everyone there. All shared the excruciating pain of human brokenness, the irrevocable fracture in a relationship that had once brought joy and fulfillment. The divorced couple wept, and so did every member of that gathered group. Hearts cried out for an easy answer, for an embrace, for someone to say that this was a bad dream that would depart, leaving the past restored. But this service took place in real life, not in fantasy. The pain could not be removed; it had to be endured and transformed,

When the man and the woman had returned to their seats, we sat in an aching silence for what seemed an interminable time. Some prayed; some tried to dry their tears; some wished that they had not come. But all remained.

Finally we rose and said together: “We affirm you in the new covenant you have made: one that finds you separated but still caring for each other and wishing each other good will; one that enables you to support and love your children, one that helps to heal the pain you feel. Count on God’s presence. Trust our support and begin anew.”

Then we prayed the “Prayers of the People,” culminating in these words which the congregation spoke together: “On behalf of the church which blessed your marriage, we now recognize the end of that marriage. We affirm you as single persons among us and we pledge you our support as you continue to seek God’s help and guidance for the new life you have undertaken in faith.” During the passing of the peace, the healing power of the embrace of friends washed over each of us. We celebrated the Eucharist together as a holy community that had shared an experience that would never be forgotten.

The closing hymn pointed us to new beginnings: “When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain, thy touch can call us back to life again. Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been: Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.”

Those human relationships that promise the greatest joy also hold the potential for the deepest hurt. I do not believe that any relationship offers more possibilities or binds us more deeply to one another than marriage does. To that connection we make the most solemn pledges, promising “to love, honor and cherish” each other “for richer. for poorer, “in sickness and in health,” ‘‘forsaking all others to be faithful as long as both shall live.” Life, destiny and hope reside in marriage.

The children born of that relationship represent a binding unity. To be able to raise those children to adulthood, to share together in their moments of transition, to give them the security enabling them to leave home and to fly with their own wings is a joy indeed. To be able to offer grown children a place to visit that is a happy refuge populated by people called grandparents is one of life’s deepest dimensions. Such opportunities are the serendipities of a good marriage. When childraising responsibilities have been completed, for a husband and a wife to be able to grow old together in mutual trust and love, cherishing memories of the joys and sorrows, the victories and defeats that have bound them closely together -- surely, that is an ideal to be sought, a vision not to be relinquished, a goal worth the striving.

But in our broken world ideals are often unrealized. Visions are frequently compromised and ultimate goals, it seems, are seldom fully achieved. When we fail, the church needs to meet us in our pain, to enable us to stand even though we have fallen, and to give us courage to live, love and risk again.

No one should abandon a sacred relationship without making every effort to heal and transform the brokenness. Not to struggle to preserve a sacred trust is to reveal a shallowness that will continue to plague one’s life. But when that struggle has been engaged deeply and honestly and still has not succeeded, then the church must reach out to its hurting people with a faith that embraces the past in forgiveness and opens the future in hope.

The pressures on marriage today are enormous. Mobility, loneliness, rootlessness and many other factors take a daily toll. Without compromising its essential commitment to the ideal of faithful, monogamous marriage, the church needs to proclaim that divorce is sometimes the alternative which gives hope for life, and that remaining in a marriage is sometimes the alternative which delivers only death.

The fullness of life for each of God’s creatures is the Christian church’s ultimate goal for human life. When a marriage serves that goal, it is the most beautiful and complete of human relationships. When a marriage does not or cannot serve that goal, it becomes less than ultimate and may well prove less than eternal. In such a case the church needs to accept the reality and the pain that separation and divorce bring to God’s people, and to help redeem and transform that reality and that pain.

I am convinced that no divorced couple could go through the service for “A Recognition of the End of a Marriage” without knowing that in the searing pain of human brokenness there is redemption, forgiveness, hope and the opportunity to seek a new fulfillment along a new path.

We Christians serve a God who can bring resurrection out of crucifixion, life out of death, joy out of sorrow, redemption out of pain. Perhaps this God can also bring us to wholeness despite our brokenness. In that hope we live.

The Urban Church: Symbol and Reality



There is a powerful political dimension to the present reality of our cities. The demise of so many of them has not been the result of an accident or of some inexorable force of history, but has come about because of consciously made political decisions. Cities first grew up around ports or industries, or at the crossroads of important trade or transportation routes. As the population expanded around those centers, political processes incorporated the suburbs into separate towns whose residents could pretend not to be dependent on the city and whose political concerns did not stretch beyond their own boundaries.

Super highways built with public money allowed suburban commuters to put larger and larger distances between themselves and the stresses of city life. As a result, the core cities were slowly reduced to near-bankruptcy, becoming communities of the poor, of the elderly and of ethnic minorities at the bottom of the socioeconomic system. They became dwelling places for those requiring the greatest number of social services, just as the necessary tax base to pay for those services eroded -- the taxpayers having fled to suburbia, where they could pretend that the pain of the city was neither their pain nor their fault.

During times of economic expansion and industrial growth, old city plants were often not modernized. Rather, new factories were built, usually on the outskirts of small towns in heretofore rural America, where the mechanization of farms made available a pool of cheap, plentiful labor. American industry became decentralized. During economic downturns, businesses tried to curb expansion and cut expenses by shutting down the older, more heavily taxed and less efficient central city plants. This raised urban unemployment to higher and higher levels, creating an atmosphere of hopelessness and despair and breeding the familiar problems of crime, drug addiction and alcoholism.

Our cities have been in a relentless depression -- a depression, not a recession -- for the past 25 years. As technological advances have continued and our national economy has evolved into an international one, and as we have shifted from an industrial into a computerized informational society, the old industrial cities have once again paid the primary price. The clean industries of the informational society have added to the wealth of the South and the West, drawing in the educated and the affluent, while leaving behind the less adaptable industrial workers.

Economically, our world is divided not so much between the capitalist West and the communist East as between the economically developed Northern Hemisphere and the underdeveloped Southern. But cities are often pockets of poverty in the Northern Hemisphere, sharing many of the problems found in the underdeveloped nations. Indeed. American cities are now largely inhabited by those with a Third World ethnic background.

Urban ministry in today’s America must be carried on in places where the church does not have the power to control or change the realities it confronts. That is not, however, a prescription for inertia. Those in power need to be made more sensitive to the effects that national political decisions have had on our cities. We need to be called to the awareness that American society will not be stable, just and secure until the issues of unemployment, welfare benefits, adequate housing, proper education and humane social services are addressed from national, rather than local, perspectives. If the problems of our cities are the results of political decisions consciously made in the past, then it is possible that political decisions consciously made in the future can re-create those cities into what the are capable of being: cosmopolitan examples of the rich an variegated life of an increasingly small and interdependent planet, where humanity in all its diversity of race, sex, national origin and religious creed can be celebrated with a joy that borders on worship.

While the work toward such a national political consciousness goes on, however, churches must still struggle to live and bear witness in the city. Church structures are still visible, congregations still meet for worship, and life is still lived in our cities. That life may be broken, distorted, angry or even hopeless, but it goes on. No matter how hidden or how dim, the Kingdom of God is still present. Some people tend to denigrate urban church activity, calling it a Band-Aid ministry. I do not share their point of view. I recognize that many of the things we do deal with are symptoms rather than causes of the urban plight, but I also believe that when people are hurt and bleeding, Band-Aids are better than nothing; that some hope is better than no hope; that a dim sign of God’s presence in the city is better than no sign. I rejoice that the urban church is a place where people still gather to share victories and defeats, little successes and quiet achievements. Patching one another’s wounds is no small accomplishment.

I am privileged to be the bishop of an urban diocese. I am pleased that I have the opportunity to support urban churches -- many of which are not economically viable -- and to nurture urban clergy, many of whom are not successful by the traditional measures of success. I rejoice that the church continues to raise up its sons and daughters to seek priestly vocations in our cities, and I am dedicated to maintaining the presence of our ecclesiastical structures and our worshiping communities in the depressed areas of urban America, no matter what the cost.



The very presence of the church in the inner city is its most effective message. The church’s power may lie not so much in what its members say or do as in who they are. The gospel is proclaimed not through rational words or well-planned programs alone, but through effective symbols.

The city reflects the wide variety of human experience -- a variety in race, national background and lifestyle. Building a cohesive community out of that diversity is a primary urban need which the church, simply by being there, helps to meet. The church defines itself in the universal terms of the gospel, announcing that this Christian community is for all people. In Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, bond nor free. As St. Paul stated, “In Christ shall all be made alive.” Because the city, unlike most suburbs, is not monochromatic, the church’s universality comes most dramatically into focus there.

Who are the people of the city? Some are the alienated, the victims of racism, of neglect, of age. The city is frequently the home of the devalued and the twisted. Its hungry and homeless wanderers often are mentally ill people who have been prematurely released from state-run mental institutions -- not dangerous enough to be locked away, but not well enough to live without the emotional and physical support which few people seem capable of offering them. The urban homeless are the kind of people most suburbanites would never meet.

Clusters of ethnic people migrating or fleeing from other parts of the world also come to the city, bringing with them their unique languages and cultural values -- all of which affect the city’s customs and tastes. The fastest growing Episcopal congregation in northern New Jersey is Korean. I confirmed 42 adults there on my last visitation. In this relatively small geographical area, the diocese of Newark, the Holy Eucharist is celebrated each Sunday in English, Spanish, French, Korean, Japanese and Malayalam.

Still other groups that make the city their home are the avant-garde: those who experiment with alternate lifestyles, those who participate in new trends long before the rest of society does, and those who have escaped or seek to escape their provincial and tribal identities and prejudices.

When the church embraces this rich mix, when those who celebrate the future and those who have been victimized by the past gather in an urban coalition, a vision of the Kingdom of God appears. That Kingdom, the gospel proclaims, is made up of people who come from the four corners of the earth, from the North, South, East and West, as well as of those who are the least of our brothers and sisters. In the city the church’s presence as a universal community proclaims the Kingdom of God. The urban parish is an inclusive fellowship in which the universal claim of the gospel is lived out for the sake of the church everywhere.

In the city, where finding adequate and safe housing is a constant concern, it is as a house -- a house of God -- that the church makes its witness. It needs to be present as all of the things that housing means to people: a sanctuary, a shelter, a haven, a refuge, a protected womb, an ark to carry us through the storm. Although the church has neither the power nor the resources to solve urban housing problems, it can be a welcoming home to the homeless, a house to those who have been burned out, a haven to those who are cold. It can be the house of last appeal when other housing structures fail, the house of God to those who seek an adequate home.

Another major issue in urban America is arson. Burned-out buildings dot the landscape, for landlords have learned how to collect insurance payments and then flee to safer investments outside the city. But standing in that environment where fire’s destructive power is widely known is a church seeking to claim even flames as a symbol of redemption. We begin our worship by putting lighted candles on our altars; we speak of the Holy Spirit as a tongue of fire; we refer to God as heat and light; we sing of the fire of God that consumes our dross and refines our gold. The church transforms this symbol of urban destruction into a sign of redemption and hope. Fire becomes a symbol of the purging presence of the Holy God, pointing us to the ultimate hope for which the church stands.

Hunger, whether as the absence of sufficient food or the lack of good nutrition, is still another reality for the urban poor. But the central rite of Christian worship is the sacrament of communion: people gather to be fed at the table of the Lord. Sunday after Sunday Christians break bread and drink wine together, symbolically proclaiming that the church is a community where food, heavenly and earthly, is available. A community that calls its Lord the bread of life creates a symbolic meal, the Eucharist, which quite naturally overflows into other feeding ministries, such as soup kitchens and food pantrys. Activities to feed the hungry grow out of our Eucharist; they can never replace it or be a substitute for it.



Urban America is characterized by poor educational facilities. A major deterrent to the reformation of the city’s economic base is the unwillingness of those who can afford to do otherwise to subject their children to the inadequacy of urban schools. Yet in the midst of the city stands a church that is the descendant of the Jewish synagogue, which was primarily a teaching center. The church trains its people and brings to life the Christian tradition, enabling our heritage to become a force in our present. Here the moral issues of life can be explored and human civility can be encouraged. In the church the ethnic values of diverse peoples can be celebrated, their different languages and cultures enriching each other.

It is vital for the urban church to take seriously its teaching function as a self-conscious Christian community. Bible classes, effective sermons, study groups, weekend conferences, even retreats need to be a part of the growing God-consciousness of city congregations. The God who opposed the ghettoization of the Israelite slaves in Egypt is the same God who is worshiped in city churches. The God who spoke through the prophets to end human oppression is still the God of the whole church. The biblical story continues in the existential lives of city dwellers.

Our political powers have consciously and unconsciously denigrated city residents by allowing inadequate school systems to become the norm. The church should respond by affirming the worth of urban people through challenging their hearts and minds with effective educational opportunities. City people do not want to discuss only urban problems. They want to hear the story of their faith, confront the saving word and know themselves as a part of an ongoing tradition.

Urban life is not beautiful. Garbage collection is generally poor. Trash litters the streets. Many homes are in poor repair, and some are abandoned bits of delapidation. Many city people are so depressed that they deliberately fill their lives with ugliness, as an unconscious commentary on the way they feel valued by others. Consequently, it is especially important that city churches be places of beauty. Their liturgies ought to be sensitive and magnificent. Money spent to beautify urban houses of worship is not wasted, for beauty is a gift that the poor covet. Their churches need to bear witness to the power of beauty, and to the sense of caring communicated by clean, sparkling sanctuaries, naves and exteriors. A broken-down church filled with the musty odor of dry rot, made inconvenient by a leaking roof, and defaced by torn, moldy or faded altar hangings cannot bear adequate witness to the God of the resurrection. Great churches of the past, with expensive maintenance needs, are the legacy we have bequeathed to urban dwellers. When we fill these churches with poorly prepared liturgies and shallow, inane preaching, we add to the urban poor’s sense of being surrounded by a noncaring, nonvaluing world. Urban church structures need to shine as centers of beauty, as symbols of hope, as signs of the Kingdom. They need to be living parables of God’s caring.

The city increasingly has become a place of violence. Crimes against persons and property make fear the daily companion of the urbanite. Life narrows when people must seek safety above fulfillment. But in the midst of the city stands a church -- a church which is itself sometimes the victim of violence and whose central symbol is a cross. On that cross violence is both real and destructive. But as the story of that cross unfolds, one meets a divine love that overwhelms hatred, and a living Lord who transforms death. Only in the church does the city resident see the symbol of violence redeemed, the despair of death defeated.

For all of these reasons, the symbolic presence of the city church is necessary to the cause of Christ -- and, since necessary, worthy of the support and the investment of time, talent and treasure of all the people of God.

We are the church of the incarnate Lord who so loved the world that he was born into our human life, his presence turning a common stable into a majestic shrine. His life transformed a cross of execution into a symbol of resurrection. Because we serve this Lord, the Christian church is a symbolic presence that can turn the despair of the city into hope, the ugliness of the city into beauty, the destructive power of the city into redemption and the fearful fire of the city into cleansing truth. In the church the homeless do find shelter, those of diverse backgrounds do discover community and the hungry do gather around the altar to be fed with the bread and the wine of the Eucharist.

The Christian church must stay in the city not because it can solve all the problems that city life raises, though it dare not ignore those problems. We must stay in the city not because we can bring about all of the political, economic and social changes needed, though we must never cease to labor toward those goals. But our primary vocation in the city is simply to be the church, a community of self-conscious Christians. The church is a presence, an outpost of the Kingdom of God, a light in the darkness which the darkness can never extinguish or overwhelm. Our vocation is to be ourselves. Someday the Christians of the suburbs, the towns and the hamlets will recognize that this witness is deeply important to them. Then perhaps the whole church will place its resources where the need is, not because we are generous but because our integrity as the people of God requires it.

Hope and Fear in Ecumenical Union

Every ecumenical venture carries with it two experiences. One is unique and particular, shaped by the character of the Christian traditions that are coming together. It is rational and quite conscious. The other experience is a vague, distant, almost unconscious discomfort that lurks beneath the surface and raises fears and insecurities in the hearts of believers. The inauguration of Lutheran-Episcopal eucharistic accord can serve as an illustration in exploring both of these realities.

There is a special joy that marks the occasion every time two Christian groups come together. Hope expands when obvious divisions are submerged by a more obvious unity. The historic differences that have divided Lutherans and Anglicans are easy to articulate. In the establishment of a shared eucharistic fellowship, a Christian union in the New World of German and Scandinavian Christians with English Christians is being achieved and celebrated. Both groups have unique identities which have been forged by their unique national origins.

Martin Luther, on seeing corruption he could not ignore at the heart of the church, moved to challenge that which he felt distorted the gospel. He sought to confront the authority of the ecclesiastical hierarchy with Holy Scripture and in this manner to recall the church to the purity of his perception of the New Testament vision. Luther wanted to purge his beloved church of superstition, clerical manipulation and false doctrine. His was a crusade which began in a sincere religious conviction.

The English Reformation, on the other hand, began in nothing quite so noble. The spark which ignited the reform movement in England was a political conflict between King Henry VIII and Pope Clement VII in 1529. It had to do with the king’s requested marriage annulment, which, if granted by the pope, would have been an affront to the Catholic royal family of Spain and thus the source of immense political problems for the papacy. This conflict was symbolic of the growing power of the nation-states and of the breakdown of the hegemony known as the Holy Roman Empire, in which the church was clearly the most powerful element.

Luther’s religious challenge to the papacy was embraced by the nationalistic power yearnings of the German princes in their quest for national autonomy. Lutheranism in this manner became immediately both a political and a theological movement. As soon as the King of England effectively challenged the papacy politically, the long-simmering passion for ecclesiastical reform in England also surfaced and carried the Reformation into theological and spiritual directions. Thus, Anglicanism similarly became immediately both a political and a theological movement. In many ways the political divisions, far more than the theological divisions, have kept the two groups separate until this day.

One reason the move toward ecumenical union seems easier today is that national differences are not as important in the modern, interdependent world as they once seemed to be. Like all religious movements, the teachings of Luther were inevitably nationalized, and that nationalism was a factor in the disunity of the Christian church over the centuries. Luther’s writings even fed the anti-Semitism that led to the Holocaust in German history and for a period of time separated Germany from the world. Today the political and economic competition between England and Germany that resulted in two wars in the 20th century has faded into partnership in the European Common Market.

The national character of the Anglican Communion was no less tribal in its identity. When the English crown established the Church of England as the official religion of the realm, the activity of worship was married to the emotion of patriotism. Historic patriotic anger combined with religious convictions is a powerful force. Once that force is loosed in mortal conflict, it is like a malevolent genie that never quite returns to dwell within its magic lamp.

The destruction of the Spanish Armada in 1588 was widely interpreted in England as a visitation upon the Roman Catholics by the true God of the Reformation. At that point in English history, simply to be a Roman Catholic in England was enough to arouse suspicion of treason. The echo of this bitterness was still present in 1982 in the Falkland Islands war between Protestant Britain and Catholic Argentina. It still exceeds the flash point of rationality in Ireland. Yet economic interdependence and instant communications have punctured the power of these patterns of the past, and people are beginning to see beyond the tribal mentality to that Christian heritage in which unity can be achieved.

Both Lutherans and Anglicans trace their roots to the same Lord. Both are communities of belief in continuity with the faith of the apostles. Both share the theological framework called the creeds. Both claim identity with heroes of the Christian past. Luther adopted Augustine, the great bishop of Hippo, as his teacher and Paul as his primary New Testament guide. The leading English divines have similarly rooted their theological life in the gigantic figures of early church history. Once our eyes look beyond nationalistic tendencies, the step into unity can not only be achieved, but the slowness with which Christians have approached this step In the past can even be ridiculed.

But there is also a note of fear that is largely unconscious about the ecumenical movement. In a deep sense ecumenicity cuts at the lifeline of power within Christianity. This fear is seldom articulated, but it is ever present. It is located in the realization that if Christian unity is to be achieved, Christian pluralism will have to be affirmed and the relativity of all Christian truth will have to be established. This reality makes us aware that every narrow definition of Christian doctrinal certainty will finally have to be abandoned; every claim by any branch of the Christian church to be the true church or the only church will ultimately have to be sacrificed; every doctrine of infallibility -- whether of the papacy, or of the Scriptures, or of any sacred tradition, or of any individual experience -- will inevitably have to be forgotten.

If certainty of form cannot be claimed in Christianity, then the Christian church will experience an immediate loss of power -- and that frightens us. For Christians to embrace pluralism in their approach to God or relativity in the seeking of God’s truth cuts across the traditional institutional lifeline. Such an admission will heighten insecurity and make Christians vulnerable for the first time in history to a radical dialogue with all contemporary branches of knowledge. They will enter that dialogue devoid of any claim to possessing a superior source of truth, which has been the historic Christian stance. They will stand only as equal seekers after truth, vulnerable and afraid, with ancient triumphalism a pale historic memory.

Hiding behind claims of revealed truth that were not allowed to be questioned and of infallible authority that could not be challenged, Christians have condemned Galileo, Copernicus, Darwin, Freud and many other great breakthrough thinkers in the various fields of an exploding human knowledge. Seeking to protect power and authority, Christians have had to be literally dragged by the knowledge revolution into the 20th century.

When Martin Luther countered the authority of the infallible pope, he did so in the name of his new authority, the infallible Scriptures. This point of view was generally embraced by all of the Reformation churches. The Bible thus became the paper pope of Protestantism. Protestants historically have matched every extravagant papal claim with an equally extravagant biblical claim.

However, history has not been kind to either authority system. Even Luther at length entertained doubts about the efficacy of his infallible Bible. On one occasion he worked out the exact measurements of Noah’s ark, and then counted the different species of animals. "If it weren’t in the Bible, I wouldn’t believe it," he said, revealing himself to be trapped between his authority system and his mind. At least he could rejoice that he had not been with Noah, since, he observed, the odor must have been terrific.

Luther’s elementary sense of biology made him wonder how Jonah could have survived in the innards of the great fish. He even wanted to remove the Epistle of James from the Bible, calling it "an epistle of straw." And he had little patience for the Book of Revelation with all of its confused symbols and cryptic words. "A revelation ought to reveal something," he thundered.

Luther in these instances was anticipating our contemporary biblical scholarship, which was a later German gift to the Christian world through the Graf Welhausen School in the 19th century and through the work of Rudolf Bultmann in the 20th. Among modern scholars the Bible as Protestantism’s ultimate authority has been relativized just as surely as the infallibility claims of the papacy have been discredited by historians. Christianity for the first time in its 2,000-year history is floating free in a sea of relativity, unable to maintain any of its traditional authority claims.

The church of the future will have to learn to embrace relativity as a virtue and to dismiss certainty as a vice. Christian survival may well require that our clergy, our laity and our theologians be encouraged to walk out onto the edges of faith, to explore terrain on which the Christians of the past have seemed loath to walk. Radical challenges to our traditional approaches will force open a theology that has bound us to literal creeds, literal Bibles, and infallible understandings of God. This generation of Christians is being asked to cease judging one another, to accept the fact that all of us are pilgrims on a journey into the pluralism of truth, and none of us has the final answer. That is the fear implicit in the ecumenical movement -- and that fear, when it becomes conscious, can be paralyzing.

Lutherans have a truth, a heritage, a tradition. Anglicans have a truth, a heritage, a tradition. The ecumenical movement, however, finally announces loudly that no one has the truth, the heritage, the tradition. Christian eyes must be enabled to see beyond the petty claims of the past. Christian lives need to be emboldened to walk into the unknown arenas of uncertainty and relativity that constitute the future. The ecumenical movement calls us not so much to find a common denominator as it does to join hands and to pledge ourselves to walk side by side, to enrich one another by all that can be brought out of our separate pasts, and to ask forgiveness for the blindness that for so long has kept us divided.

The ecumenical journey will carry modern Christians to a fearful, anxious future, where all will be forced to lay down narrow claims and to embrace the openness of this new day. When the Christians of the world can do this, then perhaps in that larger community of faith, worshipers and believers will include the Jews, the Muslims, the Buddhists, the Hindus. They will come, I trust, with equal claims to being children of the one God equally created in that God’s image, equally loved and sought in that God’s plan for salvation. That is a brilliant, fearful, universal hope.

This is the vision to which the ecumenical movement ultimately points the church. The church is today taking only tiny, tentative steps in this direction, no matter how historic or dramatic we think those steps might be. When the ultimate vision is perceived, Christians may well fall back in fear. Finally, however, there will be only one alternative, and that will be for us to stand up and to walk forward.

Preaching and Teaching in the Early Church

Among the religions of the world there are, I suppose, few which have no ethical content at all. Religions which we regard as primitive sometimes surprise us by the comparative elevation of the moral ideas which they contain. At the same time, there are religions, and some of them among the "higher" religions, which so emphasize the mystical, or it may be the ritual: aspect of religion (to use the imprecise but serviceable terms) that social ethics seem hardly to count, On the other hand, there are systems of ethics, and some of them very fine and idealistic systems, which either repudiate religion, or, like Confucianism, treat it with a distant and somewhat ironical respect.

The Christian religion, like Judaism (to take another example), is an ethical religion in the specific sense that it recognizes no ultimate separation between the service of God and social behavior. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy. God"; "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." The two basic commandments stand together.

But to say this is not to have resolved the tension which appears always to be latent between religion and ethics. In various contemporary ways of presenting Christianity there are marked divergences upon this point, as indeed there have been at most periods of its history. In some-quarters the strongest emphasis is laid upon the specifically religious. elements, by which I mean such things as faith, worship, sacraments, communion with God, the way of salvation, and the hope of eternal life. In other quarters it is the specifically ethical aspect which commands almost exclusive attention — conduct, moral judgments, philanthropy, the Christian social order, and the like, The advocates of the respective views are often severe with one another. Words harmless enough in themselves, such as "mysticism" and "moralism," are hurled about as if they were terms of opprobrium.

It is easy enough to say that both aspects are essential to Christianity and that both are important; even, perhaps, that both are of equal importance and that all that is required is a sound balance. That is true: but it does not go to the root of the matter. It is impossible to understand either the ethical content of Christianity or its religious content unless we can in some measure hold the two together and understand them in their true, organic relations within a whole, This calls for deeper soundings.

In the course of its development through the centuries and its extension to various peoples and cultures, Christianity has acquired an immensely comp1icated history and a bewildering variety of forms; but it possesses a body of classical documents, the New Testament, which, fortunately, are acknowledged as such by the consent of all branches of the Christian Church; and these documents put us in a position to see what Christianity was like In its beginnings and what were the thoughts and principles by which it was shaped.

We must therefore undertake some examination of the data provided by the New Testament upon the problem before us. We shall approach these in a spirit of historical investigation, seeking in the first place to recover a picture of the thought and activity of the Christian community in its earliest days, and then proceeding to interpret that picture.

We may begin our survey of early Christian literature with the Pauline Epistles, which, taken as a whole, are the earliest group of documents. Some of these have the character of occasional letters, spontaneous and without any plan or design; but some of them show a definite pattern. They are divided into two main parts. The first part deals with specifically religious themes – deals with them, in the main, in the reflective manner which constitutes theology and the second part consists mainly of ethical precepts and admonitions. Thus, the twofold character of Christianity as ethical religion is reflected in the very structure of these documents.

The second or ethical part is linked organically with the first part, and this link we shall have to examine more closely later on; but the division between the two parts, though it is not absolute, is pretty well marked.

The pattern is clear in the Epistles to the Romans, Galatians, Colossians, and Ephesians, and when it has been recognized in these clear examples, it can be traced by analogy in other epistles, where it is not so obvious at first sight; not only in epistles written by Paul but in those written by other authors as well.

This is hardly accidental. We recognize here a set pattern of composition followed by early Christian writers, corresponding to the structure of their thought. They are presenting Christianity as an ethical religion in which ethics are directly related to a certain set of convictions about God, man, and the world, a set of convictions religious in their subject matter and theological in their expression.

Turn now from the epistles to the gospels. The Gospel according to Matthew, the first in canonical order, contains a large amount of ethical teaching with a certain general similarity to that which we have observed in the epistles, though with some marked differences, to which we shall have to give attention later. This teaching occurs for the most part in fairly large, continuous blocks. The most important and typical of these is the so-called Sermon on the Mount, which occupies three long chapters in succession (chaps. 5-7). It is not, of course, a sermon at all. It is a highly articulated and systematic presentation of the main features of the Christian ethical system. These solid blocks of ethical teaching correspond in some sort to the ethical sections of the epistles. They are inserted into a framework which takes the form of a narrative of events.

When this structure has been recognized in the first gospel, it can be traced also in the second and third. Here, indeed, it is less formal, and story and teaching alternate more freely; yet even so each of these works provides examples of sequences of ethical precepts, more or less complete in themselves, and comparable with those which we found in-the epistles; and these are related to passages of narrative which serve to introduce them.

There is therefore in the gospels a duality of structure corresponding to that which we recognized in the epistles. The ethical materials in gospels and epistles alike have a general similarity of form and content, but in the epistles they are related to theological doctrine, while in the gospels they are related to a narrative of events. The difference, however, is not by any means so great as it seems at first sight. The narrative and the theology belong together.

Careful inspection shows that the theological dissertations of the epistles often have imbedded in them fragments of narrative. When, for example, Paul sets out to discuss such abstruse doctrines of theology as those of predestination, election, and justification by faith, in the middle chapters of the Epistle to the Romans (chaps. 9-11). he relates his discussion throughout to a kind of skeleton outline of the history of Israel. When he embarks upon the difficult problem of life after death in the fifteenth chapter of the First Epistle to the Corinthians, he expressly groups what he has to say upon certain historical facts about Jesus Christ which he says "were communicated to him by persons who were in a position to know."

Let us take a different author. In the Epistle to the Hebrews, where the author is attempting to define or characterize the profoundly religious ideas of priesthood and sacrifice and to show in what sense the work of Christ can be understood in terms of those ideas, he introduces a strangely vivid and moving reference to the narrative of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, which is familiar to us from the gospels (Hebrews 5:7-10).

Perhaps these examples will suffice to justify the conclusion that the theological sections of the epistles are not without a certain basis in the narrative of events. On the other hand, the narrative of the gospels, as all recent criticism agrees, is coloured throughout by a religious, if not a theological, valuation o£ the events which it records and of the central Figure in them. The gospels record actual occurrences, but they record them in a way which betrays their authors' sense of a pervading significance going beyond the mere occurrence. They relate it all through to ideas which are specifically religious and necessarily call for a theological interpretation; such ideas as the kingdom of God and the salvation of mankind.

It turns out. then, that the theology of the epistles and the narrative of the gospels have a motive in common. The writers of the gospels believed that the facts of the career of Jesus Christ were worth recording because they had decisive religious significance which challenged theological interpretation; and the writers of the epistles. presupposing a knowledge of the facts, undertook to explain their significance, and so created Christian theology. It is this inseparable interconnection of religion and theology with historical fact that justifies the description of Christianity as a historical religion; and this is a part of its distinctive genius.

To sum up, the ethical teaching of the New Testament is embedded in a context which consists of a report of historical facts and an explanation of their religious significance, and this fact gives to Christian Ethics a peculiar character, which I shall presently attempt to describe. But before going on to a consideration of the ethical teaching itself. it is necessary to say something about this context in which it is embedded and which has both a historical and a religious aspect in indivisible unity.

According to the evidence of the New Testament, the earliest exponents of the Christian religion worked out a distinctive way of presenting the fundamental convictions of their faith, in a formula which they called "the proclamation. The Greek word here is kerygma. Our translators of the Bible commonly render it "preaching" but in its current implications at the present day the word is misleading. Kerygma properly means a public announcement or declaration, whether by a town crier, or by an auctioneer commending his goods to the public, or by the herald of a sovereign state dispatched on a solemn mission, to present an ultimatum, it may be, or to announce terms of peace.

The Christian "preacher" thought of himself as an announcer of very important news. He called it quite simply "the good news," or in our traditional translation, "the gospel. " It was this "good news" that was embedded in the "proclamation", the kerygma. It was essentially a public announcement of events of public importance.

The form and content of the proclamation, the kerygma, can be recovered from the New Testament with reasonable accuracy. It recounted in brief the life, and work of Jesus Christ, His conflicts. sufferings. and death. and His resurrection from the dead; and it went on to declare that in these events the divinely guided history of Israel through long centuries had reached its climax. God Himself , had acted decisively in this way to inaugurate His kingdom upon earth. This was the core of all early Christian preaching, however it might be elaborated, illustrated, and explained.

The preacher's aim was to convince his hearers that they were. indeed confronted by the eternal God in His kingdom, power, and glory; that they, like all men. stood under His judgment upon what they had done and upon what they were, and that this judgment was now immediate and inescapable; further. that those who would put themselves under God's judgment would, through His mercy. find an opportunity open to them to enter upon a new life; that actually, as a result of these facts which they proclaimed, a new era in the relations between God and man had begun.

Those who responded to this appeal and placed themselves under the judgment and mercy of God as declared in Jesus Christ, became members of the community, the Church, within which the new life could be lived. These members were then instructed in the ethical principles and obligations of the Christian life. This course of instruction in morals, as distinct from the proclamation of the gospel, is covered by the term "'teaching," which in Greek is didaché.

This order of approach, first the proclamation, then the beginning of instruction in morals, first kerygma, then didaché, seems to have been thoroughly characteristic of the Christian mission; it is precisely this order, first kerygma. then didaché, which we have seen to be general in the New Testament writings.

This way of approach to ethics was sharply distinguished from that of contemporary Greek moralists, who from the time of Aristotle had set out to provide a self-contained and self-justifying system of ethics. For Christianity, ethics are not self-contained or self-justifying; they arise out of a response to the Gospel.

On the other hand, while the Christian way of approach contrasts with that of Greek moralists, it has a real analogy with the Jewish tradition out of which Christianity arose. The classical formulation of the moral law in the Old Testament begins, "I am the Lord thy God. which brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have none other gods before me." Then it goes on to lay down such concrete moral precepts as "Thou shalt not kill"; "Thou shalt not commit adultery"; "Thou shalt not steal." That is to say, it begins with a declaration of historical facts religiously understood. The facts were that Israel had escaped out of bondage in the land of Egypt and become a free nation. These facts were understood religiously as meaning that God Himself had intervened to liberate His people. The "commandments" are a corollary to the facts.

Again, if instead of the Decalogue, which is the shortest possible summary of the moral law in the Old Testament, we examine the grand structure of the Torah or Law of Moses (contained in the Pentateuch, or Five Books of Moses), we discern the same character. The extremely. concrete and detailed system of regulations is embedded in a narrative of events, which are presented in the guise of "mighty acts of the Lord"; that is to say, they are historical events understood as religious1y significant. It is this background, the mighty acts of God, that gives cogency to the commandments of the Torah, for these acts of God established what is described as the "covenant," by which is meant a special relation between this particular people and the God who had delivered them.

Later Judaism distinguished between haggada, the declaration or exposition of religious truth, often in the form of a story, and halakha, regulations for conduct. This distinction is analogous to the primitive Christian distinction between kerygma and didaché, the proclamation of the fundamental facts of the Gospel in their religious significance, and moral instruction grounded upon them. In Christianity, as in Judaism, the kerygma announces the mighty acts in which God established His new covenant with His people, and the moral obligations set forth in the didaché arise within that covenant.

It appears, then, that the problem that we have set ourselves, the problem of the way in which ethics and religion are related in the ethical religion which is Christianity, may be attacked by way of examining the literary records of kerygma and didaché, the proclamation and the ethical instruction" respectively, and trying to trace the relation between them.

We shall start at the ethical end, by investigating the form and content of ethical instruction in the early church, on the basis of the ethical portions of the epistles. In doing so we shall bear in mind that such instruction, both in the literature and in the established practice of the primitive church, was made to depend upon the affirmations of the kerygma.

It appears that the earliest extant Christian writing is Paul's First Epistle to the Thessalonians. As it happens, it provides a useful starting point for our present study. This letter was written by the apostle in the year 50 A.D. to a congregation of newly converted Christians in the city now called Salonica, in Macedonia. While preaching there he had fallen into trouble with the police and was banished from the city and forbidden to return. He felt some natural anxiety that these new Christians, many of whom had been brought out of paganism only a few weeks before and had had little teaching, should appreciate the moral demands of their new faith. Accordingly, he writes to them as follows (I abridge slightly what he says, but only slightly):

We beg you, we appeal to you, in the Lord Jesus, to be even more diligent than you are in following the tradition we passed on to you, about the Way to please God by your conduct. You know what orders we gave you, by the help of Jesus Christ: it is the will of God that you should be holy, that you should abstain from sexual immorality and learn, each of you, to keep his body in holiness and honor. . . not to overreach his fellow-Christian or to invade his rights. . . About family affection (within the Christian "family", the Church, he means) it is not necessary for me to write to you. You have God's own teaching, to love one another" (He is referring to the Old Testament commandment, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself, " as reaffirmed by Jesus Christ) and you are in fact practicing .this rule of love .towards all your fellow Christians in Macedonia" We appeal to you to make even greater efforts. We want you to strive hard to keep calm, to mind your own business, and to work with your hands, as we ordered, so that you may both make a good impression on outsiders and also find your own (economic) needs supplied. (I Thessalonians 4:1-12)

There are several points here that should be observed before we pass on. First, there is the downright peremptory tone which Paul adopts. He neither argues nor offers tactful advice. He gives "orders"; the term which he employs is the term used for army orders. This may come as something of a shock to those who have been accustomed to think of Paul as the apostle of liberty, and even of what is nowadays called "Christian anarchism."

Secondly, the orders are severely practical and common-sense. The Christians of Thessalonika are to observe decent self-control in sexual relations, to respect the rights of others, to do their best to love their neighbors, and to be honest and industrious so as to maintain a reasonable standard of living without having to keep appealing for charity (like some Christian communities which Paul knew too well). Paul's teaching, then, has its feet well on the ground.

Thirdly, we can hardly be wrong in identifying these "orders" to which the apostle refers, as belonging to the regular course of ethical instruction for converts. The technical term used for it was catechesis; hence our word "catechism." That it must have covered a great deal more than is mentioned here, goes without saying. Paul is recalling certain points in this catechesis which, he feels, in view of news received from Salonica, need emphasizing. But so far as it goes, this passage gives us trustworthy information of the contents of the Pauline catechesis.

As it happens, we can supplement the information we have in this passage from a second letter which the apostle wrote to the same community. We have noticed that one item in the body of instructions was the rule that members of the church should be ready to work with their hands. This salutary rule seems to have been unpopular at Salonica. In the second letter the apostle writes: "When we were with you, we gave orders that if a man was unwilling to work he should not be given food, " and he then proceeds to elaborate the point, in view of flagrant refusal :to work on the part of some members (II Thessalonians 3 :10-12).

Fourthly, in both letters to the Thessalonians Paul speaks of the body of instructions he had given as "traditions." He uses the same term in writing upon matters of conduct to the Corinthians, where he prefaces a fresh piece of teaching with a tactful acknowledgment that the Corinthians have faithfully followed the orders which they had previously been given. "I commend you, " he writes, "because you remembered what I said and preserved the traditions which I passed on to you" (I Corinthians 11:2).

Of course, every tradition must be started by someone, and it is arguable that Paul was, in fact, the originator of the "tradition" of ethical teaching to which he refers. In that case, the passages we have noted would tell us about nothing more than Paul's own established practice. But it would be entirely unnatural to understand his words in that sense, especially as in the same letter to the Corinthians he also speaks of a "tradition" regarding the facts about Jesus and expressly says that he had received it from others and handed it on to his correspondents (I Corinthians 15:1-3). We may take it, therefore, that there was already a traditional body of ethical teaching given to converts from paganism to Christianity. Paul could safely assume that such teaching was given in churches outside his own sphere of influence, as appears from a place in his letter to the Christians of Rome a city which he had not yet visited. He expresses thankfulness that the Roman Christians wholeheartedly obey what he calls "the pattern of teaching" which they had received, proving thereby, he says, that they had been liberated from sin and made into servants of what is right (Romans 6:17-18).

There seems to be evidence here both for the existence of a definite form of ethical instruction or catechesis in the earliest days of the Christian mission to the Roman Empire and for some part, at least, of its contents. Our knowledge of any further contents must be derived from the study of passages in the epistles which seem to recall, sometimes directly and sometimes allusively, the well-established pattern of catechetical training through which their readers had been put when they first became Christians. It is a delicate matter to decide in any given case whether we are in fact being referred to such an established pattern, or whether the writer is developing fresh teaching for the occasion.

Thus, in Galatians 5:13 Paul is clearly making a transition from the rather controversial theology of the earlier chapters to ethical instruction. He begins by reminding his correspondents that the whole law can be summed up in the commandment "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." This is certainly traditional. In the verses that follow, down to the end of chapter v, the case is not so clear. There is a list of vices to be avoided, which recalls similar lists of vices to be found in pagan moralists and their Jewish imitators, and may well have found its way into Christian tradition; with a balancing list of virtues which may already have been traditional in Christian circles, but is, perhaps, more likely to have been compiled by Paul himself. The way in which the whole passage is tied up with. the distinctively Pauline doctrine of the Spirit expounded in the earlier chapters suggests that we have here an ad hoc development of traditional material, rather than anything like an extract from it. With 6:1 we perhaps return to something more directly taken from tradition: "If a man is detected in any misbehavior, you who are spiritual must put him right, very gently, and with great care lest you should be tempted yourselves. Bear one another's burdens, and in this way you will fulfil the law of Christ." The language of the passage is thoroughly Pauline, and we should, perhaps, not have suspected that the matter of it was traditional, but that it clearly alludes to regulations for the treatment of offenders in the church which are to be found in Matthew 18:15-17. It is significant that Paul expressly refers these injunctions to "the law of Christ."

But the soundest method of determining, with the highest degree of probability, which the nature of the case admits, the contents of the early Christian "pattern of teaching," as Paul calls it, is to examine the ethical portions of a number of epistles, and see whether the material common to them all betrays any signs of originating at a stage antedating the particular writing. The enterprise is limited by the fact that most of the relevant documents are either by Paul or else were written directly under his influence, so that it is arguable that whatever is common to them attests only Paul's masterful mind. But, in the first place, it is now almost certain that the Epistle to the Hebrews and the First Epistle of Peter contain much more that is independent and original than earlier criticism admitted; and in the second place, even in the Pauline epistles themselves there are some recurrent features of language and style in the ethical sections which seem to set them apart, as if the apostle were not writing entirely freely, in his own natural manner, but following a partly stereotyped pattern.

Anyone who will read the epistles with attention, and pay regard to style and form as well as to content, cannot fail to recognize, even in translation, a common style in certain passages, different from the normal style of the writers concerned. Take as examples the following three short passages, as they stand in the Revised Standard Version.

(I) We exhort you, brethren, admonish the idle, encourage the faint- hearted, help the weak, be patient with them all. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but seek to do good to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

(II) Let brotherly love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them, and those who are ill-treated, since you also are in the body.

(Ill) Have unity of spirit, sympathy, love of the brethren, a tender heart and a humble mind. Do not return evil for evil, or reviling for reviling; but on the contrary bless, for to this you have been called, that you may obtain a blessing.

It would, I think, puzzle even a person well read in the New Testament to .say, on grounds of style alone, to what authors these extracts are to be assigned. They are so much alike. They are all marked by a concise, staccato style. They use the fewest words possible. They have a kind of sing-song rhythm, which helps the memory. As a matter of fact, the first is by Paul (I Thessalonians 5:14-18), the second from the Epistle to the Hebrews (13: 1-3), and the third from the First Epistle of Peter (3:8-9): The author to the Hebrews has a strongly individual style, deeply influenced by Greek rhetoric and entirely different from Paul's, which again is unmistakably individual. The style of the First Epistle of Peter is less individual, yet it is sufficiently distinctive to bring out the difference between such passages as that which I have quoted and the bulk of the epistle.

I do not think it plausible to suggest that all this is accidental; nor would it be any more plausible to suggest that the authors of Hebrews and I Peter said to themselves, "Since Paul changes his style when he comes to ethical teaching, we will do the same. " It is surely more likely that each of these writers was unconsciously influenced by the ring and run of familiar forms of ethical instruction in the church. I do not suppose that in such passages we have anything like a direct reproduction of an existing document, or even verbal quotation of an established form transmitted by word of mouth. But it does seem probable on general grounds that we are here indirectly in touch with a common tradition. Different writers develop and elaborate the common pattern at different points and in characteristically different ways, but tend to return to it where they are not concerned to emphasize any particular point.

It appears, then, that the ethical portions of the epistles are based upon an accepted pattern of teaching which goes back to a very early period indeed, and whose general form and content can be determined with considerable probability.

It seems to have run somewhat as follows: The convert is first enjoined to lay aside certain discreditable kinds of conduct, especially some which were common and easily condoned in pagan society. Sometimes lists of such vices are inserted, lists which can be shown to have been drawn from popular ethical teaching of the period, quite outside Christianity. The convert is enjoined to abandon these vices and to be prepared for a total reorientation of moral standards in a Christian sense. This is sometimes expressed in the terms "to put off the old man and to put on the new."

Next, some of the typical virtues of the new way of life are set forth, with especial emphasis upon such virtues as purity and sobriety, gentleness and humility, generosity and a hospitable temper, patience under injuries, and readiness to forgive.

Then various social relationships are reviewed, in particular those which constitute the family as the primary form of community; the relations of husband and wife, parents and children, master and servants – for, in the social structure of the time, a servant, even if he were a slave, was a member of the familia. The proper Christian attitude in all such relations is briefly indicated: husbands are to love their wives, children to obey their parents, masters to treat their servants with consideration, and so forth.

Then the wider "family" of the Christian community itself comes into view. The new member is enjoined to respect the leaders or elders of the society and is taught that each member has his own special function in the body, for which he is responsible.

Looking farther afield, he is given some counsel about behavior to his pagan neighbors in the delicate situation in which the members of an unpopular sect were likely to find themselves. He must be prudent, nonprovocative, seeking peace, never flouting the social or moral standards of those among whom he lives, while using any opportunity of doing a kindness to them even if they had not been friendly to him.

Like other subjects of the Empire, he is told, he owes obedience to the constituted authorities and should make it a matter of conscience to keep the law and pay his taxes. But there are limits beyond which a higher allegiance claims him: he must be loyal at all cost to his faith, and prepared to endure persecution with inflexible determination and fortitude.

Finally he is reminded of the extremely critical time in which he lives, which calls for constant watchfulness and lays upon him the most solemn responsibilities.

Such is the general scheme which, with large variations of detail, reappears so often in these writings that we cannot but conclude that it was part of the common and primitive tradition of the church.

It is filled in and elaborated variously in different writings. We shall later have to take account of this elaboration, because it is there that we may detect some of the ways in which the fundamental convictions of the Gospel make their impact upon ethics; but for the present we recognize in the ethical teaching which is represented by the epistles, a practical scheme for the guidance of organized groups in the Roman Empire faced with the common problems of social behavior, in a situation which in same ways made such problems more difficult for them than for other people.

In the Greco-Roman world of the first century, the Christian church was not the only agency which aimed at elevating the moral standards of society. Judaism had long been a missionary religion. Hellenistic Judaism in particular had worked out a technique for approach to pagans, mainly on ethical lines. It won many proselytes, and its influence spread far beyond the limits of membership of the synagogue. Hellenistic Jewish missionaries had learned much as regards method from the preachers of popular philosophy, who went from city to city and often found ready audiences. These wandering philosophers mostly put forward some version of the fine, austere moral code of the Stoics, adapted for popular appeal.

We have a fair amount of evidence of the way in which these precursors of the Christian mission, both Jewish and a pagan, went about their task. It seems clear that the early Christians were influenced by their example. For instance, known Jewish forms for receiving proselytes show parallels to elements in the Christian catechesis, such as the insistence upon a radical reorientation of moral standards, and upon membership in a society carrying solemn obligations; such, again, as the recital of typical commandments which the convert will be expected to observe, and the warning of the danger of persecution" with demands for constancy.

Again, there is the method of setting forth moral obligations under the head of typical social relations: duties of husbands and wives, parents and children, masters and servants, duties to the commonwealth and the government. The passages of the epistles which deal with this theme are similar in style and manner to the popular teaching both of Hellenistic Judaism and of Stoicism. Not infrequently parallels to the actual precepts can be found, and have been set out at 1ength by scholars.

In broad outline, therefore, it appears that the ethical teaching given by the early church was pretty closely related to the general movement in Greco-Roman society towards the improvement of public morals as it was undertaken in the first century by various agencies. Christian teachers took for granted the existing structure of society, with its known moral problems and dangers. Up to a point, they were able to adopt a good deal of the basic criticism and counsel which serious moralists of other schools were urging on their contemporaries,

They were certainly wise in thus linking up the teaching they gave with the accepted standards of the society in which their converts moved. There is always a certain danger about a movement which aims at making its members superior to the commonly recognized standards. With unstable characters there is always the risk that, once emancipated from the accepted conventions, they will fall, below them instead of rising above them, and lapse into eccentricity or worse. It shows therefore, much wisdom in these early Christian teachers that they kept their converts’ feet firmly on the ground, by reminding them continually of the accepted fundamental obligations of society. It was extremely healthy (for example) for the Thessalonians to be told, "It is the will of God that you should be honest and industrious"; and for the Romans to be told, "It is the will of God that you should obey the law and pay your taxes"; whatever other and higher demands Christianity might make upon them.

When we have recognized the fact that in general structure the catechesis of early Christianity followed the lines of other ethical teaching of the time, we shall be better prepared to recognize the points at which specifically Christian motives and sanctions are introduced. We shall discover within the framework of a workaday code of behavior the impact of ideas which go far to transform the whole moral situation; and this will lead us to appreciate the deeper connections between Christian ethics and the religious springs from which they took their rise.

A Protestant Look At American Catholicism

The attitudes of Americans toward church-state relations depend in considerable measure on their attitude toward Roman Catholicism. The chief concern that lies back of the convictions of non-Catholics is the concern for religious liberty, and the chief threat to religious liberty is seen in the tremendous growth of Roman Catholicism as a cultural and political power in the United States.

There are two deep problems connected with Catholicism that must be emphasized at the outset of any discussion. One is the dogmatic intolerance that is itself a part of the Roman Catholic faith. This dogmatic intolerance need not lead to civil intolerance, but there is a tendency for it to do so just as was the case when it characterized the major Protestant bodies. This dogmatic intolerance becomes all the more difficult for non-Catholics when it is associated not only with distinctly religious dogma, but also with elements of natural law that are not accepted as divinely sanctioned moral demands by most non-Catholics. This is true of birth control, of some matters of medical ethics. It is true even of gambling under limited conditions, though this has to do not with a moral demand but with a moral permission! One symptom of the dogmatic intolerance that is most objectionable to non-Catholics is the strict Catholic regulation concerning the religion of the children of mixed marriages.

The other basic problem is the real tension between an authoritarian, centralized hierarchical church and the spirit of an open, pluralistic, democratic society. There is abundant evidence that Catholics in this country do sincerely believe in democracy and practice this belief, but I do not see how they themselves can deny that their polity poses a problem for democracy that is not posed by churches which make their decisions in regard to public policy by processes of open discussion in which both clergy and laymen share. The polity of the Episcopal Church does give bishops meeting separately a veto over many things, but it also gives the laity voting separately in the dioceses a veto over the choice of bishops. I mention this as an example of one of the more hierarchical forms of polity outside the Roman Catholic Church.

The Roman polity is itself a matter of faith and therefore religious liberty includes the liberty to preserve that type of polity. And if it is said that the papacy creates a problem of peculiar difficulty because it is from the point of view of the nation a "foreign power," the answer that Protestants should be able to accept is that the Church as Church is supranational and the religious liberty of all Christians includes their right to have relationships, suitable to their polity, with the universal Church.

American Protestants are troubled over far more than these abstract problems created by the Catholic faith and ecclesiastical structure. They resent much that is done by the Catholic Church in America and they fear greatly what may yet be done. The books by Paul Blanshard, especially his American Freedom and Catholic Power (Beacon Press, 1949), marshal many facts that both Catholics and Protestants should take seriously. It is unfortunate that Mr. Blanshard has presented his material in such a way as to confuse criticism of many particular applications of Catholic teaching with what seems to be an attack on the freedom of a church to have its own authoritarian structure as a matter of faith. Also, he writes not from a Protestant but from a secularist point of view, and thus sees no inherent problem in the relation of religion to public education. He is quite satisfied with the complete separation of school and religion. There is a tendency to exaggerate the monolithic character of world-wide Catholicism under papal direction, and Mr. Blanshard's projection upon the future of the indefinite threat of Catholic power to American democracy does not, it seems to me, do justice to the four considerations I will emphasize later. The book is the work of a very energetic and well-informed prosecutor and should be used as such.

The general thesis of this article is that, while many of these resentments and fears are justified, it is a mistake to project them in indefinitely extended form upon the future and to allow all of our thinking about' Catholicism and most of our thinking about church-state relations to be controlled by them in that extended form. After outlining the grounds for some justified resentments and fears in this article, I will deal with other facts about Catholic life that should play a larger part than they do in Protestant attitudes toward Catholicism.

The Catholic Church is not a majority church in the country at large and, since immigration has been greatly limited, its rate of growth has not been quite as rapid as the rate of growth of the Protestant churches. But its strength is distributed so as to give it great majorities in some cities, and enormous political power and cultural influence in many states. It is extremely difficult for Protestants and other non-Catholics to live with Catholicism as the religion of a large local majority. It has likewise been difficult in the past for Catholics to live with Protestantism as the religion of a large local majority.

The centralized organization and the absolute claims of the Church enhance the difficulty, but Protestants must not forget that any small minority feels pressure that arouses resentments and fears under these circumstances. Part of the problem is a universal human tendency that does not depend on a particular ecclesiastical situation. However, it is the threat of a local majority that leads non-Catholics to emphasize the protections of religious liberty in the Federal Constitution. Catholics also have had occasion to appeal to these same protections, but today their chief desire is to establish a somewhat flexible interpretation of the First Amendment.

Non-Catholics have grounds for resenting the tendency of Catholics to use their power to impose Catholic ideas of natural law. They see it in the birth control legislation in Massachusetts and Connecticut; they see it in the Catholic pressure to remove welfare agencies that have birth control clinics from local community chests elsewhere; they see it in the Catholic objection to divorce laws that are much more flexible than the law of the Church; they see it in the attempts to have non-Catholic hospitals adopt the Catholic ideas of medical ethics in the field of obstetrics.

Non-Catholics have grounds for resenting and fearing the tendency of Catholics, when they have the power, to seek control of the public school system to bend it to Catholic purposes. Parochial schools could operate as safety valves for the public schools but this is often not the case. When Catholics dominate the public school boards they sometimes discriminate against non-Catholic teachers. In extreme cases that have been much publicized they have operated public schools as though they were parochial schools. Perhaps more serious in the long run is the tendency of Catholics in some places to oppose needed bond issues or appropriations for the public schools. This is not a surprising reaction to the double burden of education costs that they themselves bear, but it is very bad for education.

Non-Catholics have grounds for resenting and fearing Catholic boycotts of communications media, including the publishers of books, and boycotts of local merchants who have some connection with a policy that they oppose. Fear of Catholic boycott often operates as a reason for self-censorship. Newspapers are influenced by this fear and it is very difficult to get news published that may be unfavorable to the Catholic Church.

No one can criticize the Catholic Church or any other church for seeking to discipline the theatergoing or the reading of its own constituency. Boycotting that consists only of this self-discipline within the Church may be unfortunate in some of its effects, but it is not open to objection in principle. It is the punitive boycott directed against all that a particular agency may do that interferes with the freedom of non-Catholics.

The desire of many Catholics to have the United States send a diplomatic representative to the Vatican has become a symbol to most Protestants of the many things that they resent in the use of Catholic power. This issue is confused because it is obvious that in the world at large the representation of a nation at the Vatican is not interpreted as a sign that the nation involved shows favoritism to the Catholic Church. Otherwise there would not be representatives from many non-Christian countries, from Britain which has a state church that is not the Catholic Church, nor from France which is secularist and anti-clerical in its politics.

But it is only fair to recognize the fact that the very size of the Catholic Church in this country and the absence of any state church, the existence of which would prove that the Catholic Church is not the favored church, makes American Protestants feel that diplomatic representation at the Vatican is a great concession to one American church in contrast to others. American Protestants emphasize the fact that the Pope is the head of one American church rather than the fact that the Vatican is the center of a diplomatic service which, as a unique institution of the old world, cannot be grasped by the American logic governing church-state relations.

Though I do not believe that this issue is as important as most Protestant leaders have made it, I have come to see that the meaning of representation at the Vatican to American non-Catholics in view of the actual religious situation in this country is natural, and the fact that this meaning exists here is more important than the fact that it does not exist in Britain or in Japan, for there are objective reasons for the difference. Because of them I believe that diplomatic representation of the American government at the Vatican will inevitably be interpreted as unfair to non-Catholics in this country.

Having summarized the grounds for Protestant fears and resentments in the face of the growth of Catholic power, I would now like to call attention to four characteristics of Catholicism that are often neglected in American Protestant discussions of this subject.

The first of these characteristics is Roman Catholicism's great variations from culture to culture and from country to country. The vision of many Protestants of a monolithic Catholic Church, built somewhat on the lines of the Stalinist empire, that is controlled from the Vatican is very wide of the mark. Historically it has proved itself capable of adjustment to the greatest variety of cultural conditions instead of being one kind of religious ethos exported from Rome.

The difference between French Catholicism and Spanish Catholicism almost belongs to the study of comparative religion. Catholicism in western Europe is utterly different from Catholicism in Latin America. In Germany, France, Holland, Belgium, Switzerland, and England we see what Catholicism can be when it is religiously and culturally mature and when it has learned to live with strong Protestant and secularist competition. There is remarkable intellectual ferment in the Catholic Church in those countries. Catholic thinkers take considerable theological freedom and they are especially free in their thinking about political issues. There is a long standing effort to overcome the political and economic conservatism that has been the great handicap of the Church in reaching the working classes.

There is very much more discussion between Protestant and Catholic thinkers on a theological level in Europe than there is in this country. One interesting phenomenon is the fresh study of Luther and the Reformation by Catholic scholars that has shattered the old Catholic stereotypes. American Catholicism differs from western European Catholicism in that it has no rich cultural background. It has a strong feeling of cultural inferiority to American Protestantism as well as to European Catholicism. Intellectual ferment is exactly what it lacks. The reasons for this are obvious as American Catholicism represents the tides of immigration that brought to this country millions of Europeans who had had few opportunities in their own countries.

Protestants as they view the development of Catholicism have good reason to assume that as it becomes more mature culturally and theologically it will have more flexibility of mind and that there will be greater tolerance and breadth in dealing with non-Catholics and with the public issues that concern Protestants most.

I should add here that Catholicism needs not only the kind of maturing that takes time in a new country, but it needs to have two other things. One is the strong competition from non-Catholic sources - Protestant, Jewish, secularist. It has had one or more of these types of competition in every one of the western European countries that I named. The worst thing that can happen to Catholicism is for it to have the religious monopoly to which it feels entitled because of its exclusive claims! Protestants, therefore, have a responsibility to confront Catholicism with a positive Protestant theology, and that is happening today in many countries because of the recent theological revival in Protestantism.

The other element that is very important in the environment for the development of Catholicism along the lines that I have suggested is the presence of a liberal, democratic political tradition. This has greatly modified Catholic political attitudes and it is most fortunate that, under the stimulus of democracy, Catholics can find the antecedents of democracy in their own tradition, especially in the great Jesuit political philosophers, such as Francisco Suarez, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. They also discover antecedents of democracy in Thomas Aquinas.

This combination of continuous encounter with non-Catholics on a basis of political mutuality and the influence of liberal democratic ideas enables Catholics to avoid the civil intolerance that causes most anxiety among Protestants.

A second characteristic of Roman Catholicism is suggested by the fact that much of the Catholic aggressiveness that is most offensive to Protestants is sociologically conditioned. It is a result of the sheer energy that it has taken for Catholics to improve their position in a new country and in an alien culture, and it also reflects some social resentment for past disabilities on the part of people who have won social power.

We forget today the long and bitter history of nativist anti-Catholicism, but the memories of it do not die so easily among Catholics themselves.

Today changes are coming so rapidly and the economic, social, and cultural opportunities for Americans of many ethnic backgrounds are so much alike that we can expect to see the particular sociological reasons for Catholic aggressiveness become less important.

Paul Blanshard recognizes that there is some truth in this consideration. After describing the role of the Irish in American Catholicism, he says:

This Irish dominance explains many of the characteristics of American Catholicism. The Irish hierarchy which rules the American Church is a "becoming" class. It represents the Irish people struggling up in a hostile environment, using the Roman system of authoritative power to compensate for an inner sense of insecurity which still seems to survive from the days when Irish Catholics were a despised immigrant minority. Boston is aggressively Catholic largely because it is aggressively Irish, and it is aggressively Irish because its people have not quite overcome their sense of being strangers in a hostile land.

One of the most convincing pieces of evidence in favor of this judgment concerning the social dynamics of American Catholicism is found in Kenneth Underwood's study in depth of Protestant-Catholic relations in one city that has had a large Catholic majority for some decades. Professor Underwood reports on the attitudes of both laymen and clergy from various parishes in Holyoke, Massachusetts. He finds that it is the parishes made up of recent immigrants who have not been much assimilated into American life, where the most intolerant attitudes are found. It is those parishes where the rigid ideas of the priests are most readily accepted by laymen. He says:

The upper income, well educated Catholic lay-men are much less receptive to clerical guidance as to the practical social implications of moral and religious laws of the church than are the lower income, more poorly educated Catholics. The former tend also to be much more appreciative of the role of the Protestant churches in supplementing or correcting Catholic action.

A third fact about Catholicism that needs to he understood by Protestants is that the Catholic Church is divided from top to bottom, in this country and abroad, on matters of principle in regard to religious liberty. There is a traditional main-line position that favors the confessional Catholic state as the ideal type of relationship between church and state. This view would limit the rights of religious minorities in a nation that has a very large Catholic majority. These limitations would have to do with public propagation of the non-Catholic faith rather than with freedom of worship or freedom of teaching inside the Protestant Church. Under such circumstances there would be a union of state and church and the state as state would profess the Catholic faith.

This position is sometimes called the "thesis" and the adjustments of the Church to religiously pluralistic nations, including the acceptance by American Catholics of the American constitutional separation of church and state, involve a second-best position called the "hypothesis." Father John A. Ryan, a noted Catholic liberal on all economic issues, is responsible for a famous statement on this subject. He states the traditional thesis and then tries to soften it for Americans by saying:

While all of this is very true in logic and in theory the event of its practical realization in any state or country is so remote in time and in probability that no practical man will let it disturb his equanimity or affect his attitude toward those who differ from him in religious faith.

So long as Protestants, especially those who live in cities that already have large Catholic majorities, realize that there are authoritative statements of the so-called Catholic thesis of the confessional state as representing the ideal possibility, they will not be greatly comforted by Father Ryan's assurances. It is simply not enough for a church that operates in the light of very clear dogmatic principles to make concessions on the issue of religious liberty for non-Catholics on a pragmatic basis alone if its dogmatic principles still point to a confessional Catholic state in which, as the ideal, the religious liberties of minorities are severely restricted.

It is important to realize that a very able and earnest attempt is being made by Catholic scholars in this country, with much support from Catholics in western Europe, to change the principles as well as the practice of the Church in this matter. This attempt is associated chiefly with the work of Father John Courtney Murray, but it is gaining a good deal of support elsewhere too. A careful statement of his position is found chiefly in his many articles in the Jesuit quarterly Theological Studies. (See especially March, 1953; June, 1953; December, 1953; March, 1954. Also, "Governmental Repression of Heresy" reprinted from the Proceedings of the Catholic Theological Society of America.)

Here I shall attempt to summarize his main conclusions, but it should be recognized that these are abstracted from very complicated historical expositions and come in large part from Father Murray's analysis of the encyclicals of Pope Leo XIII in order to show what is permanent and what is historically conditioned in those encyclicals. With apologies to Father Murray for oversimplification of the kind that is alien to his own mind, I shall attempt to give the substance of his position in the following propositions:

The idea of a confessional Catholic state belong to an earlier period in European history and it has become an irrelevancy under contemporary conditions.

Anglo-Saxon democracy is fundamentally different from the democracy of the French Revolution which Was totalitarian in tendency. The state in this country is, by its very nature, limited, and in principle the Church does not need to defend itself against such a state as it did with the nineteenth century revolutionary states that formed the immediate background of Leo's political thinking.

There is no anti-clerical or anti-religious motivation behind the American constitutional provision for church-state relations and the Church need not defend herself against this doctrine as such.

The Church in America has, as a matter of fact, enjoyed greater freedom and scope for its witness and activities than it has in the Catholic states of the traditional type.

It is important to emphasize the rights of the state in its own sphere, the freedom of the Church from state control, and tl1e influence of Catholic citizens upon the state.

It is impossible to separate religious freedom from civil freedom, and there can be no democracy if the freedom of the citizen is curtailed in religious matters, for such curtailing can often take place as a means of silencing political dissent.

Error does not have the same rights as truth, but persons in error, consciences in error, do have rights that should be respected by the Church and state.

The Church should not demand that the state as the secular arm enforce the Church's own decisions in regard to heresy.

It does more harm than good to the Church for the state to use its power against non-Catholics.

I think that all of these propositions fit together into a self-consistent social philosophy. They are presented by Father Murray as a substitute for the traditional Catholic thesis concerning the confessional state. They have made considerable headway among both clergy and laity in this country. They correspond to views that are held in Europe and have support in the Vatican itself.

In December, 1953, after this point of view was strongly rebuked by Cardinal Ottaviani in Rome in an address defending the Spanish conception of a confessional Catholic state as the ideal, Pope Pius XII somewhat ambiguously made room for Murray's position in a speech to a convention of Catholic jurists. The fact that he did this in the midst of a transAtlantic controversy within the Church has encouraged American Catholics who hold this view to believe that the Pope was sympathetic to it. That is the most that can be said.

American Protestants should realize, therefore, that the Roman Church is not a vast international machine designed to overturn their liberties, if this were to become politically possible, and that they have many allies in the Catholic Church who share their belief in religious liberty on principle.

The fourth fact about the Catholic Church is that there are many points of disagreement on social policy among Catholics; there is no one Catholic line on most public issues. There is agreement on birth control as a moral issue, but even here there is no agreement as to what the state should do about it. Catholics generally do not today advocate strict laws on the subject except in the two states in which those laws are already in force. On economic issues there is a broad Catholic pattern based upon the organization of producers' groups, but this is far from obligatory and it gives rise to endless differences so far as application is concerned.

Catholics differ as to whether a war with modern weapons can be just. There is a deep difference between Catholics in various nations on forms of government. Catholic doctrine makes room for governments based upon popular sovereignty but does not prescribe this universally. Even on communism there are great differences in temper between European and much American Catholicism.

It is an understatement to say that the Catholic hierarchy did not act helpfully on the issue of McCarthyism, but that was because they were deeply divided. There is no doubt that McCarthy had a strong hold on large groups of Catholics, especially Irish Catholics, but it is also true that some of the most eloquent opposition to McCarthy came from Catholic sources, notably such journals as The Commonweal and America. American Protestants need not fear that Catholics will usually throw their great weight as a religious community in the same political direction. This will tend to be even less a danger as Catholics move further away from the status of an immigrant bloc. In general we can say that natural law does not guarantee agreement on concrete issues, but we can also say that natural law plus prudence equals flexibility.

I have outlined briefly four aspects of Catholicism of which American Protestants should take account. Though they give no assurance as to the direction that Catholicism may take in the next generation, they may release us from exaggerated fears based on past experience in this country alone. Protestants should put more rather than less emphasis upon positive elements of Protestant faith and doctrine. They should join Catholics in rejecting superficial forms of religious harmony so often urged in the interests of national unity. But they can live with their Catholic neighbors in the hope that greater mutual understanding and the sharing of moral and political purposes may become possible.

 

NOTES

American Freedom and Catholic Power (Beacon Press, 1958), p. 38.

Protestant and Catholic (Beacon Press, 1957), p. 94.

J. Ryan and F. Boland, Catholic Principles of Politics (Macmillan, 1940), p.320. 

American Freedom and Catholic Power (Beacon Press, 1958), p. 38.

Protestant and Catholic (Beacon Press, 1957), p. 94.

J. Ryan and F. Boland, Catholic Principles of Politics (Macmillan, 1940), p.320.

 

Salient Facts Overlooked

A Concerned Protestant Suggests Another View of Catholic Religious Liberty

By C. Stanley Lowell

It impresses me that in his "argument from difference" in regard to Catholic views on religious liberty.

John Bennett overlooks some salient facts. He fails to mention that while the "American view" of Father Murray was being advanced against the traditional Catholic view of religious liberty pressed by the Spanish hierarchy, Cardinal Ottaviani’s statement settling the issue was approved by the Pope as "unexceptionable." Nor does he mention that Cardinal Ottaviani, as Secretary of the Supreme Congregation of the Holy Office, was perhaps the Pope’s closest confidant.

Dr. Bennett does make vague mention of a speech in which the Pope, himself in vague language, seems to lend some approval to "the American view." If any such pronouncement exists, it must appear rather emaciated when contrasted with the overwhelming evidence of pronouncements on the other side.

While it is nice that Father Murray holds "libera1 views," the fact is that they have never gained any official recognition at the Vatican. Unfortunately, Father Murray speaks for no one, not even himself. Authoritative teaching of the American hierarchy in regard to religious liberty, a teaching squarely in line with the Church’s tradition, has been consistently presented by Father Francis J. Connell.

It seems curious, too, that Dr. Bennett should speak of "the influence of liberal democratic ideas [which] enables Catholics to avoid the civil intolerance that causes most anxiety among Protestants." He apparently wrote this at the very moment that New York was in an uproar over a sectarian medical code that the Roman Catholic Church had for years been imposing on public hospitals of that city.

 

John Bennett Reply: 

Mr. Lowell raises an important question. How influential in the Catholic Church is the view of Father Murray that was outlined in my article? I emphasized the fact that it is not the dominant view. It has the tradition of many centuries against it. The most that I can claim is that this issue of the religious liberty of non-Catholics in a nation in which there is a predominance of Catholics is being debated on all levels and in many countries, and that the traditional position is being challenged with great ability. The so-called "dynamic interpreters," to use the name given by Father Gustave Weigel to the Murray position. have strong support among Catholic scholars and laymen in this country and in several other democratic countries.

Professor Kenneth Underwood, in Protestant and Catholic, points out that in Holyoke, Mass., 40 per cent of the clergy, and these the younger clergy, are receptive to this position (pp. 352-53). One difficulty is that, without raising the ultimate question of the theory of religious liberty, Catholics in this country can agree with the practical implications of Father Murray’s position on pragmatic grounds. Members of the hierarchy do not want to be put on the spot on a matter that involves revision of basic theory. The discussion is being carried out by scholars and laymen.

The speech by Cardinal Ottaviani actually revealed a division within the Church because he was strongly attacked publicly by Catholic spokesmen in this country1 even by such a diocesan journal as The Pilot in Boston. I have learned by word of mouth about the serious divisions in the Vatican concerning this speech. but this quickly becomes gossip and it is hard ~o evaluate. Pius XII’s address to which I referred (distributed in English translation on December 15, 1953) did not go further than the traditional position allows, but the timing of it suggests that he was in fact rebuking the extreme position advanced by Cardinal Ottaviani. The address itself shows the caution and even studied ambiguity that are common in papal utterances. The most that we can expect of any Pope on such matters is an indication of permissiveness. Remember that we are dealing here with a theoretical challenge of the traditional position; but this challenge has great significance because it fits the experience of Catholics in democratic countries. Elsewhere Pius XII made a very dear place for democracy.

As far as birth control is concerned, I agree with those who fight uncompromisingly for the freedom of non-Catholics on this issue. There are important issues between Protestants and Catholic and I do not Want to obscure them. Fortunately there is some disagreement among Catholic as to how far they

should press their position on the whole community by law. There is a favorable straw in the wind in the fact that they are not attempting to have laws such as those in Massachusetts and Connecticut enacted in other states. But if this means that they are relying on administrative action, as was the case in New York City hospitals, they need to be resolutely opposed.

 

Complex and Evolving Realities

By William Clancy

It is depressing to read the observations of C. Stanley Lowell. They give further evidence of remarkable inability even to glimpse the realities of Catholicism in the modern world. These realities, as John C. Bennett has observed, are complex and, in many areas, evolving. But, whatever may be the evidence to the contrary, Mr. Lowell insists that "the Roman Church" is simple and forever frozen in sonic medieval mold.

I am not hopeful that anything I, or any other Catholic, might say would bring him to a wider vision of Catholicism. Those who see it as authoritarianism pure and simple, a monolithic conspiracy against the "American way of life," are frozen in their mold. But for the sake of those Protestants and others who are interested I think some Catholic comment should be made.

The point I would make is general. But I must also point out several of his more outrageous inaccuracies.

Item: Mr. Lowell claims that Cardinal Ottaviani’s 1953 defense of the "traditional" Catholic church-state position was "approved" by the Pope as "unexceptionable." He further states that "if" (as Dr. Bennett wrote) the Pope once made a speech which "in vague language seems to approve ‘the American view,’" the Pope’s pronouncement, "if any such pronouncement exists must appear rather emaciated when contrasted with the overwhelming evidence of pronouncements on the other side."

These are startling observations. The late Pope himself never made any comment on Cardinal Ottaviani’s address. Someone in "the Vatican," who has never been identified, made a statement that while the Ottaviani position was "neither official nor semi-official" it was, nevertheless, "unexceptionable." And the "vague" papal pronouncement that Mr. Lowell seems to doubt was ever made was, in fact, a major -- some think historic -- allocution, delivered in 1953 to an audience of Italian jurists, in which Pope Pius XII laid down the principle that "in the interest of a higher and broader good, it is justifiable not to impede error by state laws and coercive measures." It remains true, Pius declared, that error has no rights "objectively," but "the duty to repress religious and moral deviation cannot be an ultimate norm for action. It must be subjected to higher and more general norms." Many Catholics in the West interpreted this principle, clearly stated by the Pope, as "officially" opening the way for the formulation of a new Catholic position on church-state relations.

Item: Mr. Lowell believes that "while it is nice {sic] that Father John Courtney Murray holds ‘liberal views,’ the fact is that they have never gained any official recognition at the Vatican. Unfortunately, Father Murray speaks for no one, not even himself."

Comment on this seems unnecessary in view of Pius XII’s pronouncement to the Italian jurists. One can only observe that it would be "nice" if Mr. Lowell had paid at least as much attention to the official papal address that undercut his view of Catholicism as he did to "the neither official nor semi-official" speech that supported it.

But of course he did not. And here we see the reason why most Catholics despair of any rational discussion with those who hold his views, particularly with supporters of Protestants and Other Americans United. As I observed before, they will insist that the Catholic Church is a simple, forever frozen authoritarian phenomenon, incapable of historic adaptation or self-criticism, no matter how impressive the evidence to the contrary may be. The historic ferment and developments in modern Catholic thought are dismissed (if anything is known about them) as atypical or even hypocritical. For how could it be otherwise in a Church that is "monolithic"? Period.

…But though the church has a life that is beyond history, it also moves in history and here it learns, adapts changes. I t is not the simple, mechanical "power" that some of its critics fear. The Church is living, not dead.

At the beginning of this century a great Roman pontiff, Leo XIII, wrote: "It is the special property of human institutions and laws that there is nothing in them so holy and salutary but that custom may alter it, or overthrow it, or social habits bring it to naught. So in the Church of God, in which changeableness of discipline is joined with absolute immutability of doctrine, it happens not rarely that things which were once relevant or suitable become in the course of time out of date, or useless, or even harmful."

Here was as "official" an observation as any Mr. Lowell could desire. And, in its spirit, the process of separating out those things that are essential from those that are unessential, of re-evaluating those things which, in the course of time, may have become useless or even harmful, will continue in the Catholic community during the reign of John XXIII. While it proceeds, Catholics will hope for patience and some intelligent understanding from those not of the household of their faith.

 

 

 

Dialectical vs. Di-Polar Theology

I

We seek the emergence of an encompassing vision which seemingly now lies beyond us, and I am fully persuaded that it will transcend everything which is now manifest as either dialectical or di-polar understanding. No doubt my way of seeking it is very different from process thought, such as that expressed in the writings of John B. Cobb, Jr., but this does not preclude the possibility that Cobb’s di-polar theological understanding cannot only challenge but also enrich a quest for total dialectical understanding and vision. At this stage we must seek clarity as to the actual difference between our respective quests and more particularly seek to unveil the fundamental relation between our respective categories. Cobb’s method is more open theologically to particular and individual centers of consciousness than is my own, and this makes possible for him a pragmatic engagement and concern which is foreign to my way of theological thinking. But from my own point of view this closes his method to either the possibility or the actuality of a total mode of vision and experience and therefore confines his theological horizon to what I must judge to be an inverted and fallen world of experience. Once we concede an ultimate otherness of reality-in-itself, then we must finally be either prisoners or victims of that reality, with no possibility of either making or realizing an ultimate self or life-affirmation.

The anthropocentrism to which I am committed locates all reality in, and in relation to, consciousness and experience. This commitment refuses any reality whatsoever to that which is other than consciousness or experience. Nevertheless, a fundamental question arises as to the identity of consciousness and experience. While in one sense it is correct to identify this consciousness and experience as a human phenomenon, in another sense it is not; for a total vision, or a quest for it, must negate and oppose every isolated and particular expression of experience, and therefore it must set itself against everything which is given or immediately present to us as consciousness or experience. To speak of a total vision from the perspective of a particular and individual mode of consciousness is to speak of that which is other than our consciousness and experience. No way lies present to us of a total vision apart from a negation of ourselves, a negation which is a radical uprooting of everything which is individually and personally our own. Only such a negation of our given and individual identity and reality can annul the otherness of the other. For the totality of consciousness and experience cannot appear and be real until its particular and individual ground is negated and transcended.

Accordingly, a total vision must refuse the ultimacy and finality of all individual and particular experience, and therefore it must refuse the finality of what happens to an individual man, including what Cobb speaks of as his lonely suffering and death. While that suffering cannot in itself be a self-unfolding of Geist, it does not follow that it has no direct bearing on the movement and evolution of Spirit. What Hegel termed the "labor" of the negative is precisely the mode of the actualization and realization of Spirit, and apart from pain and suffering there would be no movement or activity. A total vision calls us to a realization that our suffering and death are not solely and only our own and that to confine it to an individual and particular identity and meaning is to refuse the presence and reality of Spirit. What does Cobb or the di-polar realist mean when he says that the suffering and death of the individual has importance in and for itself? The latter phrase could be Hegelian, and it could mean that suffering and death are finally important only insofar as their particular factuality is transcended by an all-encompassing expression and experience. At this point I see a parallel between Hegelian and Whiteheadian modes of understanding, for surely something like this is comprehended in Whitehead’s doctrine of the consequent nature of God. Yet the Hegelian mode of understanding is here more theologically radical than its Whiteheadian counterpart, for it demands that the fullness of Spirit be present in the "labor" of the negative and refuses and negates that form or identity of Spirit which is in itself and apart. Is the affirmation of the ultimate importance of individual suffering and death theologically inseparable from an affirmation of the primordial and transcendent nature of God? Is an affirmation of the original and primordial identity of God inseparable from an acceptance of or a submission to the finality and solitude of individual suffering and death?

If di-polar thought truly places its stress upon the primacy of concern for the actual and particular, then it may be thereby closing itself to the encompassing vision which we seek. Moreover, if primacy is also or therefore given to the ultimate reality of the non-conscious, then it may thereby be placing its hope upon a reality which is indifferent to human affirmation and experience. Is Cobb committed to a necessary and unchanging relation between actuality and otherness? If there is no experience that is not experience of something other than itself, does this mean that the subject of experience is necessarily and eternally bound to its objective pole?

At this point it is unavoidable that we cast a glance at Whitehead’s understanding of experience. In the conclusion of his chapter on the subjectivist principle in Process arid Reality. Whitehead states that the way in which one actual entity is qualified by other actual entities is the "experience" of the actual world enjoyed by that actual entity. as subject.

The subjectivist principle is that the whole universe Consists of elements disclosed in the analysis of the experiences of subjects. Process is the becoming of experience. It follows that the philosophy of organism entirely accepts the subjectivist bias of modern philosophy. It also accepts Hume’s doctrine that nothing is to be received into the philosophical scheme which is not discoverable as an element in subjective experience. This is the ontological principle. (PR 252f)

Actual entities are the final real things of which the world is made, and Whitehead’s ontological principle can be summarized as: no actual entity, then no reason for anything whatsoever. (PR 271) Actual entities or actual occasions are subjects insofar as they are present and objects only insofar as they are past. And Whitehead can summarize his own reformed subjectivist principle as follows: "that apart from the experiences of subjects there is nothing, nothing, nothing, bare nothingness." (PR 254)

In the Preface to Process and Reality, after having stated that his philosophy is a recurrence to pre-Kantian modes of thought, Whitehead asks if his cosmology is not a transformation of some main doctrines of Absolute Idealism onto a realistic basis. Now, after having presented his reformed subjectivist principle, Whitehead forthrightly affirms that the final analogy of his philosophy to philosophies of the Hegelian school is not accidental.

The universe is at once the multiplicity of res verae, and the solidarity of res verae. The solidarity is itself the efficiency of the macrocosmic res vera. embodying the principle of unbounded permanence acquiring novelty through flux. The multiplicity is composed of microcosmic res verae, each embodying the principle bounded flux acquiring "everlasting" permanence. On one side, the one becomes many; and on the other side, the many become one. But what becomes is always a res vera, and the concrescence of a res vera is the development of a subjective aim. This development is nothing else than the Hegelian development of an idea. (PR 254)

Although Whitehead confessed in 1931 that he lacked firsthand acquaintance with Hegel, he also stated that he had been influenced by the British neo-Hegelians, and Gregory Vlastos interprets his philosophy as a unique variant of the Hegelian dialectic. (1:253-62) May we ask to what extent Whitehead’s understanding of subject and experience parallels Hegel’s understanding of the mutual and reciprocal relation between subject and object?

Whitehead presented a compelling portrait of his own search for ultimate meaning in the conclusion of the fifth chapter of Science and the Modern World. First, he identifies any purely religious or theological answer to the question of the ultimate meaning of the order and reality of nature as the great refusal of rationality to assert its rights. He insists that we have to search as to whether nature does not in its very being "show" itself as self-explanatory. By this he means that the very statement of what things are may contain elements explanatory of why things are. Then, after noting that "value" is the word. he uses for the intrinsic reality of an event, he says:

Value is the outcome of limitation. The definite finite entity is the selected mode which is the shaping of attainment; apart from such shaping into individual matter of fact there is no attainment. The mere fusion of all that there is would be the nonentity of indefiniteness. The salvation of reality is its obstinate, irreducible, matter-of-fact entities, which are limited to be no other than themselves. (SMW 136f)

There following, in the brief chapter on God, Whitehead states that there cannot be value without antecedent standards of value, and thus there is required a metaphysical principle of limitation. The apparent irrational limitation of actual occasions or actual entities has a ground for which no reason can be given, for all reason flows from it.

God is the ultimate limitation, and His existence is the ultimate irrationality. For no reason can be given for just that limitation which it stands in His nature to impose. God is not concrete, but He is the ground for concrete actuality. No reason can be given for the nature of God, because that nature is the ground of rationality. (SMW 257)

Without doubt, Whitehead’s philosophy does embody a seemingly strange and startling conjunction of what had previously been manifest in Western thinking as the wholly diverse and mutually contradictory movements of realism and idealism, and perhaps his greatest historical importance will prove to be that he brought these opposing streams together. Who could fail to be moved by Whitehead’s radically challenging conjunction if not identification of matter-of-fact entities and subjective experience? Whitehead’s cosmology itself is concerned with the becoming, the being, and the relatedness of such actual entities or res verae. And therein he reaches a metaphysical understanding of creative process as the becoming, the perishing, and the objective immortalization of those things which jointly constitute what he terms stubborn fact. As he says in the Preface to Process and Reality:

All relatedness has its foundation in the relatedness of actualities; and such relatedness is wholly concerned with the appropriation of the dead by the living -- that is to say, with "objective immortality" whereby what is divested of its own living immediacy becomes a real component in other living immediacies of becoming. (PR ix)

Although every actual occasion must perish, it perishes by the subject of the occasion becoming object or by the transition of the present into the past. Yet every occasion (or each fluent actual occasion) is also completed by passing into objective immortality, wherein it is everlasting, and is thus devoid of perpetual perishing. Cosmology, in this sense, is claimed by Whitehead to be the basis of all religions. Indeed, "everlastingness" (the "many" absorbed everlastingly in the final unity) is the actual content of that vision out of which the higher religions historically evolved. Thus, in the closing pages of Process and Reality, Whitehead gives us something like an eschatological vision:

God and the World stand over against each other, expressing the final metaphysical truth that appetitive vision and physical enjoyment have equal claim to priority in creation. But no two actualities can be torn apart: each is all in all. Thus each temporal occasion embodies God, and is embodied in God. In God’s nature, permanence is primordial and flux is derivative from the World: in the World’s nature, flux is primordial and permanence is derivative from God. Also the World’s nature is a primordial datum from God; and God’s nature is a primordial datum for the World. Creation achieves the reconciliation of permanence and flux when it has reached its final term which is everlastingness -- the Apotheosis of the World. (PR 529)

God and the World are the contrasted opposites in terms of which the creative process achieves its goal. Every temporal occasion embodies God, and God embodies every temporal occasion. Nor may we lose sight of the claim that matter-of-fact entities or stubborn fact constitute those actual occasions which embody God. Only in this sense is the "salvation" of reality its obstinate. irreducible, matter-of-fact entities, which are limited to be no other than themselves. (SMW 137)

May we say that God and the World are here mutually and reciprocally related in an Hegelian manner and mode? Or, otherwise phrased, is Whitehead’s objective immortality the cosmological and organic equivalent of Hegel’s absolute negativity? Is Whitehead’s understanding of subject and experience a metaphysical conceptualization of the Hegelian process of self-negation? Or, otherwise stated, is Whitehead’s cosmological reconciliation of permanence and flux at bottom identical with Hegel’s dialectical reconciliation of subjectivity and objectivity? Does Hegel’s "labor" of the negative find cosmological expression in Whitehead’s ontological principle? Is the Whiteheadian "subject" finally identical with the Hegelian "subject," and the Whiteheadian res verae finally identical with the Hegelian "substance"? Is, then, the reformed subjectivist principle of Whitehead finally identical with the Hegelian principle that subject and object mutually and reciprocally determine each other? These questions take us far beyond the present state of our discussion, and I suspect that the present stage of philosophical development is not yet prepared to answer or even perhaps properly to formulate such questions. Yet in some sense they lie as an inescapable background for any dialogue between di-polar and dialectical theology, and it is possible that it is just such a dialogue which can provide an authentic mode of entry into these questions.

Certainly, from this point of view, di-polar theology has only begun the process of constructing a theological conceptualization of Whitehead’s philosophy. It is also possible that it has been premature in even its tentative constructions and lies in danger of giving Whitehead a too limited and provincial meaning. At the very least a genuine correlation of Whitehead and Hegel would establish the possibility that the full movement of Western thinking is present in Whitehead’s philosophy, and that his philosophy is just as much a fulfillment of that thinking as it is a challenge to it. I am intrigued that it is just those theological categories which lie at the center of Hegelian thinking which Cobb repudiates or minimizes, and I cannot refrain from posing the fundamental question as to whether or not a fuller Whiteheadian mode of understanding might establish the centrality of these categories in di-polar theology. For my own part, I cannot imagine how di-polar theology could be genuinely Christian so long as it places christology and eschatology at the periphery of faith and understanding, nor can I see how it could ever gain real relevance or power so long as it continues to be unable either to address us or to speak in terms of the imagination. Clearly at these points and others di-polar theology stands to gain immensely by the employment of Hegelian dialectical thinking. The question remains as to what extent this thinking is compatible with the Whiteheadian ground of di-polar theology.

II

Is it inevitable that di-polar theology must subordinate christology to other doctrines? Must di-polar theology by necessity subordinate its understanding of Christ to its understanding of God? Must that which it can conceptually understand as God determine the limits of that which it can theologically conceive as Christ? Is there, then, no mutual and reciprocal relation between that which a di-polar theology knows as God and that which it knows or can know as Christ? Indeed, is the understanding of God in di-polar theology fully and wholly metaphysical, or is it also, and in some fundamental and specific sense, theological? Is the Whiteheadian distinction between the primordial and the consequent natures of God a purely metaphysical distinction which has no genuine or truly christological ground? Or is it possible that the understanding of God in di-polar theology has both a metaphysical and a theological or christological ground? For example, Whitehead himself, in introducing his chapter on God in Science and the Modern World, says that Aristotle was the last European metaphysician of first-rate importance who was entirely dispassionate in his understanding of God. Whitehead even doubts whether any properly general metaphysics can ever, without the "illicit" introduction of other considerations, get much further than Aristotle. (SMW 249Q Whitehead obviously attempts to go further than Aristotle and does so most particularly in his understanding of actuality as through and through togetherness -- "togetherness of otherwise isolated eternal objects, and togetherness of all actual occasions." (SMW 251) Is such a metaphysical understanding of togetherness reached by an "illicit" introduction of a specifically Christian mode of understanding?

Whitehead says that it is important for his argument to insist upon the Unbounded freedom within which the actual is a unique categorical determination. God is the ground for concrete actuality. But no reason can be given for the nature of God, because that nature is the ground of rationality. Here we reach the limit of rationality. As Whitehead says in the penultimate paragraph of this chapter on God:

For there is a categorical limitation which does not spring from any metaphysical reason. There is a metaphysical need for a principle of determination, but there can be no metaphysical reason for what is determined. If there were such a reason. there would be no need for any further principle: for metaphysics would already have provided the determination. The general principle of empiricism depends upon the doctrine that there is a principle of concretion which is not discoverable by -abstract reason. What further can be known about Cod must be sought in the region of particular experiences, and therefore rests on an empirical basis. (SMW 2V7)

Mankind has differed profoundly, as Whitehead notes, in respect to the interpretation of these experiences Every historical name of God, whether that name be religious or metaphysical, corresponds to a system of thought derived from the actual and empirical experiences of those who have used it. Does it not then follow that the Whiteheadian name and conception of God derives from a "system" of thought with a uniquely Christian empirical and historical ground?

If this is so, then it would appear that the understanding of God in di-polar theology does indeed have a specifically and uniquely theological ground. But a specifically and uniquely theological ground, as opposed to a general and universal metaphysical or natural theological ground, can be named as christological, that is to say it can be identified as having an essential and necessary relation to the name and event which the Christian knows as Christ. It could even be said that Whitehead goes far beyond most theologians in insisting upon the empirical and historical basis of all knowledge about God. Theologically considered, however, should we not identify such an empirical and historical basis as christological? If abstract reason cannot discover such a principle of concretion, and if it must be sought in the region of particular experiences, then must not that experience be indissolubly linked, at least symbolically, with the actual and historical name of Christ? At least from this perspective, Whitehead’s understanding of God has a christological ground, and this also means that his understanding of actuality and actual occasions has a necessary and inevitable christological ground. Therefore Whitehead’s cosmology is not simply or only a metaphysical cosmology, it is also a christological cosmology, for the "togetherness" which it establishes between otherwise isolated eternal objects and actual occasions is a togetherness which is manifest only in the region of a particular and specifically Christian experience.

But is it not also possible that Whitehead’s understanding of God is christological in the sense that it is in large measure an understanding of what the Christian specifically names as Christ? At this point the eschatological question becomes paramount, and I proceed with the theological conviction that the Christian names of Christ and the Kingdom of God are integrally and necessarily related to each other. Already I have suggested that the conclusion of Process and Reality gives us something like an eschatological vision. Now I wish to suggest that what Whitehead conceives as the consequent nature of God is a metaphysical conceptualization of what the Christian symbolically names as Christ. Not only is it true that the idea of the consequent nature of God is metaphysically dependent upon a particular historical tradition, but I would also suggest the possibility that it is directed wholly and without remainder to what the Christian, and only the Christian, has known as the total and final presence of God in Christ. Notice how careful Whitehead is, in the conclusion of Process and Reality, to distinguish a Christian or Galilean vision of God from the dominant forms of Western theism. These dominant theisms have fashioned God in the image of an imperial ruler, in the image of a personification of moral energy, or in the image of an ultimately philosophical principle.

The history of theistic philosophy exhibits various stages of combination of these three diverse ways of entertaining the problem. There is, however, in the Galilean origin of Christianity yet another suggestion which does not fit well with any of the three main strands of thought. It does not emphasize the ruling Caesar, or the ruthless moralist, or the unmoved mover. It dwells upon the tender elements in the world, which slowly and in quietness operate by love; and it finds purpose in the present immediacy of a kingdom not of this world. Love neither rules, nor is it unmoved; also it is a little oblivious as to morals. It does not look to the future: for it finds its own reward in the immediate present. (PR 520f)

So far from being the transcendent Creator, or the "eminently real," God is love and is a love which not only actualizes itself but also "completes" itself in an apotheosis of the world. Are we not here in the presence of a fully eschatological and fully christological vision of God?

In Religion in the Making, Whitehead says that there are three great systems of thought, Buddhism, Christianity, and science. Whereas Buddhism is a metaphysic generating a religion, Christianity has always been a religion seeking a metaphysic. Christianity starts with a tremendous notion about the world, and this notion is not derived from a metaphysical doctrine, but rather from our comprehension of the sayings and actions of Christ. What is primary in religion is the religious fact. The Buddha left a tremendous doctrine, but Christianity is grounded in the "tremendous fact" of Christ. (RM 51) The reported sayings of Christ are not formularized thought, but rather descriptions of direct insight. He speaks in the lowest abstractions that language is capable of, and his sayings are actions and not adjustments of concepts.

In the Sermon on the Mount. and in the Parables, there is no reasoning about the facts. They are seen with immeasurable innocence. Christ represents rationalism derived from direct intuition and divorced from dialectics.

The life of Christ is not an exhibition of over-ruling power. Its glory is for those who can discern it, and not for the world. Its power lies in the absence of force. It has the decisiveness of a supreme ideal, and that is why the history of the world divides at this point of time. (RM 57)

It is precisely in the life of Christ that there first appeals a power lying in the absence of force, and although historic Christianity has again and again negated and reversed that power, it is in the development and expression of that power that the true destiny of Christianity lies.

Is not Whitehead’s doctrine of God, and more particularly his doctrine of the consequent nature of God, a conceptual development and expression of that power? We also must not fail to observe that in Religion in the Making Whitehead presents a doctrine of God which at least in part incorporates the eschatological proclamation of Jesus. In speaking therein on the contribution of religion to metaphysics -- and he identifies this contribution as the realization of the togetherness or the interdependence of the universe -- he says:

The world is at once a passing shadow and a final fact. The shadow is passing into the fact, so as to be constitutive of it; and yet the fact is prior to the shadow. There is a kingdom of heaven prior to the actual passage of actual things, and there is the same kingdom finding its completion through the accomplishment of this passage. (RM 81)

This kingdom is in the world, yet not of the world; it transcends the natural world, but so does the world transcend the kingdom of heaven. Then, in the last chapter, in the section on the nature of God, Whitehead says that the kingdom of heaven is God. God is the "ideal companion" who transmutes what has been lost into a living fact within his own nature.

The kingdom of heaven is not the isolation of good from evil. It is the overcoming of evil by good. This transmutation of evil into good enters into the actual world by reason of the inclusion of the nature of God, which includes the ideal vision of each actual evil so met with a novel consequent as to issue in the restoration of goodness. (RM 155)

Could we not say that this understanding of God is grounded in Christ, and not only in the sayings of Christ but also in the Cross, and in the Cross as a universal and forward-moving process of atonement?

Yet another clue to this meaning of God is contained in Whitehead’s initial definition of religion in Religion in the Making:

Religion is what the individual does with his own solitariness. It runs through three stages, if it evolves to its final satisfaction. It is the transition from God the void to God the enemy, and from God the enemy to God the companion. (RM 16f)

‘The great religious conceptions which haunt the imagination are scenes of solitariness: Prometheus chained to his rock, Mahomet brooding in the desert, the meditations of the Buddha, and the solitary Man on the Cross. Surely this last image is the one which most decisively affected Whitehead religiously, and he can even say that: "It belongs to the depth of the religious spirit to have felt forsaken, even by God." (RM 20) Despite appearances to the contrary, there is good reason to suspect that Whitehead at bottom was a twice-born soul, and I suspect that those di-polar theologians who are once-born or healthy-minded souls are at least in part responsible for a fundamental distortion of Whitehead’s theological meaning. I also suspect that only a theological understanding of the transition in religious experience from an apprehension of God the enemy to God. the companion can preserve the imaginative power of a Whiteheadian understanding of God in the context of the twentieth century. If God is completed by the passage of shadow into fact, could we not also say that God the companion only appears after the disappearance of God the enemy? And is not the image of God the companion derived not only from the sayings of Christ but also from the Cross, and from the image and the appearance of the solitary Man on the Cross? (RM 20)

At the very least a non-Whiteheadian theologian can entertain the supposition that Whitehead’s conception of the consequent nature of God has both a christological and an eschatological ground. Moreover, it is conceivable that this mode of metaphysical or theological understanding represents and embodies a synthesis or coming together of eschatology and christology. It is surely possible to think that Whitehead’s understanding of the consequent nature of God or the kingdom of heaven is implicitly if partially grounded in a genuine eschatology, and is so because it apprehends a transmutation of evil into good by way of a cosmic and universal process. God becomes ever more fully all in all, and he does so by way of a progressive incarnation of himself in the world, an incarnation which culminates in an apotheosis of the world. This mode of vision appears to be related to that of Eastern Christianity, and if so it suggests that Whitehead’s employment of Plato has a fully religious ground, just as it also suggests that Whitehead’s doctrine of the consequent nature of God is a metaphysical and theological conceptualization of the universal, and cosmic. and forward-moving Christ.



References

1. Vlastos, Gregory. "Organic Categories in Whitehead." Journal of Philosophy, 34 (1937). Reprinted in Alfred North Whitehead: Essays on His Philosophy. Edited by George L. Kline. Englewood Cliffs, N. J.: Prentice-Hall 1963, pp. 158-67.

The Buddhist Ground of the Whiteheadian God

God and the World stand over against each other, expressing the final metaphysical truth that appetitive vision and physical enjoyment have equal claim to priority in creation. But no two actual entities can be torn apart: each is all in all. Thus each temporal occasion embodies God, and is embodied in God. In God’s nature, permanence is primordial and flux is derivative from the World: in the World’s nature, flux is primordial and permanence is derivative from God. Also the World’s nature is a primordial datum for God; and God’s nature is a primordial datum for the World. Creation achieves the reconciliation of permanence and flux when it has reached its final terms which is everlastingness -- the Apotheosis of the World. (PR 529)

These primary and overwhelming words from the conclusion of Process and Reality might be taken as the apex of modern Western speculative vision, and yet they seem to be inconsistent with the apparent foundations of Whitehead’s metaphysics. They surely have no clear warrant in the Western philosophical and theological tradition. Nevertheless, this vision is compelling, not simply because of its immediate power, but also because it promises what our own tradition has hidden or obscured, even though that hiding is a veiling of its and our own ground. Most of all the Christian might rejoice in this vision, for it may well embody a recovery of what the Christian has long since lost: that is, nothing less than the meaning of the Gospel, the meaning of Jesus’ original proclamation of the triumphant dawning of the Kingdom of God. But to accept this vision the Christian must lose or negate what has historically been the foundation of his faith, the transcendence of God. Indeed, what we have known as Christian language cannot dissociate transcendence and God, so the dissolution of transcendence goes hand in hand with the disappearance of the Christian name of God.

How strange that both his secular opponents and his theological allies commonly treat the later Whitehead as an apologist for Christianity, and this surely because the name of God became so fundamental in his mature thinking. But is this a Christian name of God? Is it truly a name of God at all? Does it evoke what language can speak of as God? Can we actually pronounce the name of God in a Whiteheadian speculative context? Could it be that Whitehead seemed to so many of us a strange and isolated voice because we falsely imagined that he was actually speaking the name of God? Does not his voice in fact lie at the center of the modern imaginative vision? We have removed that center to the periphery by mistranslating the Whiteheadian God as the Christian God, by falsely judging that the God about whom Whitehead spoke is the God about whom we can speak. Should we not expect that if Whitehead is indeed a great speculative philosopher that he would be just as falsely interpreted by his Christian spokesmen as were Plato, Aristotle, and Hegel by theirs? One thing above all stands out in Christian misinterpretations of metaphysical thinking, and that is the meaning and identity of God; for despite illusions to the contrary we have yet to move beyond Pascal’s realization of the dichotomy between philosophical and theological meanings of God.

It may well be that there is no open or immediate way into the identity of the Whiteheadian God so long as we remain within the contours of the Western tradition. After all it was Whitehead himself who declared that Christianity has always been a religion "seeking" a metaphysics (RM 50). If Christianity has not yet found a metaphysics, it has not yet found a conceptual meaning of Cod, which is to say a meaning of God which can be spoken in the language of faith. In Religion in the Making Whitehead says that Christianity starts with a tremendous notion about the world and that this notion is not derived from a metaphysical doctrine, but rather from our comprehension of the sayings and action of Christ. What is primary in religion is the religious fact, and Christianity is grounded in the "tremendous fact" of Christ (RM 51). Now what can "fact" mean in this context? Whitehead goes on to say that the reported sayings of Christ are not formalized thought, but rather descriptions of direct insight. He speaks in the lowest abstractions that language is capable of, and his sayings are actions and not adjustments of concepts. So we face the seeming paradox that Christianity starts with a tremendous notion about the world, but this notion is non- or trans-conceptual. Is it transconceptual in a Western or even a Christian context? Do "fact" and "action" here defy analysis because we are want to interpret them with a Western horizon of meaning?

Can the East, and more particularly Buddhism, give us a horizon wherein we can recover the meaning of the "fact" of Christ? This would seem to be an odd possibility if only because it is so difficult for the Western mind to associate "fact" with the world or worlds of Eastern understanding. Yet obviously Whitehead is here giving the word ‘fact’ an odd meaning, at least one that seems odd to us. Perhaps it is only in an alien context that the Western mind can discover a meaning of ‘fact’ which it can associate with Christ. We might begin by noting that the oddity of the Whiteheadian meaning of fact is not confined to his treatment of religion and Christ; it rather lies at the center of his metaphysical understanding. Whitehead presents a revealing portrait of his own search for ultimate meaning in the conclusion of the fifth chapter of Science and the Modern World. First, he identifies any attempt at a purely religious or theological answer to the question of the ultimate meaning of the order and reality of nature as the great refusal of rationality to assert its rights. He insists that we have to search as to whether nature does not in its very being "show" itself as self-explantory. By this he means that the very statement of what things are may contain elements explanatory of why things are. Then, after noting that ‘value’ is the word he uses for the intrinsic reality of an event, he says:

Value is the outcome of limitation. The definite finite entity is the selected mode which is the shaping of attainment; apart from such shaping into individual matter of fact there is no attainment. The mere fusion of all that there is would be the nonentity of indefiniteness. The salvation of reality is its obstinate, irreducible matter-of-fact entities, which are limited to be no other than themselves. (SMW 136f)

Now what could be more absurd to the Western mind than to say that matter-of-fact entities are the salvation of reality? Salvation as obstinate and irreducible fact? But what is most absurd to the Western mind would appear to be most natural and spontaneous to the Buddhist mind, for here brute or irreducible ‘fact’ is identified with salvation.

Here as elsewhere language can be most deceptive, and particularly so since we have not yet learned how to translate an Eastern into a Western language. But we have already lost our Christian language, or lost the ability to speak it, and perhaps the attempt to speak an alien language will restore to us the power of speech. If Buddhism can speak at all to us, albeit in a distorted and all too partial and fragmentary voice, it may at the very least challenge and disrupt those patterns of language and thinking which have silenced our own language of faith. Significantly enough, our own language has often adopted the language of Buddhism when it intended to speak of that which is most other or most threatening to itself. Thus when Freud made his radical turn after the First World War and discovered the death instinct, he called it the nirvana principle, thereby enabling us to name the total peace of Buddhism as a prehuman condition and a pre- or postliving state. Of course, Romanticism, as Denis de Rougemont insisted, has always known salvation as death. But psychoanalysis, as Marxism before it, gave to Romanticism a scientific language, and it is not without accident that in our day it is only the psychoanalyst or the Marxist who can speak convincingly of what the Christian once knew as sin. Indeed, images of death or nothingness have dominated the modern imagination, and who can doubt that it is the power of such images which has opened our sensibilities to the world of Buddhism? Can this be true of Whitehead himself? Surely not! Whitehead, the last Victorian, the last great thinker who could affirm the traditional values of the West, even the last genuine thinker who could use the word ‘value’ at all?

However, we have learned something about Victorianism in the last generation, and one of the things which we have learned is that in some respects the Victorians were even more nihilistic than we are ourselves, for they could be shocked by nihilism as we cannot, and this very shock could lead them to daring strokes of the imagination. When we reflect upon it, is there not something strange about Whitehead’s preoccupation with Buddhism, and something very odd indeed about the manner in which he could address himself to it? Whether or not Whitehead was influenced by Buddhism in the creation of his own cosmology and metaphysics, his thinking often remarkably parallels Buddhism, as witness his doctrine that it is the perishing of absoluteness which is the attainment of objective immortality. Has another modern thinker found in perpetual perishing the sign and seal of immortality?

Already in Religion in the Making Whitehead says that the realization of the togetherness or the interdependence of the universe is the contribution of religion to metaphysics. But it might be noted that this realization is far more fully present in Buddhism than in Christianity. Cosmic relatedness is the core of Whitehead’s cosmology, which is concerned with the becoming, the being, and the relatedness of what he terms actual entities. Therein he reaches a metaphysical understanding of creative process as the becoming, the perishing, and the objective immortalization of those things which jointly constitute what he calls stubborn fact. As he says in the preface to Process and Reality:

All relatedness has its foundation in the relatedness of actualities: and such relatedness is wholly concerned with the appropriation of the dead by the living -- that is to say, with "objective immortality" whereby what is divested of its own living immediacy becomes a real component in other living immediacies of becoming. (PR ix)

Now is not this conception far closer to the early dharma theory of Buddhism than it is to any Western cosmology? Moreover, is Whitehead not closer to the Buddhist than to the Christian or Western world when he conceives not simply the inevitability of the perishing of every actual occasion but also that each fluent actual occasion is also completed by passing into objective immortality, wherein it is everlasting and thus devoid of perpetual perishing? When Whitehead says that cosmology in this sense is the basis of all religions, could we not more accurately say that it may well be the basis of Buddhism, but it has yet to be realized as the basis of Christianity?

Whitehead believed that "everlastingness" (the "many" absorbed everlastingly in the final unity) is the actual content out of which the higher religions historically evolved. Now in this context it might be instructive to examine Whitehead’s doctrine that the salvation of reality lies in its obstinate, irreducible, matter-of-fact entities. Is this doctrine grounded in a religious apprehension of the togetherness of the universe, leading to an understanding of actuality as complete togetherness -- "togetherness of otherwise isolated eternal objects, and togetherness of all actual occasions" (SMW 251)? What else but a religious vision could not only make manifest the totality of the interrelatedness of the universe but also unveil the intrinsic and even total interrelatedness of matter-of-fact entities? Do we not find lying at the center of Whitehead’s vision a nondualistic apprehension of the union or coinherence of the macrocosmic and the microcosmic, of the outer and the inner, of the beyond and the near at hand which has no genuine precedent in the Western historical tradition? Certainly our established Western categories and ways of language and thinking provide no manifest way of so conjoining brute fact and final salvation or everlastingness and matter-of-fact entities. Here what we know as transcendence disappears only to reappear as actuality, but it is an actuality which is eternal and temporal at once, thus simultaneously transcendent and here and now.

Someday it is devoutly to be hoped that scholars and critics will step forth to demonstrate the integral interrelatedness of Whitehead’s non-dualistic cosmic vision and comparable imaginative achievements of modern music, literature, and art. Pending that development, it would appear that it is only Buddhism which provides an immediate entry into Whitehead’s imaginative world, for it is only Buddhism among our historical traditions which we today can imagine as a totally nondualistic mode of vision. And what Buddhism most immediately offers us is a vision of Sunya or Sunyata which shatters and disperses our inevitably dualistic modes of language and thinking. If a truly radical mode of vision underlies Whitehead’s speculative thinking, then nothing less than such a shattering will prepare us to be open to that thinking. For how can we know or imagine a total coinherence or interrelatedness of God and the World apart from a radical shattering and dispersal of everything which we have known and imagined as God and the World? Assuming that Sunyata, or Total Emptiness, only appears as a consequence of the total emptying of consciousness and experience, can we surmise that God and the World can only appear as Totality or Total Togetherness as a consequence of the total emptying of everything which is given and manifest to us as God and the World? What else could prepare us to apprehend the Apotheosis of the World, the manifestation of brute fact as final salvation? How else are we to apprehend fact as salvation if we are not to empty ourselves of everything which we have known as salvation and fact?

Gradually it is becoming manifest that the nihilism of the modern West promises the possibility of the total union or reconciliation of those dichotomies which have both created and been the arena of the Western consciousness and experience. Whether or not we can imagine such a concrete possibility, Mahayana Buddhism provides us with an historical model of the total union of a negative and a positive nihilism or of a nothingness or emptiness which is simultaneously empty and full or nothing and everything. Incapable as we are of a nondualistic language, we have no way ready to hand of speaking or envisioning such a total fusion or simultaneity. Nevertheless, we can have some sense of the barriers or obstacles to us of opening ourselves to such a language and vision. Surely one of these, and not the least of them, is our invariable tendency to dissociate the beyond from the here and now, final salvation from immediate actuality. But why do we so associate the beyond with final salvation and the here and now with immediate actuality? This is not simply a given in human experience as such, as witness the Buddhist world. The world of Mahayana Buddhism provides us with multiple examples of concrete modes of consciousness and experience in which not even the hint of such distinctions is possible.

Surely something like a nondualistic sensibility is a necessary prerequisite for an actual apprehension of the mutual embodiment of God and the world. This must mean a mode of sensibility in which the world is not simply felt or sensed as here and now and immediate but also as beyond and salvific. So likewise God must also be sensed or felt as not only salvific and beyond but also as immediate, here and now. Indeed, if there is to be a full apprehension of the mutual embodiment of the world and God, then neither the world nor God can be felt or sensed as wholly distinct and individual. Thereby there could be no primary association of God with transcendence or of the world with immediate factuality or presence. Thus "world" would cease to be world as we now know, sense, and name it, and so likewise God could no longer be known, sensed, or named as "God." Is this not a remarkable parallel to the practice and realization of Buddhist emptiness?

If we passed through some such emptying or reversal of consciousness, then Whitehead’s speculative language might not appear to be so odd and exotic, or so distant and unreal. The world which his speculative vision apprehends is obviously neither the world of our common sense nor even the world of modern physics; it is far rather a religiously apprehended world mediated through the language and categories of modern science and our common experience. Only a religious ground could account for the decisive role of subjective experience in Whitehead’s cosmology, for it is simply ignorance to think that anything like a subjective experience in this sense is present in quantum physics. Of course, this world is not simply or solely the world which Buddhism knows. But perhaps it parallels that world insofar as it, too, is a religiously apprehended world, and a positively and fully religiously apprehended world. Now such a world is precisely what the West has never previously known or named. Whether by way of the iconoclasm of the prophets of Israel or the logos of Greek thinking, the West has negated the immediate actuality of the world, and subordinated world as such to that which is apprehended as lying beyond or apart from it. Or, rather, it has thereby introduced or apprehended a dichotomy at the center of actuality. Actuality then became known, sensed, and named as being other than itself, with the gradual but inevitable consequence that dichotomous distinctions have come to dominate our language, consciousness, and experience. Nature, creation, object, fact, and event then progressively, but ever more fully and totally, became manifest and real as the dichotomous opposites of consciousness, God, and subject. With the dawn of the modern age, and certainly with its full unfolding, these opposites became simply given as dichotomous others. Yet a reconciling movement and activity lies at the creative center of the modern age, and here one may truly speak of modern physics, just as one may of modern art and literature. Is Whitehead an expression and embodiment of such a creative center?

If so, then Whitehead’s language, even his most speculative language, need no longer appear odd and unreal. In one sense, we might regard it as the reappearance of a long lost religious language -- not the simple rebirth of an ancient and primitive language, but far rather a transformed and transmuted language in which our inherited Western language itself assumes a comprehensive and universal form. We may well come to realize that it is his common reader who is provincial and "Victorian," whereas Whitehead’s language itself is bursting into universality and thus inevitably establishing contact with the Buddhist world. But a Buddhist world to which Whitehead’s language might speak cannot be located in a past which is other than the present or an East which is other than our West. In this perspective it could only be located in Whitehead’s language itself, otherwise no linguistic relation could exist between them. Is it really so difficult to imagine that Buddhism is addressing us in Whitehead’s language? This is not to say that it is only Buddhism which so addresses us, but it is to suggest that if Whitehead’s language is truly open to universality then it must embody something like a Buddhist presence. This is an actual presence, not simply a dialectical absence, a presence in which Buddhism actually speaks. Can we not detect a Buddhist voice, or a voice echoing a Buddhist voice, in the identification of immediate actuality as salvation? Do we know of another language which can even associate brute fact and final salvation? Yes, of course, we know our own Gnostic language, which establishes a totally negative relationship between fact and salvation. Gnostic? Is it the Gnostic within us that reacts so negatively to Whitehead’s cosmology?

The very mention of Gnosticism, an historical phenomenon unknown in the Buddhist world, can induce us to note one of the most striking characteristics about Whitehead’s language. For there is no image in Whitehead’s language of nature as an "other," no image of nature as outside, or even as simply and only being there. Here we find no sign of a negative response to nature, nor is nature treated with awe or veneration. On the contrary, nature is simply and immediately apprehended as an all encompassing and total presence. Can this be the voice of a mathematician? True, Whitehead intends to comprehend nature conceptually and to do so completely. But this is a conceptual apprehension which intends to allow its object to speak as subject. Does Nature then speak? Yes, because this is a nature which is immediately apprehended as subject, and it is the subject itself which becomes object in its own act of experience and understanding. There is no sense here, either felt or known, of an ultimate dichotomy between subject and object, because no subject appears here which is only subject, and no object which is only object.

Nature is totally there, and totally here. The totality of its presence is such that there is nothing whatsoever which is "other" than nature. Only in some such context can we be prepared to understand what Whitehead might mean by speaking of matter-of-fact entities as the salvation of reality. Not only is nature all-comprehending and total in its presence, but so likewise apparently is salvation. So much so that here it must be impossible to establish a real distinction of any kind between nature and grace. While no such distinction is presumably possible, and nature is grace, nature nevertheless knows and experiences itself as nature, and this it does in our language and consciousness.

There may well be a significant parallel to such a cosmic vision in the symbolic language of Tantric Buddhism, but it is difficult to think of a comparable antecedent in the West. Most assuredly this is a unique metaphysical understanding of nature or the cosmos in the West, and this makes problematic the question of Whitehead’s relation to the metaphysical tradition of the West. Whitehead a Platonist? Who would have thought so if Whitehead had not so spoken of himself? A Christian Platonist then? Perhaps, but what can this mean in the modern world? One suspects that Whitehead could be identified as a metaphysician only if we derive our understanding of metaphysics from Whitehead alone. Being, as the West has understood it, is precisely what is missing from Whitehead’s metaphysics. Or, if it is present, it is present as an abstraction, and an abstraction from actuality or the real. And God? This is surely the great theological question which must be asked of Whitehead, and quite possibly the great metaphysical question as well. Two biographical points are relevant. Until his late metaphysical period Whitehead never wrote about the question of God or showed any interest in it in his writing. He had acquired over the years a considerable theological library, but he sold this library before embarking upon his own metaphysical quest. There are serious students of Whitehead who are persuaded that the closing sections on God in Process and Reality are inconsistent with his previous writing and thinking, and surely no one, perhaps not even Whitehead himself, could have foreseen on the basis of his previous work the doctrine of God which here emerges. The lay interpreter of Whitehead can only wonder if this is a doctrine of God at all. And is it?

Leaving aside the sacred interests of Christian apologetics, and to many committed Christians today these interests are not so sacred, one wonders if Christianity itself is served by the presence of a genuine doctrine of God in Whitehead. A genuine doctrine of God would be in some fundamental sense in continuity either with established conceptions of God or with symbols of God in Christianity or other religious traditions. It is difficult to see how Whitehead’s own understanding of God is in any positive way in continuity with any metaphysical tradition, and as to its symbolic meaning, Christian theologians, other than the Whiteheadian faithful, have either been unable to understand it or have judged it to be atheistic. Indeed, no one has more fiercely criticized our established ideas and symbols of God than Whitehead himself, and apparently the wrath of this gentle man was aroused only by ideas of God. Assume for the moment that there is no genuine doctrine of God in Whitehead, or none that is meaningful within a Western philosophical or Christian theological context; then is it not possible that Whitehead’s language about God is fulfilling an intention which is wholly distinct from our traditional and established speech about God? This intention may, moreover, be a genuine religious intention, perhaps far more purely religious than any which can be evoked by what is commonly taken to be meaningful language about God. We have noted that Whitehead intends to understand nature as being simultaneously fully gracious and all comprehending. Now there simply is no way of preserving such an intention within the linguistic and symbolic context of our Western or Christian language about God. Where in the West (with the exception of Spinoza, the perennial exception to all rules) can one find language about God which can simultaneously name God and nature? This is a very different matter from saying God then nature, or nature then God. It is rather a saying which evokes God and nature at once, and this is not to be found in English romantic poetry (although it does occur in Hopkins, the poet who is probably closest to Whitehead).

It would be idle to suggest that Whitehead’s is a Buddhist’s understanding of God, and not only idle but grotesque, for surely Buddhist language about God is impossible. But it might not be idle or grotesque to suggest that there is a Buddhist ground for Whitehead’s language about God, which is to say a religious ground which is far more meaningful in terms of the symbolic language of Buddhism than it is in that of any other religious tradition, including Christianity. For the ground which Whitehead’s God-language requires, or at least that language which is here being taken up, is a ground which makes possible the coinherence of contraries, polarities, or opposites, a coinherence wherein the balance between the contraries is fully and consistently even. This is a ground which is simply absent from the Western religious consciousness, or at least absent from those forms of consciousness which have been susceptible to translation into theological language. But it is a ground which is obviously present in Buddhism, and far more so here than in any other religious language or symbolism. Putting brackets about the meanings of the contraries ‘God’ and ‘World’, there is nothing difficult, odd, or obscure within a Buddhist context of speaking of God and the World as mutually embodying each other. But what kind of possible meaning can this have within a Western metaphysical or Christian theological context?

When Whitehead declares that no two actualities can be torn apart, for each is all in all, he simply makes no sense if we assume either a metaphysical dichotomy between Being and becoming or a theological dichotomy between the creature and the Creator. But this statement does make sense within the context of Mahayana Buddhist language, and so much so that one wonders how such a statement could assume a non-Buddhist meaning. Presumably it might in the perspective of Whitehead’s prior statement that God and the World stand over against each other. But this statement sounds non-Whiteheadian, which is to say traditionally Western and dualistic, and it must give way to Whitehead’s nondualistic understanding. Does Whitehead’s statement, or apparent statement, that all entities are all in all translate a fuller or truer meaning of his earlier statement that God and the World stand over against each other? Might this statement then be a translation of Christian into Buddhist language? No, or it is difficult to think so, if only because of the troublesome presence of the word ‘God’. But if ‘God’ does not mean either Being or the Creator, and in no sense means anything which is simply and only transcendent and apart, then can it assume a Buddhist meaning? What Buddhist meaning? Nirvana? Sunyata? Samsara? Here we move into simple absurdity which is all the more baffling because of the nondualistic quality of Buddhist language.

Another possibility lies ready to hand. As Whitehead moves more and more fully into his own visionary understanding, he progressively negates and transcends the inherited categories of his own language and does so on the basis of an ever fuller vision of a mutual and total coinherence. This second vision is really a first or primal or religious vision. It is fully parallel to or harmonious with a Mahayana Buddhist vision, and it is the immediate source of Whitehead’s vision of God and the World. Only such a religious vision makes possible Whitehead’s language about God, and quite naturally Whitehead’s fullest speech about God is dipolar, in that it simultaneously speaks about God and the World or the World and God. This language is not as such Buddhist, and not even meaningful within a Buddhist context. But the relation of mutual and total coinherence which it establishes between God and the World can here be seen to be a purely religious relation. Rather, it is grounded in a religious vision, and this ground is in fundamental continuity with Mahayana Buddhism and more in continuity with Buddhism than with any religious language in the Christian world.

Strangely enough, but not so strangely if one considers the historical period in which it was conceived, Whitehead’s dipolar language promises the recovery of a long lost Christian eschatological language. We might even surmise that it was meditation upon the meaning of Christ which initially brought Whitehead to a new understanding of the cosmic or total coinherence of fact and salvation. As he declares:

The life of Christ is not an exhibition of over-ruling power. Its glory is for those who can discern it, and not for the world. Its power lies in the absence of force. It has the decisiveness of Supreme ideal, and that is why the history of the world divides at this point of time. (RM 57)

What can Whitehead, who refuses all dualistic dichotomies between history and nature, mean by speaking of a division of the world at this point? What he says is that it is precisely in the life of Christ that there "first" appears a power lying in the absence of force. Although historic Christianity has again and again negated and reversed that power, that power itself is the true ground of Christianity. Is Whitehead’s speculative vision of the interrelatedness or coinherence of God and the World a conceptual development and expression of that power? We must not fail to observe that in Religion in the Making Whitehead begins to develop a doctrine of God which at least in part incorporates the eschatological proclamation of Jesus. Thus he says:

The world is at once a passing shadow and a final fact. The shadow is passing into the fact, so as to be constitutive of it; and yet the fact is prior to the shadow. There is a kingdom of heaven prior to the actual passage of actual things, and there is the same kingdom finding its completion through the accomplishment of this passage. (RM 87)

This kingdom is in the world, yet not of the world; it transcends the natural world, but so does the world transcend the kingdom of heaven. Here we find a dipolar language, or the beginning of it, in which God and the World mutually transcend each other. For as he says in the last chapter, in the section on the nature of God, the kingdom of heaven "is" God. God is the "ideal companion" who transmutes what has been lost into a living fact within his own nature.

The kingdom of heaven is not the isolation of good from evil. It is the overcoming of evil by good. This transmutation of evil into good enters into the actual world by reason of the inclusion of the nature of God, which includes the ideal vision of each actual evil so met with a novel consequent as to issue in the restoration of goodness. (RM 155)

Can we say that such an understanding of God is grounded in the "fact" of Christ? If so, perhaps our only way of understanding it is through the language and vision of Buddhism, for only here may we encounter a coincidentia oppositorum which is manifest at the center of actuality.

Apocalypticism and Modern Thinking

While the power of apocalypticism in our history is now acknowledged, we have little sense of its power or even meaning in thinking itself, and this despite the fact that so many of our primal modern thinkers, such as Hegel, Marx, and Nietzsche, have manifestly been apocalyptic thinkers. Indeed, the very advent of modernity can be understood to be an apocalyptic event, an advent ushering in a wholly new world as the consequence of the ending of an old world. Nowhere was such a new world more fully present than in thinking itself, a truly new thinking not only embodied in a new science and a new philosophy, but in a new reflexivity or introspection in the interiority of self-consciousness. This is the new interiority which is so fully embodied in the uniquely Shakespearean soliloquy, but it is likewise embodied in that uniquely Cartesian internal and radical doubt which inaugurates modern philosophy. Cartesian philosophy could establish itself only by ending scholastic philosophy, and with that ending a new philosophy was truly born, and one implicitly if not explicitly claiming for itself a radically new world. That world can be understood as a new apocalyptic world, one which becomes manifestly apocalyptic in the French Revolution and German Idealism, and then one realizing truly universal expressions in Marxism and in that uniquely modern or postmodern nihilism which was so decisively inaugurated by Nietzsche’s proclamation of the death of God.

 

Yet a truly modern subject or "I" is a doubled or self-alienated center of consciousness, and is so in a uniquely Cartesian internal and radical doubt, one never decisively present in previous cognitive or philosophical thinking, although its ground had been established by Augustine’s philosophical discovery of the subject of consciousness. Even as Augustinian thinking had been deeply reborn in the late Middle Ages, thence becoming a deep ground not only of the Reformation but also of Cartesian thinking. this new modern subject which is now established and real is an interiorly divided subject, and so much so that its internal ground is a truly dichotomous ground. Nothing else is so deeply Augustinian in modern thinking and in the modern consciousness itself, and if Augustine discovered the subject of consciousness by way of his renewal of Paul, it was Paul who discovered the profoundly internal divisions and dichotomies of consciousness and self-consciousness. This is the Paul who is so deeply renewed in the dawning of modernity, but also the Paul who was the creator of Christian theology, a theology which if only in Paul is a purely and consistently apocalyptic theology, and Paul’s realization of the ultimate polarity or dichotomy of consciousness is an apocalyptic realization, one reflecting an apocalyptic dichotomy between old aeon and new aeon, or flesh (sarx) and Spirit (pneuma).

 

Descartes himself acknowledged that his cogito ergo sum is already fundamental in Augustine’s philosophy (letter to Colvius, 14 November, 1640), and he believed that his philosophy was the first to demonstrate the philosophical truth of the doctrine of transubstantiation, and could go so far as to claim that scholastic philosophy would have been rejected as clashing with faith if his philosophy had been known first (letter to Mersenne, 31 March, 1641) Indeed, nothing is more revolutionary in modern philosophy than its dissolution of the scholastic distinction between natural theology and revealed theology. This initially occurs in Descartes and Spinoza, but it becomes far more comprehensive in Schelling and Hegel, and so much so that the whole body of dogmatic theology undergoes a metamorphosis into pure philosophical thinking in Hegel’s system. So it is that in the Preface to the Phenomenology of Spirit (paragraph 11), Hegel can declare that ours is a birth-time and a period of transition to a new era, for Spirit has broken with the world it has previously imagined and inhabited, and is now submerging it in the past, and doing so in the very labor of its own transformation. While the new Spirit has thus far historically arrived only in its immediacy, it is destined soon to transform everything whatsoever, a transformation that is clearly an apocalyptic transfiguration. Just as we can now know that Jesus was an apocalyptic prophet who proclaimed and enacted the actual dawning of the Kingdom of God, a comparable dawning occurs in the advent of a uniquely modern thinking, each promises a finally total transformation, and each calls for a total break from an old aeon or old world.

 

Such an ultimate break is already manifest in the birth of modern science, a revolutionary event issuing in the realization of an infinite universe, a universe in which the physica coelestis and the physica terrestris are unified if not identified, and also a universe in which every formal and final cause has disappeared. Descartes’ was the first philosophy to incorporate this revolutionary transformation, but Descartes believed that God is the universal cause of everything in such a way as to be the total cause of everything (letter to Elizabeth, 6 October, 1645), and such a totality of God is profoundly deepened not only in Spinoza but throughout German Idealism. Thus we discover the paradox, most purely in Spinoza but most comprehensively in Hegel, of a deeply pantheistic philosophy which is nevertheless a deeply atheistic philosophy, atheistic in its dissolution of the absolutely transcendent God, but pantheistic in knowing the absolute totality of God, and a totality of God which is inseparable from a negation of the pure transcendence of God. Twentieth century Protestant theology will discover such an atheism in every philosophical theology, but this is clearly a reaction to a uniquely modern philosophy, and a modern philosophy which is implicitly if not explicitly an apocalyptic philosophy, and is so in its very calling forth of a new totality.

 

Nothing is so unique in apocalypticism as is its enactment of a new totality, an absolute novum that is the polar opposite of a primordial totality, but a novum in full apocalypticism that is already dawning or near at hand, just as it is in Jesus’ initial eschatological proclamation that the time is fulfilled and the Kingdom of God is immediately at hand (Mark 1:15). Nowhere in modernity is apocalypticism more open and manifest than it is in our great political revolutions, and if these begin with the English Revolution, this was our most apocalyptic revolution until the French Revolution, a revolution which innumerable thinkers at that time, and above all Hegel himself, could know as the ending of an old world and the inauguration of a truly new and universal world. This is an apocalyptic ending which here, too, is known as the end or the consummation of history, an ending which is comprehensively embodied in Hegel’s philosophy. Nothing so clearly unveils Hegel’s system as an apocalyptic system as does this ending, but such an ultimate ending is unique to apocalypticism, for even if it parallels archaic visions of eternal return, it wholly differs from all primordial vision in knowing an absolute and final ending, an ending which is apocalypse itself. This is that unique ending which is not only a repetition or renewal of genesis, but far rather an absolutely new beginning, a new creation or new aeon, and absolutely new because it wholly transcends not only an original creation but an original eternity as well. All of the major German philosophers the time responded to the French Revolution as just such a beginning, and the French Revolution is the deepest historical ground of German Idealism, thereby giving it an historical actuality found nowhere else in the world of philosophy. Here, apocalypticism is profoundly historical, just as it was in the time of Jesus, but now incarnate historically as it never was in the ancient world.

 

It is well known that Hegel could conclude his lectures on the philosophy of history by speaking of the last stage of history as our own world and our own time, but it is not well known that this apocalyptic ground is absolutely fundamental to his two most ultimate works, the Phenomenology of Spirit and the Science of Logic. Hegel’s Phenomenology is often judged to be the most revolutionary of all philosophical works, and it is clearly revolutionary in understanding consciousness itself as a consistently and comprehensively evolving consciousness, evolving from the pure immediacy of sense-certainty to absolute knowing, and this evolution is internal and historical at once. Here, the primal events of our history are reenacted philosophically, and now we can understand them as being absolutely necessary to and in the evolution of absolute Spirit, which is modern idealism’s philosophical renaming of the most primal of all New Testament categories, the Kingdom of God. The Phenomenology of Spirit is the work in which Hegel first fully realized his most fundamental and original thinking, one centered in a radically new philosophical method of pure dialectical negation (Aufhebung), a negation which is negation, preservation, and transcendence simultaneously, and which is the deepest driving power not only of consciousness and history but of absolute Spirit itself. There can be little doubt that this revolutionary work culminates in apocalypse, an apocalypse unveiling an absolute knowing, and an absolute knowing which is the inwardizing and the Calvary of absolute Spirit, a Calvary which is the actuality, truth, and certainty of the kingdom of Spirit, without which Spirit would be lifeless and alone.

 

Unfortunately this conclusion is extraordinarily brief and abbreviated, probably being little more than notes for a full conclusion, but it does reveal the deep ground of the Phenomenology in the Crucifixion, and not insignificantly this work is the first full philosophical realization of the death of God. Indeed, if only here, we can understand the Crucifixion as a full and pure apocalyptic event, one shattering all ancient horizons and worlds, and ushering in an absolutely new world. It is to be remembered that at this time New Testament scholarship had little if any awareness of the apocalyptic ground of the New Testament, the transformation of New Testament scholarship entailed by this realization did not occur until the end of the nineteenth century, but already the original apocalyptic ground of Jesus and of primitive Christianity was profoundly recovered and renewed in the radically new imaginative vision of Blake, just as it was in the radically new philosophical thinking of Hegel. One word is deeply revealing here, and that is the Pauline word kenosis (Philippians 2:5-8), a word which Hegel explicitly employs in many of the most crucial and difficult passages of the Phenomenology, and that calls forth the theological meaning of Aufhebung as a divine and ultimate self-emptying or self-negation. This is the kenosis which fully and openly occurs in the Crucifixion, but which Christian orthodoxy from its very beginning had affirmed to occur only in the humanity and not in the divinity of Christ, an orthodoxy reversed by Luther, and if only here Hegel was a deeply Lutheran Christian.

 

A philosophical reenactment of the Crucifixion could well be said to be the very center of the Phenomenology of Spirit, and not only its center but its deepest ground, or its deepest theological ground, and here far more than previously in modern philosophical thinking theological and philosophical thinking fully coincide. Surely nothing else gives this work a deeper ground in the actual consciousness of Hegel’s time, one which was profoundly even if largely unconsciously shaped by a uniquely modern realization of the death of God, which both Blake and Hegel could understand as occurring in the French Revolution, and not only in the dechristianization of that revolution, but in each of its deepest breakthroughs and transformations. For Hegel the French Revolution is precisely that time and world in which Spirit is first fully manifest and real in its full and final opposition to and alienation and estrangement from itself. Now there occurs the advent of a fully abstract and objective consciousness which is inseparable from the birth of a radically new subjective and interior consciousness, a new "I" or pure self-consciousness which is only and purely itself, and is so by virtue of its antithethetical relationship to a new objective and universal consciousness that is the intrinsic and necessary otherness of itself. Moreover, the interior depths of this new subjective consciousness are inseparable from their ground in the universality and totality of a new objective consciousness, for a universal consciousness can fully realize itself objectively and actually only by negating its own subjective ground or center. Now, and for the first time, and above all so in the terror of the French Revolution, death is objectively meaningless and insignificant. But it is subjectively more real than ever before, and thereby death itself becomes the one and only portal to a full and final subjective fulfillment. Hegel’s term for this form of consciousness that realizes itself by losing all the essence and substance of itself is the Unhappy Consciousness, a consciousness which realizes itself by interiorly realizing that God Himself is dead (Phenomenology of Spirit 785).

 

Spirit alone, for Hegel, is finally actual and real, yet this is only because world or substance finally and fully becomes and realizes itself as "Subject." Historically, this does not actually occur until the full birth of the modern world, and then it subjectively or interiorly occurs in the realization that God is dead, a realization inaugurating a new universal self-consciousness, which is the very center and ground of an apocalyptic explosion and transformation of the world. Thus Hegel, even as Blake, correlates and integrates the death of God and apocalypse, for the French Revolution is the historical advent and embodiment of the death of God, yet this is the death of a wholly abstract and alien form or manifestation of God, an epiphany or realization of God which does not occur or become real until and the full and final birth of the modern world. Consequently, the death of God becomes possible and actually real only when Spirit has realized itself in its most negative mode and epiphany. Only when Spirit exists wholly and fully in self-alienation and self-estrangement from itself can it undergo an ultimate movement of self-negation or kenosis, a movement in which a real end or death occurs of a wholly alienated and estranged form and mode of Spirit (Blake’s Urizen or Satan). Thus it is dialectically and apocalyptically necessary that Spirit become wholly estranged and alienated from itself before it can realize and effect its own death or self-negation. Yet this is the ultimate apocalyptic event, one finally releasing an absolutely new world, but only insofar as it is the actual death of God.

 

That crucified God which is absent from all pre-modern Christian thinking, now undergoes its ultimate conceptual realization, and it is precisely that realization which makes possible what Hegel knows as pure negation, an absolute negation which is an absolute affirmation, and is so precisely because it is the absolute negation of absolute Spirit. Now even if there is no direct exposition of the "death of God" in the Science of Logic, every movement of this purely forward moving logic is an abstract realization of this "death," for not only is a metaphysical transcendence here dissolved, but every trace of a truly and finally transcendent God has vanished, and this vanishing is the realization of a pure and total immanence. Nowhere else is such a total immanence so purely and so comprehensively enacted, but nowhere else is the totality of God so purely conceived, and even conceived as the pure subject of pure thinking itself.

 

Nothing is more important in Hegel’s logic than its purely and totally forward movement, this is its greatest innovation in the perspective of all other logics, just as at no other point is the modern consciousness itself more clearly distinct from virtually every other mode or form of consciousness. Until the advent of modernity, all pure thinking as such was closed to the possibility of the truly and the actually new, then the future could only finally be the realization of the past, for history itself is ultimately a movement of eternal return, and even revelation or a divine or ultimate order is a movement of eternal return. Only one tradition challenged the universality of eternal return, and that is Israel’s, and above all the prophetic tradition of Israel, and even more specifically the apocalyptic tradition of Israel, which already in Second Isaiah envisions not only a radically new future but a truly comprehensive and universal future. This is the tradition which is reborn and renewed in primitive Christianity and the New Testament, but unlike Buddhism, Christianity never realized a pure thinking or pure logic incorporating its deepest ground, or did not do so until the full advent of the modern world. Even if only implicitly, this is the deepest theological claim of a uniquely modern idealism, and for the first time, the deepest ground of the Bible and of Christianity itself is apprehended as becoming incarnate in a purely conceptual expression.

 

Only in modern idealism is there a full and pure conceptual realization of the total immanence of God, a conceptual realization which in Hegelian logic culminates in an enactment of an absolute mediation that here and now is all in all. This is that absolute mediation which Hegel declares is the final liberation of all and everything, a mediation that is apocalypse itself, and yet a totally immanent apocalypse. And only here is apocalypse realized in pure thinking itself, for even if this seemingly occurs in ancient Eastern Christian thinking, the apocalypse which Orthodox Christianity knows is an apocalypse of eternal return, or an apocalypse of an original or primordial eternity, whereas a uniquely modern apocalypse is an absolutely immanent apocalypse, and precisely thereby an absolutely new apocalypse. If only through this perspective, we can know that the deepest movement of orthodox Christian thinking is a backward movement of return, a return to an absolutely primordial Godhead, a movement which is inevitably the reversal of an absolutely forward apocalyptic movement, so that the very victory of ancient Christian orthodoxy was inevitably the reversal of an original Christian apocalypticism.

 

The twentieth century has embodied a violent rebirth of nineteenth century apocalypticism, one most clearly occurring in the totalitarian political movements of the twentieth century, but no less so in our deepest imaginative vision, and even in the very advent of a seemingly total electronic and technological revolution, one apparently issuing in the birth of postmodernity. And if the pure subject of consciousness is the deepest center of nineteenth century thinking and vision, now that subject is violently disrupted, as most deeply understood by Nietzsche himself, and in the wake of that disruption there has occurred the advent of a truly anonymous consciousness and society. America is clearly a primal site of this advent, and perhaps thereby an original America is now being reborn, for the American Puritans believed that they were inaugurating a new apocalyptic world, and it is not insignificant that the first imaginative vision of the death of God occurs in Blake’s America (1793), a vision which inaugurated Blake’s full apocalyptic vision. America may well be the primal site of contemporary apocalyptic thinking, and it is America that has given us our purest and deepest contemporary apocalyptic thinker, D. G. Leahy.

 

Leahy is a deeply contemporary and a deeply Catholic thinker, and his first book, Novitas Mundi (1980), intends to be a revolutionary breakthrough to an absolutely new thinking, and while conceptually enacting the history of Being from Aristotle through Heidegger, at bottom this book is an apocalyptic calling forth and celebration of the absolute beginning now occurring of transcendent existence in pure thinking itself. For the dawn of the Day of Yahweh is now occurring, and it essentially occurs in pure thinking as the "glorification of existence itself" (page 395), a glorification which Leahy names as the missa jubilaea. Novitas Mundi is radically Catholic precisely by being apocalyptically Catholic, celebrating an absolutely new thinking which is the unleavened bread of existence itself, as over against the essential finitude of past thought: "What happened before now in the Mass exclusively (missa solemnis) now happens in the Mass inclusively (missa jubilaea)" (page 347). At the end, in extremis, and even by an Hegelian irony of history, it becomes the destiny of the Eucharist to be the substantial experience of the world at large: "What now occurs in thought for the first time in history (transcending in fact the end of the world in essence) is the perception itself of the body--God in God in essence--the Temple of the New Jerusalem--effected now in essence inclusively in the missa jubilaea, the center of an essentially new consciousness in the conversion of the universe into an entirely new stuff" (page 348). The missa jubilaea is the infinite passover of God, and precisely thereby the death of God in Christ, and therefore: "God is in fact (being there) in the absolute nullification of God" (page 364). This apocalyptic nullification of God is the blood of the Lamb, or the blood of the God who is absolutely Christ, and thus it is the resurrection or glorification of existence itself, a glorification which is the resurrection of the body.

 

Novitas Mundi is our most intrinsically difficult book since the Phenomenology of Spirit, but Leahy’s next book, Foundation: Matter the Body Itself (1996) is even more difficult and complex, even if it is in full continuity with Novitas Mundi. Once again there is a purely conceptual embodiment of the end of modernity and the absolute beginning of a new world order, an order which is an actually universal new world consciousness, and an absolutely new consciousness in which the body itself is nothing but existence itself. Now, and for the first time, an explosion of reason has occurred in the form of faith, so that in the thinking now occurring for the first time faith has raised reason itself to the level of faith. Of course, this is a claim fully embedded in German Idealism, and above all so in Hegel, but now what is at hand is a Catholic universal reason and a Catholic universal faith. And if German Idealism was inaugurated by the French Revolution of 1789, and culminated in its reversal in Marxism, this new world order only becomes "a clearly visible fact" in 1989, the "Year of the Beginning," which is not only the year of the public ending of Marxism but the year of the final ending of modernity itself.

 

Moreover, America is a deep site of this ending, for America is the furthest extension of modernity, and whereas the historical limitations of European self-consciousness precludes in fact the realization of its own demand that God actually die, the complete actualization of the death of God occurs for the first time in the American consciousness (page 596). Once again this is a death of God releasing apocalypse itself, and an absolute apocalypse which is the identity of the new world now beginning. As opposed to Novitas Mundi, now American pragmatism is the true prelude to the thinking now occurring for the first time, and most immediately so the uniquely American theology of the death of God, a theology which while voiding pragmatism is the last gasp of modernity, and it in these death throes that a final apocalyptic thinking is born. And this is a truly new apocalyptic thinking if only because of the primacy here of the body itself, a new body which is an apocalyptic body, the apocalyptic Body of Christ, and a body calling forth an absolutely new thinking in which "the body itself is the totality of life for the first time " (page 104).

 

Matter, the body itself, is the apocalyptic beginning of an absolutely new universe, a matter precluding the present possibility of that abyss which is the ultimate ground of modernity, for the body itself is nothing but an absolutely apocalyptic thinking. This is that thinking now giving birth to the new creation, and history is transcended for the first time by the death of death itself, in the absolute inconceivability of either a potential or an actual nothingness. If now there is no existence which is not "foundation" itself, no grounding of Being which is not the proclamation of the body itself, this body is Christ, or the apocalyptic body of God, revealing itself in the absolute freedom of personality saying itself, hearing the voice of the absolute freely speaking of itself: "I am Christ absolute existing for the first time--I am the absolute temporality of existence" (page 165).

 

Indeed, there never was a nothing, because in every now is the beginning absolutely. Christ is that beginning, an absolute beginning which is an absolute ending or apocalypse, for in every now begins the transcendence of consciousness, in every now begins the body itself, and this is the beginning of the end of the world in essence, the beginning of the end of time itself (page 423). Consequently, Leahy can identify the absolutely new essence of thought as the passion of Christ or Christ absolute. His is a transcendence which is the transcendence of transcendence itself, an absolute passion repeating itself for the first time in history in the essence of thought, existence itself for the first time the passion of Christ (page 197). But this passion of existence is the absolute creation of the world: the creation ex abysso. And this absolutely passionate creation of the world is the "foundation," and the foundation of an absolute world society now beginning to exist for the first time. This world is constructed ex futuro, after the future, and ex nihilo, after non-existence, after the pure Nothing which modernity knows as total presence. For modernity can only know apocalypse in its most abysmal form, its absolute idealism is the idealism of the Nothing, and here and here alone God becomes the Nothing in an absolutely reverse and inverted thinking. Nor is the death of God which it knows the actual death of the Living God, but only the actual death of the God of Death, or that Satan who is only fully born in the fullness of modernity. So it is that modernity culminates in an historically inevitable and eschatologically ultimate nihilism, that nihilism which Nietzsche enacts most profoundly, but this very nihilism necessarily calls forth its reversal and transcendence in an absolute apocalypse.

 

Both Novitas Mundi and Foundation pose an ultimate challenge to Catholicism, and not only to Catholicism but to Christianity itself, and nothing is newer here than a purely philosophical thinking and a purely theological thinking which wholly coincide, one which is manifestly the calling forth of a truly new world. At no point is this challenge more overwhelming than in that radically new understanding of matter and the body itself which is incorporated here, just as nothing is more ultimately new than an enactment of the body itself in pure thinking. This is the very point at which Leahy is most manifestly as truly new thinker, just as it is precisely here that Leahy can be understood to be an authentically Catholic thinker, and perhaps the first purely Catholic thinker in history. Surely this is the first time that the Incarnation has been absolutely central in Catholic thinking, the first time that matter and Spirit have been so deeply and so purely united, and so much so that now Spirit is the body itself (page 96), and even as this thinking intends to be an apocalyptic consummation of the totality of history, never before has such a Catholic consummation actually been conceived, although there are those who would see it as having been imaginatively enacted in Dante’s Paradiso and Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.

 

A deep question to be asked of modern apocalyptic thought is its relationship to ancient apocalypticism, and more particularly its relation to the apocalypticism of primitive Christianity and the New Testament. Here, Paul, is extraordinarily important, for he is our first purely apocalyptic thinker, and so far as we now know the first ancient thinker fully to draw forth the subject of consciousness, an "I" or subject which he could know as a dichotomous subject, a subject wholly divided or doubled between an old "I" of "flesh" (sarx) and a new "I" of Spirit (pneuma). Paul could know this dichotomous subject as a consequence of the ultimacy of the Crucifixion and the Resurrection, or even of the Crucifixion alone, a transformation which even could be understood as the full and final advent of self-consciousness. This is a subject or self-consciousness which becomes deeply reborn in early modernity, thence being renewed in a uniquely modern apocalyptic thinking, only to be absolutely negated in Nietzsche’s apocalyptic dissolution of the "I," an "I" which he could know as the creation of ressentiment. Leahy’s absolutely apocalyptic thinking is also a pure negation of interiority and selfhood, a negation issuing from the advent of an absolute exteriority, or absolute body itself. But all of these thinkers are reborn or renewed Pauline thinkers, and are so precisely in their apocalypticism, an apocalypticism inseparable from an enactment of absolute ending, but that ending is absolute beginning itself.

 

Now even as ancient Jewish apocalypticism profoundly challenged the orthodox guardians of the Torah, a challenge which is profoundly renewed in Paul, modern apocalypticism profoundly challenges Christian orthodoxy. Indeed, this is the greatest challenge which Christianity has ever faced, as witness modern apocalypticism’s ultimate enactment of the death of God, and one also occurring in the radically Catholic thinking of Leahy, even if it knows the death of God as the apocalyptic resurrection of God. So that if a pure enactment of the death of God occurs throughout all of the full expressions of a uniquely modern apocalyptic thinking, does this movement fully and finally distinguish ancient and modern apocalypticism? Or is modern apocalypticism a genuine recovery and renewal of an original Christian apocalypticism, one which had perished or become wholly transformed in the victory of an ancient Christian orthodoxy, then only to be renewed in profoundly subversive and heretical expressions? Surely apocalyptic thinking and apocalyptic vision have been ultimately subversive and heretical throughout their history, and if modern apocalyptic thinking is totally subversive and heretical, it may well be an authentic renewal of a seemingly invisible or hidden apocalyptic tradition. But if a uniquely modern apocalypticism is inseparable from the death of God, a death of God which it can know as apocalypse itself, could this be the first purely conceptual realization of the Kingdom of God? Or is it the first purely conceptual expression of an absolute atheism or an absolute desacralization? Or could it be both at once? And could this be said of the whole world of modern apocalyptic thinking?

 

There are guardians of orthodoxy in Judaism, Christianity and Islam who know all forms of apocalypticism as assaults both upon revelation and upon the majesty and sovereignty of the absoluteness of God. And there is good reason for this, apocalypticism is inevitably subversive, and perhaps the most purely subversive force in history, all of the great political revolutions in modernity have been apocalyptic revolutions, and even the advent of both Christianity and Islam can be understood as the consequence of apocalypticism. So, too, all full forms of apocalypticism have assaulted both social and religious orthodoxies, and Jewish, Christian, and Islamic orthodoxies have arisen only by way of dissolving the apocalypticism upon their horizons. We can also understand modern political conservatism as having arisen to assault and reverse the apocalypticism ushered in by the French and Russian revolutions, and if modern theology in virtually all of its expressions is deeply anti-apocalyptic, this, too, could be understood as a uniquely modern conservatism. But if a uniquely modern thinking is at bottom an apocalyptic thinking, or is so in its deepest and purest expressions, it is finally a theological thinking, and a theological thinking which therein could be understood as a rebirth of an original Christianity, an original Christianity which from this perspective was most deeply negated and reversed by the very advent of an orthodox theological thinking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Gospel of Christian Atheism

The Gospel of Christian Atheism was written in 1965, and was intended as a mediation of an American radical theology to the public at large, although its author had no expectation at all of the public furor which would arise in the following year over the advent of a death of God theology. When this book was written I had not yet found a publisher for my Blake book, The New Apocalypse: The Radical Christian Vision of William Blake, so that this became an occasion for a mediation of that book to a general audience, and particularly so since I had chosen Blake, Hegel, and Nietzsche as our greatest modern thinkers and visionaries of the death of God. Being persuaded that Christianity had not yet evolved a genuinely radical theology, this also became an occasion for an initial attempt to formulate a radical theology, one which would be systematic and Biblical at once, and yet nevertheless a truly modern or contemporary theology. Of course, such an intention was far too ambitious for this book, but its more realistic intention was to foster a radical theological dialogue, and in this it surely succeeded, even if the book is now in deep eclipse. At present a comprehensive conservatism has overwhelmed the world, one which certainly dominates contemporary religion and theology, and so much so that this book is now virtually invisible, even if thirty years ago it was perhaps the most controversial book in our theological literature.

Both radical politics and radical religion are now in eclipse, but in the sixties they seemingly dominated discourse in the Western world, and even the Church was under their impact, as witness the Second Vatican Council. Have these now wholly vanished from our world, or do they continue in a subterranean and hidden form, although now operating in a more powerful way, and particularly so if we are facing the end of history? It is to be remembered that Christianity began with an apocalyptic proclamation of the end of history, one which dominated the earliest Christian communities, and one which was renewed at each of the great crises or turning points of Christian history, just as it was renewed in each of our great modern political revolutions, and equally if not more deeply renewed in the advent of our deepest modern thinking and imaginative vision. At no other point is there a deeper continuity between the modern world and an original Christianity, even if this is a continuity which is alien to our theology, and above all alien to all non-apocalyptic theology, which is to say to every theology which we have known as either an orthodox or a liberal theology. The Gospel of Christian Atheism intended to renew an apocalyptic theology, one which was born in the very advent of Christian theology in Paul, and which was profoundly renewed in Blake, Hegel, and Nietzsche, who are apparently deeply and profoundly Christian at this crucial point. My second book, Mircea Eliade and the Dialectic of the Sacred, had concluded with a theological analysis intending to draw forth the profoundly Christian ground of Nietzsche’s ultimately modern vision of Eternal Recurrence, and did so in the spirit of Eliade’s most treasured symbol of the coincidentia oppositorum, so that this book was almost inevitably followed by The Gospel of Christian Atheism.

If Hegel and Nietzsche are our most apocalyptic thinkers, and Blake our most apocalyptic visionary, not only are they united at this fundamental point, but this very apocalypticism is here inseparable from an ultimate enactment of the death of God. Moreover, each of these primal modern figures enacted the death of God as apocalypse itself, an apocalypse which is the end of history, but that is simultaneously and precisely thereby the inauguration of a new aeon. What Blake could envision as the New Jerusalem, or Hegel could know as the advent of Absolute Spirit, or Nietzsche could envision as Eternal Recurrence, is the consequence of the end of history, but an ending realized only through the death of God, which each could know not only as the most ultimate ending in our history, but also as that ending which made possible and calls forth the most absolute beginning.

Now if the death of God is truly fundamental in a uniquely modern apocalypticism, is that not an absolute dividing line between modern apocalypticism and an original Christian apocalypticism, and one revealing modern apocalypticism as an absolute desacralization or profanation of Christianity? The Gospel of Christian Atheism attempts to address this challenge, and does so by centering upon the death of God as the deepest ground of Christianity, and one even present in the original proclamation of Jesus. This occurs in Jesus’ unique apocalyptic enactment of the full and final advent of the Kingdom of God, for no longer is the realm of God heavenly and transcendent, but is dawning "here" and "now," a dawning only possible as a consequence of a negation of a transcendent beyond, a negation which is a self-negation, and consequently a self-negation of Godhead itself. This is a self-negation which ultimately realizes itself in the Crucifixion, a crucifixion which Christianity has known as the one source of salvation, and therein it is truly an atonement, but ultimately an atonement of Godhead with itself. Just as Christian theology has never realized a genuine understanding of evil and nothingness, it has ever been closed to the deep negativity of Godhead itself, or closed to the negative pole or polarity of God. Now this is the very negativity which is profoundly realized by Blake, Hegel, and Nietzsche, and it is only the negation of this negativity which is truly the death of God, a negation which is apocalypse itself, and precisely thereby the apocalypse of God.

Jesus could name such an apocalypse as the Kingdom of God, and it is all too significant that Jesus is alone among ancient prophets in naming the "Kingdom of God," a naming that was at the very center of his mission, but one which soon perished in ancient Christianity. The comprehensive transformation of Christianity in the first three generations of its existence is unique in the history of religions, and nothing so deeply perished as did Jesus’ apocalyptic enactment of the Kingdom of God, or, if it did not perish, it was wholly reversed, and reversed by way of a comprehensive epiphany of the absolute transcendence of God. So it is that a recovery of the original way of Jesus can occur only by way of an absolute assault upon all established or manifest Christianity, as most purely occurs in Blake and Nietzsche. But it occurs no less in Hegel, and if Hegel is the deepest center of a uniquely modern philosophical atheism, that atheism could be understood as a Christian atheism if it is understood as a reversal of a uniquely Christian transcendence of God, and a Christian transcendence that is itself a reversal of Jesus’ enactment of the apocalypse of God.

An absolute immanence dominates a uniquely modern thinking and vision, one which is an inversion and reversal of a pure transcendence, but the apocalypse of God could be understood as the final realization of the pure immanence of God, one releasing an ultimate Yes-saying, and a Yes-saying which is greeted with a total joy. Perhaps it is joy itself which is most missing from a uniquely modern Christianity, but it is ecstatically present in both Blake and Nietzsche, but only so present as a consequence of the death of God. Hegel could know that death as the self-negation of abstract Spirit, or a wholly self-alienated Godhead, one which Blake could name as Urizen or Satan, and Nietzsche could know as the deification of nothingness. Only in Hegel and Nietzsche does there finally occur a philosophical understanding of nothingness in the West, and this occurs only by way of the philosophical understanding of an absolutely self-alienated God, one which Nietzsche could know as an absolute No-saying, and one which Hegel could know as an absolute emptiness. But that is the very emptiness which is emptied in an absolute movement of kenotic self-emptying, a movement which Hegel could understand as a repetition of the Crucifixion, and a repetition ushering in the final age of the Spirit. So, too, Nietzsche could understand such an ultimate and final movement as the dawning of absolute immanence, and an absolute immanence only possible as a consequence of the death of God. Only Christianity among the world religions knows the death of God, and nothing else makes Christianity so unique in the history of religions, but so likewise nothing else in modernity is more unique than its comprehensive realization of the death of God, and if nowhere else there is here a full coincidence between the depths of modernity and the depths of Christianity itself.

Must this coincidence remain closed to Christian theology? Is any genuine atheism impossible for Christian theology, and impossible if only because theology itself is inseparable from the transcendence of God? The Gospel of Christian Atheism claims that genuine atheism is possible only for the Christian, for only the Christian knows the actual and final death of God, a death of God alone releasing an absolute immanence, and a crucifixion releasing not an ascent into Heaven but a descent into Hell. Ancient Christianity reversed the way of the cross by knowing it as a way to a heavenly transcendence, just as it reversed the crucifixion by knowing it as resurrection, and even as a wholly other- worldly or transcendent resurrection, and just as the crucifixion and not the resurrection dominates the synoptic gospels, the resurrection and not the crucifixion dominates patristic Christianity, and so much so that actual images of the crucifixion do not even occur until the end of patristic Christianity. Ever more gradually these images become deeper in the medieval Christian world, until they become overwhelming in the waning of the Middle Ages, and then far deeper and even ultimately deeper in the birth of the modern world. This is a world with which Blake, Hegel, and Nietzsche are in deep continuity, and a far deeper continuity than is present in all manifest or ecclesiastical modern Christianity, and if modernity has been wholly unable to envision resurrection, it has profoundly envisioned crucifixion, and even envisioned crucifixion as an absolute and total event.

But it cannot be a total event if it is not the death of God, and if the death of God is alien to Christian theology, it is not alien to modern thinking and vision, indeed, it is at the very center of a uniquely modern vision and thinking, and it is just for that reason that a unique modernity can be known as a Christian modernity. This is the presumption of The Gospel of Christian Atheism, and even if this entails a negation of ecclesiastical Christianity, this is a negation seeking a universal horizon, and a universal horizon of our world. Certainly theology continues to be far distant from such a horizon, but nevertheless it is seeking it today, or is so when it is not engulfed by a new orthodoxy or a new conservatism. We should understand that such orthodoxy is truly new, just as our fundamentalism is truly new, and if only a newly orthodox and newly conservative Christianity is now seemingly alive, this would be without precedent since the early Middle Ages, and could well be a decisive sign of the total marginalization of Christianity. That would be historically unique, and perhaps for that very reason historically false, for an invisible Christianity could be very much alive today, or one invisible by all orthodox and ecclesiastical criteria, but one nevertheless deeply alive in our depths, even if those depths are invisible to empirical observation.

Our world is a deeply paradoxical world, one seemingly delivered into peace and prosperity, without any apparent deep threats or deep repression, and without any ultimate discord or violence except in its peripheries, and yet ours is a world wholly empty of everything which we once knew as an ultimate hope or an ultimate affirmation, except insofar as this seemingly occurs in a new virtual reality, and it is all too significant that it is only a virtual reality which we can know as a liberating reality. So much hopelessness amidst so much prosperity is a truly new situation, and even if this is most true in America, it would seem to be true in every "advanced" region of the world, and perhaps what we have come to know as advancement is the deepest form of hopelessness and inhumanity. But we should far rather say ‘ahumanity’ rather than ‘inhumanity’, for we are losing everything which we once knew as humanity. Is this not a situation that calls for radical thinking and vision, and certainly for radical theological thinking and vision, and if this can now only occur subterraneously, is it possible that genuine theological thinking can only be a subterranean thinking? If so, perhaps The Gospel of Christian Atheism can make a contribution to our situation, and if not, let it be cast into oblivion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Overt Language About the Death of God — In Retrospect

Dr. Altizer is one of a number of authors of notable works of the ‘60s to whom we made an offer they couldn’t refuse: How would you like to review your own book? Dr. Altizer, now director of religious studies at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, enters into the game with zest. Writing in the third person, he critically reassesses not only The Gospel of Christian Atheism but several other Altizer works as well.

Oriental Mysticism and Biblical Eschatology (Westminster, 1961) is a tantalizing book. Badly written, pretentious and irresponsible in its claims and arguments, wholly lacking in historical sophistication and mastery of its sources, it nevertheless remains our only theological correlation of the original religious ground of Christianity with the higher religious expressions of Oriental mysticism. A historical and theological thesis of prime importance has been spoiled both by premature publication and by the absence of scholarly and historical mastery in its author. For despite the fact that Altizer completed a doctorate in the history of religions at the University of Chicago, he is neither a historian nor a historian of religions.

Instead he is an ersatz theologian, a self-taught theologian, one who employs the history of religions only as a route into a non theological theology. And that theology is grounded in the death of God -- not simply as the historical end of Christendom, but rather as the ultimate ground of Buddhism and Christianity alike.

Beginning with a Nietzschean analysis of Greek thinking and literature which sees the distancing of the numinous as the center of the Greek experience, this book attempts to demonstrate that the higher expressions of religion in both East and West revolve about an absolute antithesis between religion and reality, wherein religion can only truly and finally realize itself by an absolute negation, dissolution or annihilation of reality itself. Such a movement of total negation is shared by both Jesus and the Buddha. and it is a negation which finally negates both "God" and nirvana in its realization of a religious totality. A daring claim, yes, but one which remains largely unintelligible in this most regrettable nonbook.

Altizer’s next nonbook (Mircea Eliade and the Dialectic of the Sacred [Westminster, 1963]) is in fact two nonbooks only loosely and inadequately conjoined. The first is a long-overdue study of the scholarly work of Mircea Eliade; it attempts to demonstrate that Eliade’s dialectical understanding of the sacred is at once both genuinely modern and an authentic expression of Eastern Christianity, although having true parallels with Kierkegaard and Schweitzer.

All of us, of course, but especially Altizer, are ignorant of Eastern Christianity. Nonetheless, Altizer’s thesis that Eliade has given us our only Christian and dialectical modern understanding of religion is not to be taken lightly. The second part of the book is theological rather than critical or historical, and it advances the claim that it is precisely the most radical expressions of the profane in the modern consciousness (Dostoevsky, Nietzsche, Freud, Proust, Kafka and Sartre) that can be dialectically identified with the purest expressions of the sacred.

Thus Nietzsche’s vision of Eternal Recurrence is here dialectically identified with the Christian vision of the Kingdom of God. This dialectical identification (a Madhyamika Christianity?) is presented as the true resolution of a contradiction in Eliade’s understanding -- a contradiction deriving from an only partially dialectical understanding of Christianity in Eliade, the latter arising from the nondialectical ground of the historical expressions of Christian theology. One wonders how Eliade will respond to this nonbook, for it attempts to unmask him as a historian of religions and to unveil him as a Christian homo religiosus immersed in a labyrinthine world in which God is dead.

At last in The New Apocalypse: The Radical Christian Vision of William Blake (Michigan State University Press, 1967) Altizer gives us a genuine book. It is as though his long combat with Nietzsche has finally given birth to him as a writer, though the secret of this book is that it brings together a Hegelian dialectical understanding of pure negativity with the images and symbolic figures of Blake’s imaginative world. Most startling of all, we find a fully systematic theology in this book. It is a theology purporting to be the expression of a radical Christian tradition -- a tradition unknown to the world of Christian theology, because that world is irredeemably satanic insofar as it is bound to the dead body of that God negated and left behind by the forward and apocalyptic movement of the incarnation.

The center of radical Christianity, at least as present in Blake’s vision, is the apocalyptic Christ, a total Christ, and a Christ who is totally human and divine, being at once the totality of a cosmic humanity and the total embodiment of what Blake envisioned in Milton and Jerusalem as the "Self-Annihilation of God." New Testament scholars and theologians, if they dare enter a truly imaginative world, will be amazed to discover that Blake in the early 19th century truly realized the eschatological identity of Jesus, and that he finally succeeded in actualizing this identity as the center and ground of his greatest creations. But the priestly temper is unlikely to look beyond the literal Bible as a source of vision, just as a priestly theology is incapable of envisioning a theology grounded in the sacrificial Christ rather than in the Creator God. At the end of Jerusalem these dichotomous figures dialectically and apocalyptically pass into each other, but it is a safe prediction that such an identification will elicit no interest from either our ecclesiastical or our theological worlds.

Only overt language about the death of God can succeed in calling forth such interest. Hence the scandalous success of Radical Theology and the Death of God (Bobbs-Merrill, 1966), a collection of essays and articles by Altizer and William Hamilton. That book, along with The Gospel of Christian Atheism (Westminster, 1966), should make it clear that for Altizer the death of God is a Christian and apocalyptic event. Here, of course, Altizer is wholly unoriginal, for we now know, or should know, that in a fundamental sense this is true of Blake, Hegel and Nietzsche, and it is significant that Altizer could not write The Gospel of Christian Atheism until he had finished The New Apocalypse.

Now we can see both the strength and the weakness of the former volume: its strength arises from its actually speaking theologically of the death of God and its weakness derives from the absence of argument and demonstration. It is as though Altizer leaped over the theological community and addressed the layperson directly. In part, this was so because of the publicity which unexpectedly came to Altizer and the death-of-God movement, but The Gospel of Christian Atheism was largely written before this occurred. Yet at the very least this book should initiate the contemporary Christian into the world of Blake’s vision.

In The Descent into Hell (Lippincott, 1970) Altizer has attempted a systematic theological exploration of the radical and apocalyptic faith of Jesus and Paul, and has done so with the conviction that this has not yet been attempted by Christian theology and that a decisive key to this endeavor lies ready to hand in the world of Mahayana Buddhism. Herbert Richardson has identified this book as the first Buddhist Christian theology -- and while he may be saying too much, his words certainly set forth the intention of the author. Here we find the endeavor to speak of the Kingdom of God in a Christian language even while refusing the language of the Christian theological tradition, and to do so in the spirit of Blake’s marriage of "Heaven" and "Hell" and under the influence of the identification of nirvana and samsara in Mahayana Buddhism.

The deepest flaw of The Descent into Hell is that it is insufficiently theological; it fails to focus wholly on the self-negation of God, and thus fails to realize or make manifest that the eschatological acts and words of Jesus are an actualization or self-embodiment of God. Therein also Altizer has failed truly to enter the world of Buddhism, and therein to realize a transcendence of every distinction between word and act or here and there. Above all, this is a failure of the imagination, and of the theological imagination -- a failure truly to open theological thinking to the dynamic actuality of biblical faith and language.

Despite everything, Altizer intends to be a biblical theologian. Being persuaded that Barth abandoned the Bible by surrendering to the authority of the church, he is determined to realize the meaning of the Bible apart from the church and its tradition, and under the impact of what he would like to identify as the radical Christian tradition. His real hope and intention is to do pure theology, a theology thinking about God alone, and thinking in such a manner and mode as to make possible a theological realization of revelation.

The Self-Embodiment of God (Harper & Row, 1977) directly reflects this quest, and it attempts to re-enact biblical revelation in theological speech, and to do so by way of a meditation upon the actuality of speech and silence. Once again Altizer attempts too much, even if his reader senses that he attempts too little. For he is attempting not to speak about God but rather to speak in such a way as to make God manifest as the origin, center and end of speech. Finally, this can be achieved only by the reader of such a text, and here the reader must be the author as well.