Introduction by John B. Cobb, Jr. and Nicholas Gier

Note: Nicholas Gier is a student in the Department of Religion of the Claremont Graduate School, Claremont, California.

I

The late ‘60s in this country will be remembered in theology chiefly for the remarkable public attention directed to radical theology and especially to the idea of the death of God. Paul van Buren, William Hamilton, Gabriel Vahanian, and others shared the spotlight of national attention, but Thomas J. J. Altizer was the most prominent figure. In these last few years he has been the most widely and most heatedly discussed American theologian.

Not only has Altizer’s theology been the most widely discussed, it has also been the most influential. The furor over the "death of God" has altered the theological climate in America irreversibly. As late as the early ‘60s, some form of Biblical theology or neo-orthodoxy was the point of departure for most theological discussion. As the decade closed, these movements appeared to have chiefly historical interest. Even those whose present positions have developed from them -- such as Langdon Gilkey, Gordon Kaufman, Dietrich Ritschl, Thomas Oden, and Peter Berger -- now address themselves in a quite different way to what they recognize as a quite different situation. Much of this change was already incipiently occurring, of course, or the response to Altizer’s challenge would not have been so dramatic. Nevertheless, it required public discussion to bring into dominance the mood of radicalism. For that public discussion, Altizer has major responsibility.

The claim that Altizer has been the most influential American theologian in the past few years would collapse if it meant that he was the most widely followed or even read! Although he has rejoiced to lead in the shattering of the apparent consensus of the past generation, there remains a gulf between his vast influence in negation and the limited response to his constructive solution of theological problems. Many have agreed that in our time honesty requires that we be atheists, but few have had any appreciation for the remarkable form of "atheism" Altizer actually proposes. His influence has encouraged the emergence of an ethical Christian humanism that is poles removed from his own theology.

A third claim is more subjective than the first two, but still widely acceptable: Altizer is also the most original and creative American theologian of this period. For this reason the lack of understanding of his constructive theological position is particularly unfortunate. His theological assertions differ so profoundly from the dominant theological radicalism of our time, as well as from the neo-orthodoxy and liberalism of the recent past, that some have tried to write him off as an irresponsible eccentric. But few who have studied him seriously, and even fewer who have known him well, have found it possible to dismiss his thought in this way. Whether one agrees with him or not, one discovers in his writings a coherent vision of great power. In addition, one finds that this vision has been arrived at, not by personal whim, but by an approach to Christian theology in the context of the history of religions, an approach that is widely approved but rarely attempted. Indeed, Altizer is the first major theologian since World War I to think theologically from the perspective of the study of the history of religions conceived on a world scale.

This point needs explanation. Other theologians, of course, have approached the study of the history of religions from a theological point of view, and their theology has been influenced by what they have learned. Some have studied Christianity as one of the world’s religions from the point of view of the historian of religions. Others have thought theologically from a perspective shaped by study of the Near Eastern religions of Biblical times. But these are quite different matters. Altizer is not first a Christian theologian who then is affected by studying other religions, and he is not a historian of religions who wants to place Christianity in the total context. He is a theologian whose categories and questions are shaped by profound immersion in the study of the planetary history of religions. Among past theologians, Troeltsch and Otto come closest to this theological method, but today, approximation to their approach leads to quite different results.

Whereas the first three claims for Altizer’s importance may be widely admitted, the fourth may appear strange and even perverse. Of all the American theological writing of this period, it is Altizer’s that embodies the most vigorous and passionate faith. The widely assumed contrary view has two major causes. First, the initial impact of Altizer has been upsetting to the faith of others. His negations have come across more effectively than his affirmations, and Altizer, convinced that what is being uprooted is in fact already dead, has done little to soften this destructive consequence of his thought. Second, many associate "faith" indissolubly with "God" and hence cannot understand the denial of God as an act of faith.

Nevertheless, a careful and open reading of Altizer will convince one that he is encountering a profound expression of faith of a sort rare in current theology. Altizer does not understand himself as a man who, because of holding certain traditional values, still calls himself a Christian. That point of view is easy to find in our times. It expresses a situation in which a man’s fundamental self-definition is ethical, or humanistic, or scholarly, or secular, but in which he secondarily accepts the designation of himself as Christian also. In contrast, Altizer is first and foremost a Christian. Like many passionate Christians before him (Luther and Kierkegaard, to mention just two examples), he is intensely critical of the Christianity he finds about him. But such criticism has no other basis than faith itself.

Furthermore, this faith is not a name arbitrarily given to some aspect of his existence. It is faith in the Word, in Christ, in the Incarnation of God, in the Kingdom of God. True, these terms take on new meanings in Altizer’s thought, but they are not unrecognizable meanings. On the contrary, they are traditional meanings taken with such radical seriousness as to transform them. Even the "death of God" is affirmed, not as a concession to modern skepticism, but as the deepest Christian meaning of Incarnation and Crucifixion. Furthermore, Altizer’s faith enables him to discern in the present world what other Christians anxiously miss -- the real presence of Christ. He is "persuaded that everyone who lives in what we know as history participates at bottom in the life of Christ" and "that the task of theology is to unveil and make manifest the universal presence and reality of Christ." (Quoted from a letter to me, July 7, 1969.)

These statements make clear that Altizer is also the boldest evangelical theologian of our time. While most American theologians seek to provide some justification for Christians to remain Christian, to overcome some misunderstanding of faith, or to guide the church in the responsible direction of its energies, Altizer addresses the "cultured despisers" with the word that they live by participation in Christ, How successful he will be in reaching his public cannot be foretold. It would be idle to suppose that those whom he persuades will hurry to the local church to share in its worship and cultural activities! But the evangelical purpose is clear.

In the light of these judgments about Altizer, this volume is an attempt to shift the focus of attention from his negations to his affirmations. If Altizer’s sharp critique of Christian habits of mind has made manifest and accentuated the theological sickness of the church, perhaps the study of the theology in which he expresses his own powerful faith will be a source of healing. But our attitude toward this theology cannot be shaped only by respect for the creativity and faith that it embodies. Once we respect it and recognize its importance, we must approach it with critical care, seeking to evaluate it with whatever norms we have available. The essays that follow embody this attitude. All take Altizer seriously. All offer specific and sharply focused criticism.

The remainder of this Introduction is intended to prepare the reader for a clearer understanding of Altizer’s thought and of the issues between him and his critics. To this end, the rest of the Introduction is divided into three parts. Section II offers some comments about the general cast of Altizer’s thought and its fundamental assumptions. Section III describes the development of his thought through three important stages. Section IV relates Altizer’s thought to the early Barth and to contemporary secular theology.

II

Altizer is not and has never been an ontological realist. A realist conceives entities as existing in some definite and discriminable way quite apart from human experience. For example, a realistic interpretation of the sentence, "The stone is gray, is that there exists independent of human experience an entity called a "stone" qualified in a distinctive way such that the term "gray" is appropriate to it. The realist need not suppose that grayness as a humanly experienced color exactly characterizes what the stone is in and of itself, but he believes that there is a correlation between what is objectively occurring in the stone and the human experience of perceiving gray, such that the former is an independent and prior cause of the latter. The sentence, "The stone is gray," is thus taken as referring to a reality outside of human experience and responsible for the human experience of the grayness of the stone.

Altizer, in contrast, has never been interested in what things are in and for themselves apart from human experience. Indeed, he has not recognized this as a possible question. The reality with which he has concerned himself is humanly experienced reality and that alone. This could be indicated by pointing to his enthusiasm for Hegel, but identification of reality with humanly experienced reality is much more widespread in the modern world than is Hegelianism. Idealists share this identification with empiricists, positivists, historicists, and phenomenalists.

Altizer was immersed in this perspective long before he seized on its Hegelian formulation. Probably it grew naturally out of his study of the history of religions. To understand a Buddhist or a Hindu, one does not ask how his vision of reality corresponds with what is "really" there. One takes that vision as constituting his reality. If that vision differs from the Christian one, then one recognizes that his reality differs from Christian reality. To judge the two realities by a supposed knowledge of what is "really" real, gained by some means alien to both, is to abandon the perspective of the history of religions. Furthermore, it may well be an illusion, for it presupposes some access to "reality" more basic or more reliable than that of Buddhist and Christian. That presupposition can express only a third perspective, different from both, but not for that reason truer.

Many who think that they agree with such judgments and methods still suppose that if God exists for one he exists for all whether they recognize him or not, or that if God does not now exist he never existed. Such views express the power of commonsense realism even when it is avowedly abandoned. Altizer is more consistent. God is real actual, and existent where and when he is present in human experience as real, actual, and existent. But where God plays no vital role in human experience and vision, he is either nonexistent, as for the Buddhist, or dead, as for the modern Christian.

Similarly, many who hold to phenomenalist theories nevertheless seek to test contemporary beliefs about the past against the way the past really was. Altizer is again more consistent. For him, there is no meaning to the question of what the past was in and for itself. Our question is what the past is for us, in our reality. Viewed in this way, the past is also changing as the shape of existence in the present changes.

These paragraphs might seem to imply an extreme subjectivism. It might seem that "reality" is whatever one believes it to be. This is far from Altizer’s intention. We all experience reality as much more objective than that. Whether God is now alive or dead is not a function of my private opinion on the subject. As individuals, we are caught up in a movement of history about which we do not personally decide. It is given to us. And at its deepest level it is constituted by a concretely experienced reality. That reality is obscured by our inherited beliefs and habits. It is laid bare for us by the spiritual giants of our time. In retrospect, we can often these visionaries with some accuracy. To judge our own time is always a risk. Altizer is convinced, however, that the judgment of the death of God is now overwhelmingly evident. On the other hand, and with far less obvious justification, he believes that Christ is very much alive; that, indeed, he constitutes the life of our history. The fact that this is not widely recognized is no evidence of its falsity.

In an attempt to understand Altizer, it is misleading to say that the death of God refers to a cultural phenomenon. Of course it does, but to state matters in that way implies that there is something else with which cultural phenomena could be contrasted, such as a metaphysical reality. For Altizer, what happens in culture, most fundamentally understood, is the metaphysical reality. This identity of history and metaphysics is what unites him with Hegel.

This understanding of the situation has consistent consequences in Altizer’s appraisal of the work of others. He does not ask whether what they say corresponds to some nonhistorical reality, for the historical reality is all there is. Fundamentally, the question is whether the argument or thought is somehow in tune with the existent historical reality, whether it illumines this reality or participates in shaping it. This can be judged partly by the kind of reception a man’s work enjoys. If those who have most deeply entered into the contemporary situation find what is said dull or vacuous, it is not saved by the amount of evidence amassed for its conclusions or the tightness of its logical arguments. The question is not so much whether an idea can be "proved" as whether it rings true.

Once again, this could easily be misunderstood in a subjectivist way. But Altizer has no patience with the lazy thinker who accepts ideas according to their emotional appeal or the force of the rhetoric with which they are presented. Value is not judged by mass acceptance. Yet any thinking is fundamentally irrelevant if it does not begin with the present situation as it is really felt and known in sensitive and informed experience.

On the basis of this account of Altizer’s Hegelian idealism, we can now see why he moves as he does on specific points of special importance for theology. Of these we will consider three: first, Altizer’s view of the normative relation of faith and theology to the dominant cultural movement of the time; second, Altizer’s approach to Christology; and third, the style of Altizer’s thought and argument.

1. There is little doubt that Christian morale is currently at a low ebb. Historic Christian beliefs appear either incredible or irrelevant. Those who are most sensitive and perceptive have abandoned them, sometimes because they wished to do so, more often because traditional faith has simply lost the power to shape vision and experience and to guide action. The great artists have developed new categories. Christians are widely perceived as a rear guard composed of those who do not trust reason, experience, and enlightened sensibility.

One response to this situation is to understand Christianity as the creation in history of a new and in some sense final mode of human existence. Elsewhere, I have characterized this Christian existence as self-transcending selfhood expressing itself in concern for the other as an other. This mode of being is the fundamental ground of what has been most dynamic, most creative, and most redemptive in Western history and, more recently, in the Westernized history of the entire planet. It has freed men personally and intellectually to raise radical questions and to develop whole new disciplines of thought.

Ironically, the thinking for which men have been freed by Christian existence has increasingly undercut the beliefs that are bound up with that existence. Such existence involves effort, tension, the bearing of burdens, and the postponement of rewards. These have been endurable and even enriching in the context of the historic Christian understanding of man as living from God and for God. But in the absence of some such vision, men are empty, and Christian existence cannot long endure. It will be destroyed by its own fruits.

The alternative to the disappearance of Christian existence is the emergence of a new vision capable of sustaining intentional communities whose vitality would enable them to revivify part of the remains of the institutional church. A church in which credible and relevant conviction expressed itself in consistent and appropriate disciplined action would not have to be large to be redemptively effective.

This view defines Christian faith in terms of continuity in a mode of existence, while recognizing the constantly new intellectual task of articulating doctrines required and supported by it. It can acknowledge the powerful attraction of competing ideas and visions without therefore accepting them. Thus the Christian differentiates himself and his faith from the dominant cultural currents of his time, not by ignoring them, but by discriminating appraisal, selective appropriation, and constructive reconceptualization.

This response presupposes that Christian faith has its fundamental existence in some isolation from the fundamental movement of history. For Altizer, precisely this isolation from the movement of vision and spirit is faithlessness.. We have, in his view, no static essence of Christian faith or existence in terms of which to evaluate other modes of belief and existence. Where authentic creativity is to be found, there is the reality with which faith has to do. Thus true Christianity can and must reverse itself in the most fundamental ways in order to be true to itself. Since all that we have known as Christian existence, or personhood, or even humanity is swept away in the new visions of our time, faith requires that we affirm their death. The Christian is not to plan strategies for salvaging or reviving what is dying, but rather to learn to see the new as the dialectical continuation, through transformation, of the old. In the deepest sense, faith is the affirmation of what will be rather than the attempt to shape an indeterminate future.

The task of theology is to articulate the teaching of the church only to the extent that the church’s teaching grasps and expresses the reality of our historical situation. Altizer understandably judges that this extent is currently very slight. If Christian theology is to escape from the ghetto in which it has imprisoned itself, it must enter the arena in which man’s reality is being creatively discerned and shaped, and today that is far from the church. Yet Altizer enters that arena convinced that the reality in question, however it is now being named, is truly Christ. Indeed, for him the very essence of faith is this conviction, and it is this faith which frees the Christian for total openness to the reality of his time, however dark and empty it may appear.

2. Altizer’s approach to Christology is consistent with this understanding of the nature of theology. It is to be understood as a renewal and transformation of the Hegelian Christology of the last century in the setting of our time.

Christian orthodoxy in its Christological dogma has held two concerns in tension. One concern is transpersonal, sacred, or divine reality. The other is the particular, contingent, historical figure -- Jesus of Nazareth. Much traditional theological debate focused on the nature of the relation of the absolutely transcendent to the relative and immanent aspects of God with only incidental reference to Jesus. This is sometimes called "Christology from above." Some of the discussion was about Jesus and in what way he embodied or presented deity. This is sometimes called "Christology from below."

With the breakdown of creedal orthodoxy, Hegel and his followers developed a new form of Christology from above. It differed from the old in that the "above" in question was now that "Spirit" which is the subject of the total historical process undergoing transformation in and through it. But Hegelian Christology is similar to the old Christology in that the contingent particularities of the person of Jesus are of merely incidental interest. The doctrine of Incarnation is far more crucial for the Hegelian than is the historical reconstruction of the authentic sayings of Jesus.

Although Hegel has had profound influence on the course of modern thought, most of what we call liberal Christology has followed the second course. It has been concerned first and foremost with the recovery of the real Jesus and only secondarily with creedal affirmation. Hence, it has motivated the quest of the historical Jesus and the attempt to formulate Christology to conform with what is known of him.

In the years after World War I, Christians felt keenly the difference between both of these modern forms of Christology on the one hand and the historic faith of the church on the other. Karl Barth gave voice to the concern of a generation to recover lost elements of traditional belief. Against the Hegelian tendency to identify God with man and to see the doctrine of Incarnation as expressing this unity, Barth stressed with new force the transcendent otherness of God. Against the liberal tendency to dwell upon the personality and teaching of Jesus, he stressed the sheer fact of Incarnation. Thus he reaffirmed and intensified the orthodox claim that in Jesus the transcendent God became man for our redemption without thereby losing his transcendence.

The collapse of neo-orthodoxy has rapidly returned us to the alternatives against which it was proclaimed. The choice is now posed more harshly than ever. Most radicals have accentuated the liberal approach. They have simply lost interest in metaphysical claims about Jesus, viewing him as a "man for others" or a "free man" in relation to whom we can become free. Altizer, in contrast, has only incidental interest in the historical Jesus. For him, "Christ" names the central reality of the Christian imagination and hence of the Christian’s history. Since "Christ" is bound up with the pictures of Jesus that have succeeded each other in our history, and since those pictures are bound up with the judgments of historians, Altizer does not ignore the work of the great New Testament scholars. But he interests himself in their vision of the past rather than in the question of the conformity of their vision to an objective past event. Thus Altizer identifies himself with the Hegelian tradition, carrying forward with greater radicality than ever its version of Christology from above.

3. An important feature of the style of Altizer’s thought is suggested by the word "Totality." Altizer thinks in terms of wholes. He seeks the essence of an idea, a doctrine, a point of view; and when he finds it, he discards all the qualifications with which it is surrounded in order to elicit its pure and radical meaning.

This is the reason for much of the exasperation sometimes felt by his critics. In the course of time, many doctrines have been hammered out cautiously, replete with qualifications that adjust them to the various difficulties that have been encountered. Altizer ignores everything but what the doctrine in its purest essence communicates in our situation. Obviously the judgment here is somewhat subjective, and those who have been articulating the doctrine resent the neglect of their careful formulations.

At the same time, this is the reason for much of Altizer’s power. He avoids involvement in the subtle and sophisticated arguments in which much academic theology bogs down. By going to what he sees as the heart of the matter and capturing it in pure and extreme form, he breaks open the broader question and forces total reconsideration.

His own intellectual development illustrates this violent refusal of qualification and moderate formulation. As late as the early ‘60s, Altizer believed Christianity to require of us a total rejection of all that the modern world understands as reality and creativity. Apocalyptic was for him the pure manifestation of Biblical faith, and apocalyptic was the rejection of this world in the name of a Kingdom of God that is wholly alien to it. The error of historic Christianity was that it compromised by coming to terms with the world and by affirming its value.

Altizer found that this position put him in an extremely painful situation existentially. He was forced to reject all that he admired most in art, literature, and scholarship. Furthermore, he recognized that although Biblical eschatology resembled Oriental mysticism in its negation of the given reality, it was a different sort of negation, which somehow also affirmed the forward movement of time and history.

Another man might have responded to this situation by cautiously modifying some of the extreme elements in his earlier position, but not Altizer. Instead, he reversed himself totally. Christian eschatology and Incarnation now are seen to mean a total affirmation of the world, a total identification of the sacred with historical reality. Christianity, instead of being at bottom identical with Oriental religion, is juxtaposed as its opposite. Historic Christianity is condemned for clinging to the symbols of a transcendent other.

The pattern of negation and reversal of which Altizer writes so much is here embodied in his own development. This can also be illustrated in his view of the traditional Christian doctrine of Creation. At one level this doctrine may be seen as a theory of the origin of the universe, but at this level it interests neither Altizer nor his critics. Fundamentally, the doctrine expresses a particular view of the reality and worth of the world and thus of human life. This view has a twofold movement of thought.

First, he who understands the world and himself as created perceives both as real and valuable. All being is affirmed as good because it is the product of God’s purposeful intention and activity. In spite of all the horrors of suffering and sin, human life and its entire historical and natural context must be affirmed, and one must devote his energies to serving his fellowman in the concreteness of his bodily existence rather than seeking escape from these given conditions. Because the doctrine of Creation is thus an affirmation of the world, the early Altizer rejected it as a perversion of the apocalyptic negation of the world that was for him then the heart of faith.

Second, he who understands the world and himself as created perceives nature, history, and his own being as radically contingent, radically dependent upon God, radically subordinate to the Creator in both worth and reality. The meaning of life is not found, finally, in life itself as empirically given. Goodness, value, and meaning are found unqualifiedly, independently, or intrinsically only in God himself. The meaning of human existence is derivative. Because the doctrine of Creation thus subordinates the world to God, the later Altizer rejects it as a perversion of the incarnational affirmation of the world that is for him now the heart of faith.

In this way Altizer’s thought has exemplified something of the coincidence of opposites that is so important to him. There is an affinity between total negation and total affirmation that separates them both from all qualified forms of affirmation and negation. Both total affirmation and total negation repudiate any discrimination between degrees or levels of truth and falsity or of good and evil. Both thus exclude the sphere of the ethical, the weighing of particular values against one another. They exclude in a profound sense positive concern for the individual in his separated individuality. They demand a solution of the human problem that is unequivocal, absolute, total. Thus the forward movement of history must be toward an end in which that movement will come to absolute rest, or at least to total moments in which all past and future are abolished.

The most thoroughgoing and disturbing result to which Altizer’s program has come thus far is to be found in The Descent Into Hell. Here the totality toward which we are borne is identified insistently with hell and death. Not only has transcendence emptied itself into immanence, and the sacred into the profane, but heaven empties itself into hell, and life now empties itself into death. In this way, Altizer seeks to claim as an epiphany of Christ even the hell and death to which the modern spirit is drawn in fascinated horror.

III

In this section we will trace the development of Altizer’s thought since the publication of his first book, Oriental Mysticism and Biblical Eschatology, in 1961. Three periods may be distinguished in this development. First, there is the mythico-mystical orientation of Oriental Mysticism and Altizer’s journal articles of this time. Second, there is the historico-existentialist orientation of Mircea Eliade and the Dialectic of the Sacred (1963) and articles of that time. Third, there is the cosmico-metaphysical orientation of The Gospel of Christian Atheism (1966), The New Apocalypse (1967), and The Descent Into Hell (1970). The evolution of Altizer’s thought through these three periods shows an ever-increasing awareness of the full implications of the dialectical method.

During the first period of his development, Altizer’s primary emphasis is the Oriental tradition and how it relates to an understanding of Christianity. In the original formulations of both Buddhism and Christianity he sees a radical distinction between faith and philosophy. In both views there is an infinite qualitative difference between faith and being. For both, the demands of faith compel one to give up his ontological security in the world. In Oriental Mysticism, Altizer maintains that the teachings of Jesus and the Buddha exhort one to suspend "the quest for religious ontology and mystical knowledge."1 The believer is called to reject everything he knows as reality -- everything that has "being" for him. For in essence, being is man-made; it was created when man came into the world as a self-conscious being.

In Oriental Mysticism, Altizer observes that Heidegger, also, maintains that being is not an eternal reality equitable with the sacred or God; rather, it is a historical event involved in the establishment of Dasein, human existence.2 Heidegger comments: "If I were to write a theology, which I am sometimes tempted to do, the word being would not be allowed to appear in it. Faith does not need the thought of being, and if it needs it it is no longer faith."3 Altizer agrees by stating that "faith can never accept the ultimate reality of being. . . . The high moments of religion are those in which there is no awareness of being."4 Affirmation of being in the form of the Promethean spirit is a rebellion against the sacred, for the sacred reality can be known only as wholly other than the man-made world of being.

In his essay "The Religious Meaning of Myth and Symbol," Altizer continues this same theme: "The sacred can be actualized only by means of a dissolution of profane existence."5 Modern man, however, is faced with a much greater problem than archaic man with respect to apprehending the sacred reality. The primitive does not give ontological weight to his day-to-day mundane experience; this to him is unreal and illusory. For archaic man the only reality is the sacred reality of which he becomes a part through myth and ritual. As Mircea Eliade states, "For on the archaic levels of culture, the real -- that is, the powerful, the meaningful, the living -- is equivalent to the sacred." 6 For modern fallen man the situation is quite different: "Modern man experiences both an alienation of himself from the cosmos, and an alienation of the sacred from reality."7 What is real for modern man is the profane, not the sacred. Altizer’s thought at this stage remains in mystical and mythical categories; furthermore, he sees no real difference among the higher religions of the world.

The essay "Nirvana and Kingdom of God" is a transitional piece. It contains evidence of both his mythico-mystical orientation and the existentialist posture that is fully rehearsed in Mircea Eliade and the Dialectic of the Sacred. Christianity, which Altizer comes to hold as unique in his later writings, has not yet gained that status. He suggests that the Buddhist categories of faith that end in the experience of Nirvana can be used "as a mode of entry into the original form of Christianity."8 He states that modern Christian theology is cut off from the sacred; we must now approach the sacred through non-Western religious forms. Following the theme of his earlier book, Altizer holds that all desire to be a being in the world must be annihilated; all history, nature, and being must be brought to an end. Near the end of the article, however, we sense a reversal of his former position. Earlier, Altizer was advocating a leap of faith to the sacred from illusory being; but now he says that the Kingdom of God "will never dawn in us if we refuse our existence in the here and now." Being is not destroyed, as in the earlier view, but it is transfigured.

It is this very reality in its sheer actuality and immediateness which is being transfigured by the dawning of the Kingdom; God appears here and not in a beyond. Therefore, the Christian must live this life, sharing all its fullness and emptiness, its joy and its horror, knowing that his destiny is to live here and now, allowing his life to be the metal which God’s fire will transform into his Kingdom. And if we are to live now, we cannot escape the anguish of the human condition; if we are to live here, we cannot flee this condition by a leap of faith.9

We have now reached the period in Altizer’s development that I have termed the historico-existentialist. While Altizer had earlier affirmed Heidegger’s radical distinction between faith and being, he now denies it. Central to Altizer’s new vision is Nietzsche, who said, "Being begins in every Now." Now we must say Yes to the being of the immediate moment, for it is the only reality we know. We cannot and should not return to the primordial totality of myth and mysticism. Hence, at this stage Altizer responds negatively to Heidegger: "Perhaps nowhere else does Heidegger so clearly reveal how his attachment to a traditional mystical form of the holy so deeply sets him against the historical destiny of our time, and so likewise does it set him against Nietzsche." 10 A Buddhist No-saying to the world is supplanted by a Dionysian Yes-saying to the world. Earlier, Jesus was compared to the Buddha; now, Christ and Dionysus are one. Earlier, to "cling to being" was to close oneself to the sacred; now, the dialectical affirmation of being in the immediate moment is an epiphany of the sacred. Later, in The Descent Into Hell, Altizer attempts to reconcile these two seemingly contradictory views.

In this second period of Altizer’s development, the modern man of faith is called to meet his destiny in history, and he must meet it in the immediate moment. Altizer’s position at this point is primarily existentialist; he will not affirm as yet a metaphysical approach to theology. Even though Altizer’s faith has now entered history and the profane, its essence cannot be grasped in intelligible categories. A faith totally committed to the profane is still a scandal, an "ontological scandal." Eschatological faith is directed against any cosmological or metaphysical view that would attempt to resolve the paradox or scandal of faith. A radical faith, according to Altizer, "can know no logos of things." 11 Altizer contends that the modern man of faith must say Yes to the most illogical of all views of the world: Nietzsche’s Eternal Recurrence. "Eternal Recurrence is neither a cosmology nor a metaphysical idea: it is Nietzsche’s symbol of the deepest affirmation of existence, of Yes-saying. Accordingly, Eternal Recurrence is a symbolic portrait of the truly contemporary man, the man who dares to live in our time, in our history, in our existence." 12

All reality, according to Nietzsche, is destroyed and re-created in every moment by an irreversible, ongoing dialectic of the sacred, which appears in our history and in our radically profane Existenz. The drama between old and new being, old and new man, is a continually recurrent one. In each moment, man lives in crisis and is placed in judgment. Each of his acts is an ontological crisis; in each act the ground of his being is destroyed. In the dialectic of the sacred there are no standpoints; there is only movement toward another and fuller experience of the sacred. To deny this dialectic is to lapse into the false security of a traditional ontology. Such an ontology formed the basis for the Enlightenment and now governs the completely profane mode of existence of modern scientific man. To affirm such an ontology and live such an existence is to live the horror that is the death of God. To affirm Eternal Recurrence and renounce autonomous selfhood is to live the Kingdom of God, which is in our midst.

These views are essentially an extension of the German crisis theology of the 1920’s. Although Altizer’s terminology is somewhat different, the dialectical method is ever present and strong; indeed, it is here more fully developed than it ever was in the German dialectic theology. Existence in faith involves a continual crisis between the sacred and the profane. One can choose to avoid the crisis that confronts one in each moment of his existence; he can choose instead an illusory but nonetheless secure form of nondialectical existence; he can choose to cling to the being of which his profane mode of existence seems to assure him. For Altizer, however, a nondialectical affirmation of the profane ends in despair and Godlessness, for the profane alone has no sacral or redemptive power. Only dialectical affirmation can break through this groundless "crust" of profane being and reveal the new sacred reality.

At this point in his development, Altizer has not yet reconciled philosophy and theology. I would suggest, however, that the roots of a dialectic ontology are already implicit in this existentialist stage. This ontology, however, is certainly not of the traditional sort. While the traditional ontology of a theologian such as Tillich tends to resolve the paradox of Christian faith, Altizer’s dialectic intensifies it. In an article on Tillich’s theological method, Jacob Taubes states that Tillich eschatologizes ontology and ontologizes eschatology.13 I submit, to the contrary, that this interpretation does not apply at all to Tillich’s ontology as it is fully elaborated in his Systematic Theology. I believe that this can be more aptly applied to Nietzsche and to Altizer.

Nietzsche’s proclamation of the death of God brings to an end all concepts of unconditioned being and hence all traditional ontology. The death of God threatens our ontological security in the world. In short, it eschatologizes ontology. At the same time it gives ultimate reality to the very moment in which eschatological faith is realized. Eschatology, then, is ontologized. We are left with a dialectical inversion of all traditional thought about eschatology and ontology. In eschatological thinking, all being will be destroyed. In traditional ontology, being is grounded and sustained. In a dialectical vision, real being, i.e., the sacred, appears in the eschatological moment only after man’s ontological ground in the world has been destroyed. A truly radical faith, Altizer insists again and again, must be an ontological scandal.

Altizer’s book Mircea Eliade and the Dialectic of the Sacred is a curious work. As William Hamilton states: "In the book Altizer has not decided whether to do a book on Eliade (to whom he owes a profound debt) or an original piece of theological exposition. He comes up with a little of both, and the result is not structurally satisfactory." 14 Criticism ranged from outright rejection because the book was not Biblical or Christian enough to recognition of the genius of the work -- with reservations concerning problems of coherence and intelligibility. As a consequence, Altizer, in the first book of his third period, The Gospel of Christian Atheism, "comes up with a little of both," and I believe the results are more satisfactory.

In this book, Altizer tries to move in two directions at once: toward a more Biblical theology on the one hand, and toward a philosophical theology on the other. His move toward a Biblical theology is brilliant but, according to some, unsuccessful. His attempt to build a radical doctrine of Incarnation on the kenosis hymn in Phil. 2:7 raises criticism from many New Testament scholars. Theodore Runyon claims that Altizer’s exegesis of the kenosis hymn is invalid and shows an ignorance of Paul’s doctrine of God.15

What Runyon has failed to see here is the fact that Altizer, in his own peculiar way, is much a part of the "new hermeneutic." In some respects, Altizer’s disdain for the historical-critical method is equal to that of Barth. Altizer would hold that the meaning of any text changes with the evolution of human consciousness. Therefore, what this passage meant for Paul is not necessarily what it should mean for man living in the modern age. Altizer is in full agreement with Owen Barfield’s, discussion of the historical-critical means of New Testament interpretation. In Saving the Appearances, Barfield claims that historical criticism and traditional exegesis will someday be unveiled as forms of idolatry.16 In a review article on Barfield, Altizer states: "Saving the Appearances may well point to a liberation of the Biblical scholar from an idolatrous understanding of the Bible as literal text."17

It is not surprising, then, that Altizer finds the dialectic and logic of Hegel so alluring. Altizer betrays his assumption of a metaphysics when he states, "Hegel’s central idea of kenosis, or the universal and dialectical process of the self-negation of being, provided me with a conceptual route to a consistently kenotic or self-emptying understanding of the Incarnation, an understanding which I believe has been given a full visionary expression in the work of William Blake." 18 In other words, Blake supplies the poetic vision and Hegel supplies the philosophical constructs to interpret that vision.

Altizer’s second direction in this third phase is toward a more comprehensive overview; in other words, toward a cosmology. After attempting to find a Biblical base for a kenotic doctrine of Incarnation, he turns and finds a philosophical base for it in the metaphysics of Hegel. In the second stage of his development, Altizer achieved a dialectical resolution of faith and Existenz; it remains for him in the third stage to seek a grander synthesis with the world and the cosmic totality. The achievement of such a goal should be quite tenuous -- especially if Altizer intends to retain the radicalism of his previous work. Such an achievement was something a Kierkegaard or a Barth had thought impossible. In essence, Altizer attempts to reconcile philosophy and theology and still retain the paradox of faith.

The third period of Altizer’s development is characterized by several definitive changes. First, there has been a redefinition of the death of God. The early Altizer claimed that the death of God happened in our history and our Existenz. Only when a fully profane consciousness had appeared in history could one affirm the death of God. It was an existential, not a universal, event. Those still living under the spell of myth were unaware that God was dead, since they had not yet fallen into existential despair. With the assumption of the dialectic of Hegel, however, the death of God is now universalized; it is not only an existential event but a cosmic one. The death of God now becomes, in terms of Hegel, the self-annihilation of Spirit. Spirit, primordial and deficient of actuality, pours itself into the world and becomes flesh. This self-annihilation of Spirit, as Altizer says, is "at once historical and ontological."19 The death of God is now seen in ontological as well as existential terms.

With these developments Altizer is now allowed: (1) to affirm the uniqueness of Christianity; and (2) to develop a doctrine of grace. The self-emptying of God into the world is a forward-moving, nonreversible process. God, or better, the Christ of radical immanence, is here to stay in our flesh and in our midst. Never again will Christianity be identified with a priestly or mythical form of religion -- one that attempts to recapture a primordial beginning or totality. Because of this, Christianity, according to Altizer, is not only unique among the world’s religions; it is the truest revelation of the movement and reality of the sacred. Furthermore, a doctrine of a self-sacrificing God allows Altizer to develop a legitimate doctrine of grace. This would have been impossible within strictly Nietzschean categories.

It is significant to see how Altizer now deals with the existentialist posture that characterized his second period of development. The existential phase was described in terms of Hegel’s "Unhappy Consciousness," which is, as Altizer says, a necessary phase through which Spirit passes in its development in history." It serves now as a transitional period for a future cosmic fullness of the sacred, Altizer states: "We cannot understand the ‘Unhappy Consciousness’ unless we realize that it too, like the ‘Dark Night of the Soul,’ is a transitional state between an individual and particular realization of the truth and the reality of Spirit, a realization whose very particularity demands a chasm between itself and Spirit, and a universal and total epiphany of Spirit which obliterates this chasm."20 Spirit finally overcomes alienation and otherness and reveals itself as Absolute Spirit or God as all in all.

We have now reached a point in Altizer’s third period that is crucial and distinctive, for it constitutes a radical break with his earlier positions. With his assumption of a Hegelian metaphysics to explain the self-annihilation of God, he has also adopted a finalism; in short, the dialectical process aims at an end: God as all in all. This is a cosmic end, and not just an existential crisis, as Altizer would have seen it during his second period of development. Earlier, Altizer would have said that there is no order, meaning, or direction in history or in the cosmos outside of the existential situation. Now Altizer does see direction: the self-annihilation of God has effected a dialectical process that aims and ends with God literally becoming all in all. God sacrifices himself to the world and, as a result, experiences the world fully. As a consequence of his being alienated and being faced with his "Other," God is able to realize himself in a far richer form. The God of innocence, after passing through self-annihilation, becomes the God of total experience and flesh.

To draw an analogy between Hegel’s dialectic of Spirit and the evolution of Altizer’s own thought is too tempting to avoid. Altizer states in The New Apocalypse that the unfolding of Spirit corresponds to a similar evolution within the individual religious consciousness.21 In the Enzyklopädie Hegel states, "The same development of thought which is treated in the history of philosophy is being portrayed in every philosophy, yet emancipated from that historic externality, purely in the element of thinking." 22 The early mythico-mystical view advocated a denial of the profane world and a return to a primordial Totality. This of course would correspond to the primordial Spirit, innocent and deficient of all actuality and experience.

Altizer’s historico-existentialist period was characterized by a dialectical affirmation of the world of experience, which maximized a radical thrust into the profane only to transfigure its present form. The Witness of modern literature and art to existential despair and alienation is central to this period. This stage would correspond to Hegel’s "Unhappy Consciousness," which is Spirit particularized and alienated. John N. Findlay, one of the best among Hegelian scholars, describes the "Unhappy Consciousness" in this penetrating and significant statement: This Unhappy Consciousness is aware only of its total loss of all that previously reassured and filled it: its anguish might find expression in the words of the Lutheran hymn ‘God is dead.’ " 23

In the third period of his development, the cosmico-metaphysical, Altizer discovers that it is not solely the historical and the existential with which we must deal, but the cosmic as well. The existential experience of God is but a symbol of what actually will happen at the end of history on a cosmic level. Similarly, the death of God that occurred at the Crucifixion is but a particularized form of what is happening on a universal scale in our time. The vision of Hegel’s Absolute Spirit or Altizer’s Christ of radical immanence serves as an ideal aim for the dialectical process; it serves as an impetus for process and lures all process to its final end.

The Descent Into Hell, Altizer’s most recent book, is the most systematic statement of his theology. In this work he incorporates themes from all his previous works; he also attempts some radical reinterpretation of Christian doctrine. One significant feature of the book, which sets it apart from other books in the third period, is Altizer’s effort to reconcile his present thought with his early work on Buddhism. He returns to some of the early motifs and reinterprets them in the light of his second and third stages of development. To the unsuspecting reader, it might seem that Altizer has in fact returned to his first stage, but for those who view Altizer’s development as an ever-increasing awareness of the full implications of the dialectical method, Buddhism is now seen as the reversible (i.e., dialectical) ground on which a new radical Christianity can be founded.

The sharp dichotomy that Altizer drew between the Buddha and Christ in his second period and in The Gospel of Christian Atheism of his third period is now seen in a different light. He suggests that the Buddha is a "face or form" of Christ; in fact, he states that we must come to know the Buddha as the primordial identity of Christ. To recognize this fact is to be freed from everything past and primordial. Altizer states: "Nirvana is not ‘other’ than Kingdom of God, just as Buddha is not ‘other’ than Christ: Nirvana is the primordial ground of Kingdom of God, just as the New Jerusalem is the eschatological realization of Nirvana."24 Furthermore, Altizer now claims that Nietzsche’s Eternal Recurrence is identical with the Buddhist Void.25 Thus, his position in his second period was not dialectical enough; at that time he was not able to see the intimate connection between the primordial vision and the eschatological vision. The fully dialectical view sees that each needs the other for its own inherent fulfillment. In a similar way, the sacred needs the dialectical opposition of the profane for the fulfillment of its own intrinsic movement.

Far more pervasive, however, than this apparent reconciliation with Buddhism, are the principal themes of eternal death and Christ’s descent into hell. In a series of significant and revolutionary reinterpretations of orthodox doctrine, Altizer contends that the true image of Christ is not the exalted Christ of the Ascension, returning to the right hand of the transcendent creator God; but it is the Christ of the Passion, ever more humiliated, ever more in the flesh, ever more with the suffering of mankind. The Passion of Christ is the particular form and symbol of the passion of modern alienated man. The primary image of Christ in the time of the death of God should be one of self-negation and self-giving, descent and humiliation.

Contrary to the orthodox view that the Resurrection inevitably led to Christ’s ascension to transcendent glory, Altizer’s radical interpretation of the Resurrection sees it as just another point on the continuum of kenotic Incarnation: the dialectical movement from primordial, transcendent Spirit to radical immanence and flesh. For Altizer, pure transcendence is a symbolic image of primordial Spirit, while pure immanence is the symbolic equivalent of the Kingdom of God.26 Therefore, Altizer’s "eternal death" is not a literal death as fallen man knows it; rather, it is the same as pure immanence -- the totality of flesh.

According to Altizer’s kenotic view of Incarnation, Christ did not become flesh only to leave it, as orthodox theology would have it. Christ became flesh to remain flesh, to become a living symbol for the man of radical faith living in the time of the death of God. Therefore, the end result of Altizer’s reinterpretation of Crucifixion and Resurrection is, as he puts it himself, the "final and total loss of Heaven" and "the triumph of Hell." 27 The judgment of hell means the transformation of everything past and primordial, a necessary condition for the triumph of the Kingdom of God. As Altizer phrases it, only in the dialectical vision can we "be open to the actuality of our dark emptiness as a sign of the light of the apocalyptic Christ." 28 In another penetrating statement, Altizer makes the same point: "Is the dark negativity of our emptiness so overwhelming that no way is present to us of celebrating emptiness as a mask of total bliss?" 29 In our time, such a question separates those who would follow formal logic and resign themselves to a Godless world from those who would affirm dialectical logic and rejoice in the fact that Godlessness is a necessary precondition for a modern revelation of the sacred.

IV

Most radical theology in our time seems to be moving toward a fully secular theology -- toward a virtual identification of faith and culture. This can be said of theologians such as William Hamilton, Harvey Cox, Paul van Buren, the "Mainz radical" Herbert Braun, the late Paul Tillich, and many of those who follow and comment on the works of Friedrich Gogarten and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Hence, Altizer’s position among the radical theologians is a distinctive one -- so distinctive that in many respects he is to be seen over and against the others named above. The secular theologians mentioned above hold a Promethean theology, one that celebrates the hubristic, self-assertive, autonomous man in search for the "sacred" as a fulfillment of our present secular culture. Altizer, on the other hand, has a Dionysian, fully dialectic theology that, by radical affirmation of the profane, goes beyond mere secularism and its Godlessness and discovers the sacred via a nonhubristic apotheosis.

Altizer is closer than any other contemporary theologian to the first radical of twentieth-century theology: the early Barth of The Epistle to the Romans. It should be clear at once that Barth certainly did not approve of any secular expression of faith and rejected violently all theophilosophical attempts at capturing" God. For the early Barth, God is completely hidden; he is unsayable and unnameable. There lies an abyss between man and God, the secular and the sacred; and the step over that abyss, from old aeon to new aeon, is one that God alone can take. No human expression, philosophical or existential, can bridge that gap. Our relationship to God, according to the early Barth, is a completely indirect one. It can be conceptualized only within the inner tensions of the dialectical method. The meaning of Paul’s Romans "cannot be released save by a creative straining of the sinews, by a relentless, elastic application of the ‘dialectical’ method 30 I would suggest that Altizer’s method is continuous with, and a fulfillment of, the dialectical method of Barth’s Romans.

Barth attempted to reconcile the brute fact of a Godless world with such terms as God’s hiddenness, his incomprehensibility, and his complete otherness. In Romans, Barth said that the Word of God can be uttered only when the predicate Deus revelatus has as its subject Deus absconditus31 The vast ocean of so-called reality that is the profane world of a completely autonomous mode of human existence has left the island of the sacred completely submerged. Barth thought that the reason modern man has no vision of the sacred is that he has inadvertently desacralized all reality in thinking that he is its center and creator. Barth’s theological efforts turned on his attempt to make faith completely autonomous -- free from human capability and manipulation, empty of all human content. The result was that faith became a complete vacuum to be filled by revelation -- by the power of the sacred alone. Barth states: "Genuine faith is a void, an obeisance before that which we can never be, or do, or possess; it is devotion to him who can never become the world or man, save in the dissolution and redemption and resurrection of everything we here and now call world and man."32

The parallels with Altizer, both in content and in style, are striking and significant. In Oriental Mysticism, Altizer describes faith as the "will to nothingness pronounced holy," 33 and in "Theology and the Death of God," he states that "eschatological faith is directed against the deepest reality of what we know as history and the cosmos."34 For both Altizer and Barth the sacred reality is seen as completely autonomous. For both, there is a hiatus between faith and being, faith and Weltanschauung, faith and the secular. Contrary to the secular theologians, both believe that the secular and the profane have no saving power.

For Barth, however, the sacred reality remained wholly transcendent. At this juncture Altizer goes beyond Barth by recognizing the full implications of the dialectical method. Although the sacred must remain completely autonomous and incommensurable with the profane, it is nonetheless inevitably found in the midst of the profane and not in some transcendent realm. Altizer’s affirmation of the profane is a dialectical affirmation that seeks to destroy the profane in its present, all-too-pervasive form, in order that the sacred can be revealed in a new, immanent form. For both Barth and Altizer, the only true God is the revealed God; and for Altizer a new Christ of radical immanence is being revealed in this time of the death of God.

In essence, Altizer views the proposals of the secular theologians as forms of theological reductionism, a sellout of the sacred to the profane. The effort of these programs is to present theological terminology and formulations that will have "cash value" in terms of contemporary culture. This, of course, is quite alien to Altizer’s theological intentions. In an article entitled "Word and History," he observes that "a dangerous rhetoric underlies many of these joyous announcements of full secularity.35 Altizer’s view, again quite similar to Barth’s, is that everything man has created for himself in terms of culture has been at the expense of the abandonment or dissolution of faith. 36 A genuine form of faith is one that keeps culture continually in crisis and under judgment.

In an essay entitled "The Sacred and the Profane," Altizer makes it quite clear that he does not want to deny the full movement and form of the profane.37 He insists on avoiding the accusation of Gnosticism. He contends that his view is "non-Gnostic because a truly modern dialectical form of faith would meet the actual historical destiny of contemporary man while yet transforming his unique Existenz into the purity of eschatological faith."38 This does not mean, however, that there will be an identification of faith and culture. Radical faith is a faith that dares to encounter and affirm the death of God in modern culture, but does not entail an affirmation of culture for its own intrinsic spiritual worth. It is a dialectical affirmation that will transform the present structures of the profane world, and thus it is a form of faith that goes beyond mere secularism. It is Altizer’s conviction that a faith strong enough to affirm the death of God is strong enough to transform the radical profanity of a Godless world. He states, "Theology was born out of faith’s will to enter history; now theology must die at the hands of a faith that is strong enough to shatter history."39 According to Altizer, a dialectical affirmation will break through the Godless veil of the secular and reveal the new sacred reality: an immanent Christ in our time and in our flesh.

Altizer’s theological convictions show not only passionate faith, but incomparable spiritual strength and courage as well. The theological program to which Altizer enjoins us is a task that only a few men have attempted or accomplished. First, one must unequivocally renounce one’s individual selfhood as the center and ground of consciousness and experience. This proposal in itself is exceedingly difficult for modern man to comprehend, let alone instigate; for, in order to combat the onslaught of modern alienation, modern man has withdrawn to the refuge of his inner "self." The irony, however, is that once there, he discovers that he has only intensified his alienation.

Second, one must give up completely any hope of heaven or utopia, the womb or the Garden. In essence, one is called to reject all concepts of a primordial homeostasis; for, according to Altizer, all such yearnings contradict the fundamental movement of the sacred and what Blake called the great "Humanity Divine." Again such a demand threatens modern man’s security and his deepest desires for a lost paradise. One must realize that this applies not only to the most fundamentalistic Christian but also to the most doctrinaire Marxist-Leninist. Perhaps we will come to realize, despite the passionate convictions of a Blake, a Nietzsche, or an Altizer, that only a few men have had the strength or the courage to will the "final and total loss of Heaven"; that most of us will inevitably cling to visions of utopia and will persistently deny the dialectical movement of the sacred and the New Jerusalem that Altizer claims is dawning in our midst and in our flesh.

 

Notes:

1. Thomas J. J. Altizer, Oriental Mysticism and Biblical Eschatology (The Westminster Press, 1961), p. 166.

2. Ibid., p. 193.

3. Published for private circulation, Zurich, 1952. Quoted in Jacob Taubes, "On the Nature of the Theological Method," The Journal of Religion, Vol. XXXIV (Jan., 1954), p. 19. Reprinted in Thomas J. J. Altizer, ed., Toward a New Christianity (Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1967), p. 231.

4. Altizer, Oriental Mysticism, p. 191.

5. Thomas J. J. Altizer, "The Religious Meaning of Myth and Symbol," in Thomas J. J. Altizer, William A. Beardslee, and J. Harvey Young, eds., Truth, Myth, and Symbol (Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1962), p. 93.

6. Quoted in ibid., p. 88.

7. Ibid., p. 90.

8. Thomas J. J. Altizer, "Nirvana and Kingdom of God," The Journal of Religion, Vol. XLIII (April, 1963), p. 112. Reprinted in Martin E. Marty and Dean G. Peerman, eds., New Theology No. 1 (The Macmillan Company, 1964), p. 162.

9. Ibid., p. 116 (166).

10. Thomas J. J. Altizer, Mircea Eliade and the Dialectic of the Sacred (The Westminster Press, 1963), p. 215.

11. Ibid., p. 189.

12. Thomas J. J. Altizer, "Theology and the Death of God," in Thomas J. J. Altizer and William Hamilton, eds., Radical Theology and the Death of God (The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1966), p. 99.

13. Taubes, "Theological Method," p. 19 (231).

14. William Hamilton, "The Death of God Theologies Today," in Altizer and Hamilton, eds., Radical Theology, p. 28.

15. See the essay by Theodore Runyon, Jr., in Section 1.

16. Owen Barfield, Saving the Appearances (Faber & Faber, Ltd., 1957), p. 175.

17. Thomas J. J. Altizer, Review of Barfield’s Saving the Appearances, in The Journal of Religion, Vol. XXXII (Oct., 1964), p. 385.

18. Thomas J. J. Altizer, Introduction to his "A Wager," in Altizer. ed., Toward a New Christianity, p. 301.

19. Thomas J. J. Altizer, The New Apocalypse: The Radical Christian Vision of William Blake (Michigan State University Press, 1967), p. 71.

20. Ibid., pp. 43-44.

21. Ibid., p. 47.

22. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Enzyklopädie, 6th ed. (Verlag von Felix Meiner, 1959), p. 47.

23. John N. Findlay, The Philosophy of He gel (Collier Books, 1962), p. 51.

24. Thomas J. J. Altizer, The Descent Into Hell (J. B. Lippincott Company, 1970), p. 192.

25. Ibid., p.211.

26. Ibid., p. 86.

27. Ibid., p.213.

28. Ibid., p.209.

29. Ibid., p.208.

30. Karl Barth, The Epistle to the Romans, tr. Hoskyns (Oxford University Press, 1933), p. 8.

31. Ibid., p.422.

32. Ibid., p. 88.

33. Altizer, Oriental Mysticism, p. 112.

34. Altizer, "Theology and the Death of God," p. 109.

35. Thomas J. J. Altizer, "Word and History," Theology Today, Vol. XXII (Oct., 1965), p. 383. Reprinted in Altizer and Hamilton, eds., Radical Theology, pp. 121-139.

36. Thomas J. J. Altizer, "The Challenge of Modern Gnosticism," The Journal of Bible and Religion, Vol. XXX (Jan., 1962), P. 20.

37. Thomas J. J. Altizer, "The Sacred and the Profane: A Dialectical Understanding of Christianity," in Altizer and Hamilton, eds., Radical Theology, p. 146.

38. Altizer, "Theology and the Death of God," p. 100.

39. Ibid., p. 110.

Preface

American radical theology, or the death-of-God movement, is generally seen as a negation of traditional Christianity in the name of honesty and modernity. Often it is associated with the call for secularity, or for a political theology, or for a theology of revolution, or even for a dissolution of theology in ethical action. Alternately it is associated with support for a general religiousness characteristic of East and West alike.

This picture of radical theology is appropriate to much of what has been taking place, but it is profoundly misleading when applied to Altizer. He is a leading radical theologian, indeed the leading radical, but his radicalism is marked by opposition to much of what is called radical theology. His concern is not to adjust Christian theology to the predominant contemporary sense of what is credible and important. His thought is not secular, and even his call for total affirmation of the profane is for the sake of a new manifestation of the sacred. For him theology is much more fundamental than politics and ethics. It is Christianity and not religion in general to which he is committed.

Fortunately, alongside the general discussion of radical theology, there has appeared also a substantial literature of insightful criticism directed toward Altizer as an important and original thinker. As the excitement stirred up by the news media subsides and the demand for titillation by something new focuses popular attention upon other movements, the time has come for serious Christians to look more carefully at Altizer, the constructive theologian.

Altizer is a young man with much of his theological career ahead of him. Most of his serious critics, also, have been men with much of their theological work ahead of them. Many of them have already experienced a profound impact on their work through encountering Altizer’s thought. Hence the discussion between Altizer and his critics is not the clash of fixed positions but the concerned interchange of growing minds. It is a living and unfinished debate.

One purpose of this book is to encourage increased attention to Altizer’s systematic theology. To this end critical essays of high quality, some previously published, some new, are presented. All reflect keen interest in, and generally accurate understanding of, Altizer’s position. Their several criticisms help to locate his thought in relation to the panorama of contemporary theology as well as to highlight the critical issues involved in his distinctive views.

The second purpose of the book is to stimulate and embody the living debate. To this end critical essays are followed by Altizer’s responses. The tone of both the critiques and the responses is respectful, friendly, and open. But the issues raised are matters of ultimate importance toward which indifference is impossible. The book should serve to clarify issues and to involve readers in the ongoing discussion.

Some of the critiques of Altizer come from clearly defined traditions. Of those included in this book, two (Runyon and Beardslee) are Protestant, two (Meyer and Heisig) are Catholic, and one (Rubenstein) is Jewish. These are grouped accordingly. The remaining four papers view Altizer in relation to a diversity of issues. They have been grouped rather arbitrarily under two headings. Two (Noel and Gier) discuss Altizer’s relation to other nontraditional options for religious thought, and two are written by historians of religions (King and Eliade), who view Altizer in perspectives provided by the discipline in which he did his doctoral study. The final essay was written by Eliade specifically for this volume and is of particular interest as it is his first public response to Altizer’s book Mircea Eliade and the Dialectic of the Sacred.

The idea of editing this book was stimulated by the thesis of Nicholas Gier entitled "Process Theology and the Death of God" (Claremont Graduate School, 1969). In addition, Gier has played several roles in the preparation of the volume. He helped locate, evaluate, and edit materials; he contributed an essay; and sections III and IV of the Introduction are from his hand. He represents a generation who, while experiencing spiritual turmoil in college through disillusionment with traditional Christianity, found the death-of-God theologies speaking to their condition. This is a generation it is important to involve rapidly in the professional theological discussion, lest those of us "over thirty" lose touch with the shapers of the future.

The greatest contribution to the volume is that of Altizer himself. He has assisted in identifying and evaluating the critiques; he read and criticized an early version of the Introduction; and, most important, he has written substantial responses to the critical essays. It is with his encouragement that the hilarious spoof on him, and specifically on Mircea Eliade and the Dialectic of the Sacred, "Mercy for Miss Awdy, in a Vile Acting of the Sacred," is included as an appendix. This spoof was written by Walter D. Love, formerly a colleague of Altizer at Emory University, who has since been killed in an accident. It is used with the kind permission of his widow, Peggy V. Love.

Grateful acknowledgment is hereby also made to the previous publishers for permission to use the following essays:

William A. Beardslee, "A Comment on the Theology of Thomas Altizer," Criterion, Vol. VII (Spring, 1968), pp. 11- 14.

Winston L. King, "Zen and the Death of God," Japanese Religions, Vol. V (December, 1967), pp. 1-21.

Eric C. Meyer, C. P., "Catholic Theology and the Death of God: A Response," Chicago Studies, Vol. VIII (Summer, 1969), pp. 189-203.

Daniel C. Noel, "Still Reading His Will? Problems and Resources for the Death-of-God Theology," The Journal of Religion, Vol. XLVI (October, 1966), pp. 463-476.

Richard L. Rubenstein, "Thomas Altizer’s Apocalypse," in William A. Beardslee, ed., America and the Future of Theology (The Westminster Press, 1967), pp. 32-40.

Theodore Runyon, Jr., "Thomas Altizer and the Future of Theology," in Jackson Lee Ice and John J. Carey, eds., The Death of God Debate (The Westminster Press, 1967), pp. 56-69.

Thanks are due also to my student assistant, Delbert Swanson, for help in editing and proofreading, and to Mrs. Erma Walks and Mrs. Barbara Henckel for typing. Without the cooperation and assistance of the administration of the School of Theology at Claremont, especially President Gordon Michalson and Dean F. Thomas Trotter, the project could not have been realized.

John b. Cobb, Jr.

Claremont, California

Chapter 13: Joy

Joy is rare. Contentment, pleasure, gaiety, even happiness we can identify from time to time as we examine our moods and emotions. But joy goes beyond these. It is an experience that we associate with childhood. We remember from our early years, perhaps especially in connection with Christmas, whole hours of joy.

We should not sentimentalize childhood because it contains times of joy. It contains misery as well, a level of misery that we adults know only rarely. We are estranged from joy and saved from utter misery by the widening of our horizons and the growing complexity of our experience.

Childhood joy, like childhood misery, requires a complete immersion in the present. It allows for no side glances toward what others are feeling or thinking, no comparisons with earlier experiences or anticipations of future changes. Total involvement of the whole person is required. Such joy begins to fade about the time that Santa Claus becomes a pleasant fiction.

But we cannot be satisfied as adults with this loss of the possibility of childlike joy. We long for it, and we measure our happiness in relation to it. Our goal is its recovery in an adult form.

Christians have always been concerned to help people find joy. The history of Christianity is full of special methods and techniques devised for this purpose. Monasticism, mystical disciplines, the Franciscan movement, and left-wing groups before and after the Reformation offered ways of so simplifying and ordering experience that wholeness could be attained and adults could know again something of the joy of the child.

Some Christian movements for the attainment of joy have been intensely emotional. The sobersided Friends, whom we think of as quiet and self-contained, once quaked for joy. That, of course, is why they are still called Quakers. Likewise the Shakers shook, and the Holy Rollers rolled. Today there is a widespread recovery of joy through ecstatic speaking or speaking in tongues.

When such eighteenth-century revivalists as John Wesley, George Whitefield, and Jonathan Edwards preached, they were astonished by the intensity of feeling they aroused. Later revivalists aimed directly at arousing these feelings, culminating in joy. Revivalism became a technique. Pietists, too, had their techniques for achieving and sustaining joy. The Oxford Group, and the Moral Re-Armament movement which succeeded it, structured these techniques in one way. Camps Farthest Out structured them in another way.

But on the whole, revivalist and pietist techniques have played out. The church now has little to offer in their place. Since World War II the quest for joy has moved out of the churches into the human potential movement. There new techniques have been developed that work for many people. Alongside this Western development, and closely related to it, is the widespread interest in ancient techniques of the Orient, especially Yoga and Zen.

What attitudes should we churchmen take toward this burgeoning quest for joy and the many responses which surround us? First, we should regard it as a judgment upon us that those who seek joy must look elsewhere. In our reaction against the decadent pietism of the recent past, we falsely prided ourselves on our willingness to accept life as it is, realistically, in all its ambiguity, not painting it in more glowing colors. But we have found that people, indeed that we ourselves, remembering joy, will not settle for drabness.

We should be glad that, in a time when we have not known how to address this human longing, others have been able to help. We should be grateful, affirmative, and hopeful with regard to what they are doing. We should learn from them and critically appropriate for use in the church some of the techniques that have been developed outside the church.

Second, we should also retain a healthy skepticism. I hesitate to turn so quickly to this note, for it might seem to take back the word of praise and appreciation. I am sure that some of these techniques can produce joy, because I have experienced joy through them. I cherish the memory of those moments of joy. I am grateful to those who made them possible. I covet the same experience for others. We should not be skeptical about that.

But those who develop the techniques and those who received joy through them are likely to expect too much. Converts in Christian revivals often suppose that what has happened to them means that the joy they feel should pervade their lives. When it passes, they may feel more guilty and anxious than before, because they now believe that they have betrayed the spirit which saved them.

Richard Farson, together with Carl Rogers, was a leader of the Western Behavioral Science Institute for a number of years. He told me once that this problem is equally real for the human potential movement. He asserted that the subjective reports of those who spent time in the Institute’s sensitivity and encounter groups were consistently glowing. I believed him, since I had written one of those glowing reports. But the results of a study of a research team hired by the Institute to determine effective change in the persons who had participated were negative. When people returned to the worlds from which they came, they returned also to the patterns of human relations from which they had been briefly liberated. I believed that, too, since that was my experience, although I do think that in subtle ways, hard for research teams to measure, the experience made a lasting difference.

Richard Farson’s disappointment that the effects of human potential programs were temporary led him to leave that movement. He decided to work to change the environment of man rather than to concentrate on individual, inner change. But another response is now appearing.

We can see the importance of that response in the light of the eighteenth-century experience. Whitefield was a more effective preacher than Wesley. But Wesley organized his converts. Through class meetings, love feasts, and the singing of evangelical hymns, something of the joy experienced in conversion was retained and renewed. The results of Whitefield’s revivals faded. Wesleyan churches still exist.

Instead of abandoning the human potential movement with Farson, other leaders are beginning to institutionalize it. One such leader is Werner Erhardt. Out of his wide experience with methods of facilitating human growth he has developed a program which he calls EST. This is a new synthesis of techniques from East and West. More impressive than his description of his program is the obvious joy of those who testify to what EST has meant to them. There is no doubt that they have experienced a quality of childlike wholeness which enables them to feel this new joy. But even more important than this testimony to what will inevitably prove to be a temporary intensity of joy is the institutional structure that seems to be emerging. There are ongoing support communities with regular meetings and rituals in which the rich experience of conversion can be renewed and strengthened. In EST or in some similar concept there may emerge out of the human potential movement a new "church."

However, even when the effects of conversion are institutionalized and thus made more lasting, they change us only in limited respects. Some techniques may free us to greater imaginative creativity; others, to more adequate expressions of love and caring; still others, to the greater enjoyment of our bodies. We may be enabled to break bad habits, to enter into community, or to assume responsibility. We may even learn to be open to God. But we find that no one of these new attainments, and no combination of them, is commensurate with our total being. We are strangely and wonderfully made. As persons we are infinitely complex. There are always more areas in which growth and change are needed. Each time we reach what we think is the top of the mountain, when the clouds of excitement lift, we see a ridge farther above us than we had previously supposed the pinnacle to be.

Furthermore, success brings new problems just because it is success. Moral and pious people. the saints and the sanctified, have a bad public image. They are now beginning to share this negative image with the psychoanalyzed, the liberated, and the sensitized. The negative image may be unfair, but it should serve as a warning. If I succeed in throwing off a bad habit by practicing a particular technique, if I share my knowledge with another, and if he still remains bound to the destructive habit, how do I feel? Do I not feel pleased with myself for what I have attained? Do I not feel that he who is still enslaved deserves his fate? Condescension, complacency, and self-righteousness lurk in the wings when any effective technique is used, threatening to poison the health that the technique brings.

Our Christian skepticism should not become an attack upon those movements which today offer the water of joy in a parched land. But it should enable us to say in a constructive way that more is required, that the effects pass quickly if new disciplines and structures of community do not sustain them, that life is very complex so that conversion must follow conversion, and that subtle checks are needed against the very present danger of the perversion of joy into self-righteousness.

The most important element in the appropriate Christian response to the quest for joy is a fresh consideration of the basis for Christian joy. Our tradition has always been interested in techniques for evoking joy. But more fundamentally Christianity has centered on its good news, its gospel. Christian joy is the response to that news.

That joy should come as a response to good news is nothing strange to us. All of us have experienced it. We have learned that the one we love loves us in return, that the job we wanted is offered to us, or that the child we thought lost has found his way. And in hearing that news, we have been flooded by joy.

The Christian good news is that God has entered the world for man’s salvation, that he has made himself known in the helplessness of an infant and in a man dying on a cross. That news has implications. It means that we don’t have to use techniques in order to be freed from everydayness. The world of everydayness is already livable when God’s presence is recognized there.

But it is equally true that good news calls for a response, and part of that response is often the appropriate use of techniques which keep elements of the joy alive. For example, the news that the one we love loves us in return calls for actions which express and celebrate the mutual love and enhance and deepen it. We are free to learn ways and means of renewing the original joy evoked by the news. God is present in the techniques as well.

When we have heard the Christian good news, we experience the joy achieved by techniques in a new way. It is not an escape that we urgently need from an unendurable everydayness. It is instead an intensification and expansion of what is present everywhere, of what we can enjoy without the techniques as well. We can let the joy come and go without anxiety and without guilt. We don’t have to be joyful, but we are free for joy.

Christianity is, therefore, not so much a technique for finding the joy of salvation as a message that, when it is really understood, evokes joy because it announces salvation. In this sense Christianity proclaims an objective reality rather than cultivating a subjective one, though it does not despise or oppose the cultivation of the subjective one as well.

That means also that the good news announced by Christianity is for all men. I as an individual am included. But if I hear the news rightly, I do not rejoice primarily because of what the news means privately for me. I rejoice because of what it means to everyone. If tomorrow we heard (what of course we will not hear) that real peace had come to Southeast Asia, that a new government had emerged representing all the people, that the United States was prepared to give billions through international channels to rebuild what our tens of billions have destroyed -- if we heard all that, I would rejoice because of the relief from moral anguish I would feel privately and inwardly, and because of the renewed possibility of pride in being an American. But primarily we would rejoice together because of what the news would mean to all of us and even more to the noble and long-suffering people of Vietnam. Shared rejoicing about the good news for all people is more fundamental to the church than is private rejoicing over personal attainments.

It would be grossly unfair to suggest that those who find joy through techniques are insensitive to the needs of others. The pietist convert, like the participant in the human potential movement, is concerned that others too find joy. He may even take too much satisfaction in being an instrument of their salvation.

Yet we dare not be silent about the risk of the private search for joy that is likely to dominate the ‘70s. The man converted in pietist revivals and engrafted into the church was often changed in lasting ways. He became more disciplined, more responsible, gentler, a loyal member of the community, generous with his money, regular in prayer and Bible-reading, willing to engage in humanitarian service. But too often his prejudices against those of other cultures and races were not softened. Sometimes, even, he became less sensitive to wider social issues. believing that the same, very personal, means by which his own life had been soundly established should work for all, and ignoring the need for structural changes in society. The same dangers are inherent in the human potential movement.

The objectivity and universality of the good news should guard us as Christians against these dangers of privatism and individualism. It should establish a sense of our solidarity with all men in receiving the wholly unanticipated and undeserved gift. We are members of one another, and what God has done for us he has done for us all.

In vivid and characteristically exaggerated imagery Dostoevsky teaches us this Christian lesson in a story told in The Brothers Karamazov. (I am indebted for this story to Dorothee Sölle, who included it in her lecture, "The Role of Political Theology in Relation to the Liberation of Men," one of the plenary addresses at the conference on Religion and the Humanizing of Man, Sept. 1-5, 1972, Los Angeles.)

"Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was. And she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire. So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell God. ‘She once pulled up an onion in her garden,’ said he, ‘and gave it to a beggar woman.’ And God answered: ‘You take that onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is.’ The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘catch hold and I’ll pull you out.’ And he began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them. ‘I’m to be pulled out, not you. It’s my onion, not yours.’ As soon as she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away."

The Christian news is objective and universal. In that way it counters our easy tendency toward subjectivity and individualism while also providing a context in which the quest for joy may be freely pursued.

The news is also important. It is that God has given himself to man for man’s redemption, that is, that Christ, the Messiah, has come.

Cynthia Ozick, a Jewish writer, has noted the importance of this news. "For novelists it matters very much whether the Messiah has come or is yet to come. The human difference is this: If the Messiah has not yet appeared, then the world is still profane, and our task is to wrest him forth, to go and fetch him, so to speak -- to do what is necessary to bring him on. But if the Messiah has already cleft the skin of human history, then the world is at this moment transfigured into a holy site, and we need only stand still; already redeemed, we do God’s work unawares, and even the most unlikely vessels inherit the divine redemption." (Cynthia Ozick, The New York Times Book Review, June 11, 1972, p. 4. I am indebted for this quote to the editorial in The Christian Advocate, Dec. 21, 1972.)

The more important the news, the more is at stake in the finally decisive question. Is it true? The news comes to us bound up with legends, with an archaic world view, and with an anthropomorphic picture of God. Even when it is freed from these trappings, it seems to run counter to the continuing dominance of evil in human affairs.

But the Christian news can withstand these doubts. There is a power of life and growth, of healing and reconciliation, present to all humanity, indeed, in all things. In Jesus, God "has already cleft the skin of human history." And we as "the most unlikely vessels inherit the divine redemption." There is reason for joy.

Chapter 12: Christ as the Image of Love

In One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Ken Kesey portrays a modern-day embodiment of the Greek god Dionysus, the god of wine and vitality, being transformed into a Christ figure. It is a novel vision. I wish I could believe it to be a foretaste of things to come.

The story is located in a men’s ward in a mental hospital. The ward is presided over by a castrating nurse whose rule ensures that the weak and cowardly men under her supervision will never gain the confidence they need. Into that ward comes a small-time card shark who found it more convenient to be sentenced to an asylum than to jail for his petty misdeeds. This man, McMurphy by name, is thoroughly sure of himself, out for profit and pleasure, and fully capable of enjoying what he gets. His contagious vitality is a threat to the nurse, and her enmity is great, but he manages to stay just within the bounds that save him from overt punishment.

The punishment that the men fear is electric shock therapy. As long as they are quiet and orderly, they are safe. But if they become violent, the nurse can send them for treatment, and will send them repeatedly, as long as they resist her will.

McMurphy’s Dionysian presence is enough to bring new life to the ward, but it is not enough to give the men the courage to leave. He is their hero, but as long as they see in all his actions the motive of self-interest, he cannot save them. Recognizing this, McMurphy changes. He uses physical violence to stop the bullying of the cruel ward attendants. He knows that that means the dreaded shock treatment, but he does not give in. He continues to resist the nurse for the sake of the others, accepting the repeated punishment until he is destroyed as a man. In kindness, one of the other men then smothers him in his sleep.

McMurphy, the man for himself, became the man for others. He suffered voluntarily for the sake of the men on the ward. Lest anyone miss the point, Kesey tells us that on the instrument of torture McMurphy’s arms were outstretched.

In our recent history, too, there has been a Christ figure. His name is Martin Luther King. King assumed great responsibilities for the sake of his fellow blacks. But he went beyond that. He assumed responsibility for the whole nation. It was the nation’s soul for which he sacrificed, both in the way he led the black movement and in his unequivocal opposition to the war in Vietnam. He knew that his way of nonviolent resistance was a dangerous one. He had premonitions of his own death. But he did not falter. When the assassin’s bullet struck him down, there was a spontaneous recognition that here was one who represented Christ in our time.

The central element in the Christ figure is vicarious suffering. When a man gives his life freely for the sake of other people, we see Christ in him.

But such utter self-sacrifice cannot be the goal of ordinary Christian life. Indeed, it was not the goal of Jesus or King or the fictional McMurphy. It is far better if one can serve others and live, indeed, if one can enjoy serving others and be served by them as well. When we picture the goal for mankind it is surely not a world in which everyone is dying for everyone else’s sake! it is a world in which mutual love fulfills all. The man who desires to die a martyr’s death is not a Christian hero. He is simply sick.

However, while wanting to suffer for others is sick, willingness to suffer if need be is Christian. Dying for others is the extreme possibility that is entailed in loving them. We see the full meaning of love when it leads to death in this way. Martin Luther King was not a better Christian when he died than while he lived. But the full meaning of his life became clearer.

The love that is expressed in this willingness even to die for others is called in the New Testament agapé. It is a very special kind of love. The word agapé was not much used in pre-Christian speech. For that very reason it could become a technical term by which Christians named what they found to be new and particular about their relation to one another and to other men. They found that they were able to care for others without the self-reference that is involved in most forms of love. And of course in Jesus they saw this special kind of caring ideally embodied.

Although the Christian idea of love has become familiar, almost banal, its peculiarity has to be stressed again in each generation. There are many other forms of love, and English is poor in its capacity to differentiate. Hence Christian love gets too easily confused with other kinds of love.

To distinguish Christian love from other forms is not to disparage the others or to say that the Christian does not have them too. It is only to say that whereas the Christian experiences many forms of love there is one that he associates especially with Christ and with his response to Christ.

All forms of love are in some measure spontaneous. One may go through the motions required by some form of love without loving. But love has to happen to us. We cannot command it.

Generally love arises in relation either to some need we feel or in relation to some attractiveness of the object. We love those things and persons which minister to our hungers and strong desires. We take pleasure in them and long for them when they are absent. That is healthy and good. Sometimes, apart from any prior felt need, we encounter something or someone that is beautiful or excellent. We are struck by admiration and affection. That too is healthy and good.

We realize today more keenly than ever that many things can block the healthy freedom of these kinds of love. We can be so concerned about our own virtue that we inhibit spontaneous feeling toward others. When we repress our feelings of anger, we suppress also our feelings of affection and tenderness. If we try to control our action too tightly by our rational will, others do not feel warmth from us. These are important lessons. By becoming more comfortable about ourselves and all our feelings we can become more generous and outgoing toward others. Surely this is desired by Christians as much as by anyone.

Even so, this is not the distinctive form of Christian love, agapé. The self-reference remains. We love what meets our needs and what attracts us. This does not mean that we are calculating the consequences to ourselves of our love. If we were, that would not be love at all. But what the other does for us determines how we feel about him.

Agapé, on the other hand, is free from this self-reference. One loves the other for the other’s sake. How much one loves him is not proportional to how much he meets one’s need or to his attractiveness. The examples of agapé that make this clearest are those of love to the despised and outcast. Anders Nygren even defined agapé as a downward movement of love, that is, as directed toward the inferior. But that is surely wrong. Christian love can be directed toward those who fulfill our needs and attract us as well. The problem is that in that relation it is hard to distinguish the concern for the other in his otherness and the concern for him as he is related to the one who loves. Only where the other meets none of the Christian’s needs and is naturally threatening or repulsive to him can agapé be readily sorted out and recognized. When agapé leads to suffering and death for the other’s sake, we have the vivid example that represents Christ.

If we suppose that love must entail strong positive emotion, then the Christian ideal of agapé for all men becomes not only impossible but silly. There will always be cases in which other persons arouse negative emotions in us. Those cases are the ones in which the presence or absence of agapé is most clearly tested. Can we genuinely, with real concern and caring, desire and actively seek the good for those who make us feel uncomfortable, who are physically revolting to us, who have all the goods we lack and think we deserve, whose complacency exasperates us, whose criticism threatens our self-esteem, or who simply rub us the wrong way? To whatever extent we can meet this test, agapé is present in us.

Agapé is not unreal or impossible. But it rarely dominates our being or governs our action. When we are honest about why we have acted as we have, we rarely can think that agapé has been decisive. There are all sorts of other motives, such as wanting to live up to our own image of ourselves as Christians, that corrupt agapé even in our nobler actions. Such honesty is difficult, but it is important. A main function of Christian prayer and spiritual discipline is to attain it.

However, we should not be so preoccupied with motive that we neglect the action. A friend once said that he could rarely send a CARE package since he realized that he did so to salve his conscience. My reaction was that for whatever reason he sent the food, it would still feed a hungry family. We should act as agapé requires whether or not agapé motivates the act.

Agapé is closely bound up with action. It is oriented toward the future rather than toward the past. It seeks to achieve the well-being of its object, and this change of state has to be future-oriented. On the whole, this form of love has dominated the conception of love throughout Christian history. It is outgoing, assertive, and bound up with action.

Less central to the Christ figure in the past has been another form of love. I suspect that it will grow more prominent as time passes. It is fully grounded in Jesus.

In the New Testament this other form of love is called compassion. Today we name it better as empathy. Both mean "feeling with." Jesus had compassion for people, and the Christ figure has been associated with compassion throughout its history. But only recently have we realized how distinct is this form of love from agapé, how important in itself, and how badly needed in the Christian life.

In the past, compassion has sometimes been viewed as a ground or aspect of agapé. If we feel with others, then we will be actively concerned for their good. That is true. But we have often neglected the fact that compassion or empathy in and of itself is healing and redemptive. To know that one feels with us in our pain helps us to endure the pain. To know that one rejoices with us in our joy multiplies the joy. To feel the empathy of another for us is to be released from the bondage of unhealthy emotions.

Both the universal need for empathy and the slighting of it in the Christian tradition can be seen in the way that we have understood God. There has been universal agreement that God is agapé. He loves us without regard to our merits.

However, to assert that God has empathy for us is a highly controversial matter. Indeed, in the mainstream of the orthodox tradition it has been denied. To empathize with another is to be vulnerable, to be subject to his pain and suffering. God was understood to be impassible, that is, not subject to any injury or hurt. Therefore, he could not be viewed as sympathizing with us in our human misery. And insofar as the image of Christ was shaped in relation to this view of God, Christ too receded from man in such a way that men doubted his capacity for empathy. The cult of Mary grew up in Christendom partly because of the need to believe that there was one who understood.

Today we recognize that to empathize with others is a perfection we should not deny to God. If our clue to the nature of God is found in Jesus, then we must indeed affirm that God has compassion for us, that he shares with us both joy and sorrow.

Empathy relates to the past in much the way that agapé relates to the future. The feelings which one shares are those which the other has had, not those which he will have in the future. As agapé is actively oriented toward changing the future, so empathy is passively oriented toward receiving the past. And it turns out that this passive openness to the past has a power to change the future hardly less than the active direction of energies toward that end.

When empathy and agapé are combined in the Christ image, we have the vision of a new way of overcoming what is destructive about selfhood. We Westerners prize the selfhood from which Buddhism seeks to set us free. Yet we cannot deny the Buddhist analysis. My selfhood is bound up with insatiable craving. Also it separates me from you. However much we reach out to each other, a gulf remains. I am enclosed in my solitude; you, in yours. We hunger for each other, but we also resent and fear each other as threats and competitors. We see ourselves objectified by each other, used by each other, rejected by each other. In No Exit, Sartre places on the lips of his hero the now-famous phrase, "Hell is other people."

Christianity has strengthened selfhood more than has any other tradition. It has taught that through our relation to God we can endure the separation from each other. It has also taught that we can reach out to one another in concern and heal in some measure the sickness of our mutual isolation. But Sartre’s existentialism shows that modern man has retained his isolated self-hood without the healing elements of groundedness in God and Christian love. Then, indeed, hell is other people. We can find happiness neither with them nor without them. All life becomes hell.

Christians today must face honestly this problem of the mutually isolating character of selfhood. We cannot solve it by simply reemphasizing our traditional teaching. We must incorporate that teaching but we must also go beyond it. Love can show us the way.

Empathy and agapé both challenge the final separateness of my self from other selves. If my feelings are shaped by empathy for others, then I receive their feelings into my experience on the same basis that I relate to my own past. If I have agapé for others as for myself, then my concern for the future of others becomes like my concern for my own future. Ideally I am no longer bound to a single line of inheritance from the past projected forward to my lonely death in the future. I live from others and for others. But not only so. In a community of empathy and agapé others live from me and for me as well. We become Christs to one another.

Obviously I am describing a state of affairs that is very distant from what we know. But we need such a vision in order to appraise what is now happening and to guide ourselves as Christians through the multiple possibilities now appearing for self-transformation and new types of relationship.

As long as individual selfhood is isolating and painful, there will be those who seek to escape it. The primordial eschatology of man is escape from self into unity with the all. Our dreams and visions are full of unions in which the self is lost in a larger whole.

Christianity has resisted this deep human longing in the name of the value of the individual person. In Christian eschatology the individual has been preserved as individual. He receives blessedness as an individual. There is a social dimension. But he is not reabsorbed with others into the original unity. The end is different from the beginning, enriched by the attainment of multiple personal selves.

Can Christianity maintain that commitment to the person? Our Western literature witnesses to the loss of selfhood. The widespread attraction of Eastern techniques of meditation is associated with the desire to be released from the isolated self. In the face of this it is not enough simply to affirm traditional Christian views. The usual pictures of heaven and hell are largely revolting to us. Even apart from our incredulity we are offended by their individualism. They deny our solidarity with one another in both good and evil.

Yet Christianity would no longer be Christianity if it abandoned its affirmation of the personal self. More than that, something that most of us prize very deeply would be lost to mankind. Christianity cannot make its contribution to the coming world faith by abandoning its greatest achievements. It must reconstitute these achievements in contemporary garb in order to go beyond them.

Hence we must think through more radically the meaning of love in relation to the personal self. I am suggesting that the isolation of the self is a function of lovelessness or imperfect love. I am suggesting that rather than abandon our selfhood we can perfect it in new kinds of communities of love. I am even suggesting that some of the methods for moving forward in this direction are already at hand.

Finally, we could only hope to move toward such a love if that love is grounded beyond ourselves. And it is. God loves us not only in that he actively seeks our good regardless of how we respond to him but in that he empathizes with us and takes our feelings into himself. We are in fact never alone. And because we are loved by God, we can also, in some small but perhaps growing measure, love each other. That is the meaning of Christ.

Chapter 11: Pandora’s Box

As a child I remember reading the story of Pandora and her box in The Book of Knowledge. In that account, after all the terrible ills of mankind had escaped from the box, Pandora slammed it shut. A small voice pleaded to be allowed to escape. It was hope. Pandora relented, and thus hope entered the world to counterbalance all the evils and make them endurable.

Later I discovered that such an interpretation was probably false to the story’s original intention. The meaning there may have been that hope is the last and worst of the evils. As long as men hope for something, they are victims of disappointment and disillusionment. Only when hope is abandoned can one adjust to reality and achieve what happiness is possible for man.

Those two interpretations represent basic alternative visions of reality. In one, man lives from his anticipations of a future. In the other, he accepts the course of events as they come, expecting nothing more. In our culture, and within us individually, these two visions struggle for dominance.

Christianity is on the side of hope. We were reminded of this recently by a whole spate of books of which the best-known is Jürgen Moltmann’s The Theology of Hope. Against the neoorthodox and existentialist tendency to focus on the present moment as the time of encounter and decision, Moltmann and others have stressed that the present has its meaning in its relation to the future. Hope is necessary if one is to muster the energies needed to say "No!" to injustice and meaningless suffering.

Most of our conscious hope focuses on short-term goals. We are motivated by the hope of winning a game, getting a job, or shortening a war. Reinhold Niebuhr taught us to hope for the resolution of particular social problems -- for example, the achievement of a balance of power between capital and labor. Niebuhr knew that success in that area would lead to new problems, but that did not lessen its importance. We do not need to believe in utopia in order to work for justice and peace today.

On other hand, what we believe about the larger context of our efforts makes a difference. Over the longer haul hope invests itself strongly in winning the game, getting the job, shortening the war, and achieving economic justice only if these seem to add up to something enduring. Consciously or unconsciously our particular short-term hopes give evidence of a deeper hope that the passing parade of events really matters, that it makes a difference to God himself.

That our hope is finally that we can make a contribution to God does not reduce the importance of what we believe about history. On the contrary. How we view the historical situation affects our hope all the more because what happens matters also to God.

To act zestfully for justice I need to believe both that some approximation of justice is possible in the particular situation and also that the attainment of justice can pave the way for other values. I will have little hope for the liberation of the Third World peoples if I believe that their revolutions have no chance of success. Even if I see military and political success as possible, I will have little enthusiasm if the liberated peoples can anticipate nothing but misery. This is the threat implicit in the warnings of ecologists and environmentalists. Their warnings pose a crisis for hope of unparalleled proportions, and I want to tell how this crisis has affected me.

Since World War II we have known that man had weapons with which he could destroy life on the planet. This awareness together with the expectation that man would sooner or later use these weapons cast a pall over the lives of many sensitive persons. But I realize now that I did not really believe that man would destroy himself with these weapons. Rationally I saw the danger, but deep down I felt that man would refrain from this final outrage.

The environmental crisis, however, poses a different kind of problem. In order to avoid self-destruction through atomic, chemical, or bacterial weapons, we have only to refrain from certain actions that we are quite clear about. But to avoid the horrors of environmental catastrophe, we must make radical changes in our way of living, and we do not yet even have a clear idea of what those changes should be. I can believe that men will refrain from consciously precipitating their immediate destruction. I find it hard to believe that men will pay the price in change now to avoid conditions which will make catastrophe inevitable later.

Let me explain. I will follow the projections of the research team at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology under the leadership of Jay Forrester and Dennis Meadows. They employed modern computer technology in order to project the interaction of basic world trends. The results are, to put it mildly, frightening, so frightening that most people find it more comfortable to ignore them.

The problem is the likelihood of overshoot and collapse of human population on a world scale. Although population growth in some places is slowing down, worldwide, it continues unabated. Because so many of the people now alive are young, rapid continued growth is inevitable. Doubling time worldwide, apart from catastrophes far greater than any that have occurred in recent centuries, is likely to be about thirty-five years.

Almost everyone agrees that world population cannot continue to double indefinitely three times a century. To project it as doing so leads to ridiculous conclusions. Just two hundred years from now the Hawaiian Islands would have to support fifty million people. China would have a population of fifty billion. We all assume that population growth will come under control before those figures are reached. We usually suppose that we can leave this for later generations to work out. But the projections of the MIT studies indicate that even one more doubling is not likely to be possible. That is a different matter. At this point we are talking about what population pressures will do within the lifetime of many of us.

The MIT projection is that if we continue on our way as at present, shortages of resources for industry will slow population growth within twenty years and stop it, early in the twenty-first century, at approximately six billion. They will then cause a fifty-year decline to a total world population of two billion people. Such a dying off of two thirds of the people on the planet is not pleasant to contemplate.

Suppose, then, that we are sensible enough to conserve our resources more carefully, and especially to recycle everything we can. That will stretch out available resources over a much longer period of time. It will allow population to rise higher, although still not to double its present figure. But in this case, early in the twenty-first century will come a pollution crisis that will destroy in a few years five sixths of the world’s population!

If we employ our ingenuity to control pollution to a degree beyond any we now anticipate, then population will rise further still, only to be stopped by terrible famines later in the next century. The only projection that does not lead to catastrophe is the quite impossible one of immediately stabilizing population and industry on a worldwide basis at present levels. That could be done only by methods none of us would condone. Unless survival can be with dignity and decency, unless there can be some prospect of a good life in a good society, perhaps it is better that the whole human experiment end soon.

These projections are bleak enough, but they leave many dangers out of account. I am sufficiently optimistic to believe that men may refrain from destroying the planet with atomic and bacterial weapons under ordinary circumstances. I am not sufficiently optimistic to think that if two thirds of us Americans were dying for lack of resources, we would fail to use our weapons to extract such resources from other, more favored, nations. Environmental catastrophe would almost certainly provoke a final and totally destructive war.

The basic point is that, in order to produce catastrophes we need only to continue to think and act as we now think and act. That is all too easy. In the past we have supposed that present economic development enhanced the prospects for our children and grandchildren. We did not have to choose between our enjoyment of the world’s resources and their chance for a good life. Even now, as the threat becomes clearer, we still refuse to face the moral issue on any large scale.

When we confront this picture, the problem of hope becomes a very pressing one. One possibility is to fall back upon what some people call -- wrongly, I think -- faith in God. One can suppose that God will not let anything so terrible happen, that he will intervene to prevent it. Against such a view the Jews rightly remind us that God did not prevent Auschwitz.

A second possibility is to give up. That need not be so bad. Catastrophes of great magnitude may not occur in this century. By the time our style of life has made the planet unfit for human habitation, we will be dead. Louis XIV is reported to have said, "Après moi, le déluge." That might be the slogan of our generation. If catastrophe is inevitable, eat, drink, and be merry. But I cannot in fact adopt that attitude either. I have been shaped too deeply by my Christian heritage.

My actual response has been to look for alternatives. That search expresses hope. Without arguing with the projections, I have believed that there may be some ways of warding off, or at least of mitigating, catastrophe, ways that, if clarified, men might adopt in time. Perhaps there are steps we could take, steps that would appeal to persons for many reasons, and that, if taken, would save our children and grandchildren from destruction. Perhaps there is some way in which short-run self-interest for our generation could be made coincident with the interests of our descendants in the next century.

If population increase by itself were the cause of catastrophe, the situation would be hopeless. Population growth cannot be halted without catastrophe within the next century. But this is not the case. Increasing consumption of goods, land, and energy is the more fundamental threat. The discouraging problem is that an increasing population could level off its consumption only if each person consumed less, whereas all our habits and traditions point to rapidly increasing per capita consumption. Voluntary asceticism does not appear likely to effect the needed change.

Since so much of the world’s consuming is done by Americans, we have a special responsibility to deal with this dilemma. Could we, while trying to bring the growth of population under control by humane methods, also develop life-styles that would give more satisfaction to people while reducing consumption? Could we develop an economy that would better distribute goods and work while operating at a slower pace and allowing for more enjoyable leisure? If so, then the changes would not involve a net sacrifice. The threat to man’s survival could even function as a prod to develop a saner and a happier society.

When the problem is put in this way, hope is strengthened. The achievement of such a goal, although difficult, and even unlikely, is not impossible. It is worth the try. Hope does not require advance assurance of success.

An adequate blueprint for action must be many-sided, experimental, pluralistic, and open-ended. No one has all the answers. I shall discuss just one piece of the answer, a piece that has encouraged me in my hopeful quest to find reasons for hope.

One of the ironic features of our present situation is that we are very prosperous, consuming at a great rate, but feeling rather poor, too poor to respond vigorously to the needs of our own people for decent housing, adequate food and medical care, good education for children, and protection from violent abuse. Part of the reason is that our desire for comforts and luxuries is insatiable. But part of the reason is also that so much of our consumption adds nothing to our enjoyment of life. The most glaring example has been the staggering waste involved in our destructive war in Vietnam. But there are others.

Men who once walked to work now own expensive automobiles and use vast amounts of gasoline to spend an hour driving to work over fabulously expensive freeways. As measured by gross national product this is progress. Walking to work added only a few cents to the GNP for the shoe leather used. Now many a man spends five to ten dollars a day for driving and parking and then spends more money at a gym or golf course to get the exercise he misses by not walking. He has and spends a lot more money than he once did. In that sense he is richer. But he may have no more left to spend on what he really enjoys, and he now wastes two hours a day on freeway driving. If people could get their exercise walking to work in pleasant surroundings, surely this reduction of consumption would not be experienced as sacrifice.

For that to happen, cities would have to be built in a quite different way. But they can be built in that different way. The whole phenomenon of urban and suburban sprawl with its extreme waste and costliness can be reversed. The life that would ensue would be pleasanter. No reduction would be necessitated in enjoyable consumption. Is it not possible that people might be lured by its attractiveness into taking a step like this that would at the same time make possible life and happiness for our descendants?

Dependence upon wasteful and unpleasant transportation is not the only problem with our present cities. They eat up farmland that will one day be urgently needed for the production of food. They create a wretched environment for the poor whom we crowd into their centers. Goods and services become increasingly difficult to provide. Tensions are generated that erupt in violence and destruction which only worsen conditions for the wretched.

I personally found a new surge of hope through my encounter with Paolo Soleri. He has meditated for years on the conditions of our cities, and he has envisioned new cities. He calls them architectural ecologies, or arcologies. These would relate people to one another in far more human ways while greatly reducing the present waste of resources. The arcologies that he proposes are beautiful to behold, brilliant in design, and, best of all, technologically and economically possible.

It may be that in promoting the work of one visionary architect I am moving away from my role as theologian. But I do not think so. Our basic belief, that is, our theology, must express itself in the concrete reality of our life or it is phony. If one thinks he believes in God or in freedom for his fellowman, while being unaffected thereby in his daily activities and in the way he votes on election day, then he is deceiving himself. He is playing games with ideas. He does not believe what he supposes that he believes. Similarly, when we design a building or a city, it expresses what we really believe, what we really prize, the way we really live.

Most architects, certainly the great ones, know this. There is more theology in the writings of architects than in that of any other profession. Certainly Soleri is no exception. He is inspired by Teilhard de Chardin. He sees the task of the city as facilitating what Teilhard called convergence. That is, having spread out over the whole globe, men must now come together in new dimensions and intensities of interaction. Our new frontiers are not at the fringes of spatial expansion. Even our exploration of the solar system can only be a side issue. Our new frontiers are to be found in our relationships with each other. Soleri is designing cities that would help to open up new possibilities of creative community.

I know, of course, and I suppose that Soleri knows, that his arcologies may not work. First, they may not be tried. Second, if they are tried, they may turn out to produce new and unforeseen problems so serious that they must be abandoned. Neither I nor anyone can be certain that any particular program will achieve its goals.

But certainty is not necessary for effective hope. What is required is some image of what might work. My general conviction that there must be some way through the morass grows weak if I cannot find even one plausible suggestion. The spirit of hope needs concrete, if provisional, forms.

The degree of our need for hope is a function of the seriousness with which we take the threats to man’s well-being. But it is also true that the seriousness with which we take these threats is partly a function of our hope. A man of little hope cannot face the threats. It is necessary for him to deny or belittle them. Better to refuse to face reality than to be overwhelmed by despair. But the man whose basic hopefulness is strong can hear the dangers openly and then enter into the difficult but creative task of finding a way through.

Whether we have basic hope is partly a matter of our genes and of our early environment. But it is also bound up with our ultimate convictions about the world. It depends upon where we look to get our clues to the nature of the whole. If we look at the many acts of narrow self-interest that characterize so much of our society, we may conclude that men are, after all, self-centered beings who act and think and dream only to gain their private ends. Or if we note primarily the ways that, out of sheer habit or stupidity, men fail to rise even to the demands of self-interest, we will have plenty of evidence that inertia rules the world. In either case, we will have little reason to be hopeful as to man’s prospects.

It is possible, however, to notice another characteristic of human behavior. At times men heed truth even when it is painful. At times, for the sake of their children or even their friends, they undertake difficult and painful tasks. At times, they envision a better world and are moved to act by their vision even when they know they will themselves have no part in it.

Christianity urges us to attend both to the inertia and to the narrow self-interest, which it calls sin, and to the transcending concern for truth and for others, in which it discerns the Spirit that is Holy. Some Christians have thought the former too ugly and have wanted to declare men virtuous. The result has been to view life unrealistically, to expect of it what it does not afford, to fail to deal prudently with the actual possibilities of our life together. Other Christians have seen only the clash of interests and the resistance to the creative new. They have grown cynical and have despaired of this life, sometimes directing their hope to another world.

Christian hope, on the other hand, sustains a balance. It recognizes sin in others, and especially in oneself. It perceives the destructive consequences to which inertia and narrow self-interest lead. But it sees also that something else is happening, that new insights arise, that men are touched by conscience, that the plight of others moves many to generosity. As long as that is true, we have no right to despair. And that is always true. For God is not dead.

Chapter 10: The Faith That Kills and the Faith That Quickens

We live in a time when the four-letter words are "in" and the three-letter words, such as God and sin, are "out." Many people, even people in the churches, are uncomfortable with these words. They conjure up associations that are either incredible or objectionable, or both. In the presence of those for whom these words have such connotations, and their name is legion, I too am uncomfortable with them. But left to myself, in my personal understanding of reality, I find them useful and necessary. I believe that life is a gift and I can think of no better way to name the giver than "God." I find within myself that which blinds me to the possibilities of life and refuses to embody them even when I see them clearly, and I can think of no better way to speak of that than as sin.

Many of those who are no longer comfortable speaking of God and sin still speak much of faith. They find "faith" a word they can utter without embarrassment. Indeed, it is striking how central that word has become, as the word "God" fades to the margins.

I, on the contrary, hesitate before the word "faith." It means so many different things, and it is so easily used to conceal an absence of meaning. The common use of this slippery word falsely suggests agreement where there is none. And yet it is claimed that salvation itself depends upon what it names, or faith is even identified with salvation.

The reason for the excessive use of this word is that the Reformers, and especially Luther, discovered such rich meaning in it. To follow Luther has meant more than anything else to accept the slogan "justification by faith alone." Most of the greatest theologians of modern times have worked in the shadow of Luther.

The phrase "justification by faith alone" is not in the Bible. Even the phrase "justification by faith" is rare. It is one of several ways in which Paul makes the crucial point that we do not save ourselves by obedience to the law, but that instead God has done what was necessary through Christ.

However, faith is not just a narrowly Lutheran approach to justification. In some form it is crucial to religion in general and even to quasi-religious movements. To take a far-out example, consider the following quote from Ken Kesey as reported by Tom Wolfe in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test: "‘You’ve got to have some faith in what we’re trying to do. It’s easy to have faith as long as it goes along with what you already know. But you’ve got to have faith in us all the way. Somebody like Gleason -- Gleason was with us this far.’ Kesey spreads his thumb and forefinger about two inches apart. ‘He was with us as long as our fantasy coincided with his. But as soon as we went on further, he didn’t understand it, so he was against us. He had . . . no faith.’" (Bantam Books, Inc., edition, 1969, p. 27. The Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc., edition was published in 1968.)

But what is this faith for which both Martin Luther and Ken Kesey as well as many other religious leaders call? Is it the uncritical acceptance of someone else’s authority? Certainly faith is closely associated in the popular mind with such authoritarianism, and Kesey’s call for faith could even be understood in this sense. This is the worst fate that has befallen the idea, but it was and continues to be an almost inevitable development. Consider how it happened in Christianity.

In the first generation Christians witnessed to an event that transformed their human condition and situation. Their lives and communities supported the credibility of their witness. What they said rang true to others. These people acted upon it, and their initial confidence was reinforced. Their lives were reordered around this new central fact and experience.

Believing the message was a matter of faith. Acting upon that belief was a matter of faith. Remaining loyal to its implications and living in the community of those who believed was a matter of faith. There was authority aplenty here, but there was no authoritarianism.

However, as time passed the situation inevitably changed. The Christian community settled down to become one among others. Its claims became one set of teachings alongside others. The reasonable man asked evidence or proof. Why should one accept Christ rather than another?

It is to the church’s credit that on the whole it accepted the challenge and tried intelligently to explain itself. Sometimes it succeeded in persuading an honest inquirer that what it taught made more sense than any other teaching available. He might then become a Christian. But the church could not exist as an assembly of individuals whose reason had led them to more or less similar conclusions. The church had a received truth that it could not submit to a popular vote. The received doctrine had the authority of the apostles, and the community used its own authority to keep its members faithful to this doctrine. Faith came to mean the acceptance of the authority of the apostles based upon acceptance of the authority of the community. What was believed by faith was what the community understood the apostles to have taught.

The local community became more and more a part of a larger institution. Authority moved from the community to the inclusive church and its officers. If this had not occurred, the many communities would have drifted into hopeless diversity. But when it occurred, the shift to authoritarianism became complete. Decisions about what is to be believed are made for one by distant and unknown persons many of whom are long dead. One must believe because the institution requires belief. Penalties for not believing as one should arise and are enforced by social pressure, by the church, and even at times by the state. Faith becomes acceptance of what one finds implausible on the grounds of an external and coercive authority. Nothing could be farther from the New Testament! Yet no development from the New Testament could be more natural!

Luther did much to distinguish saving faith from the acceptance of beliefs on authority. Faith was for him a deeply inward and personal appropriation for oneself of the promise of God. It involved all of man’s faculties. But this faith still presupposed the objective reliability of the Bible. The acceptance of that reliability became the ground for a new authoritarianism in which a book was substituted for an institution. The repeated efforts of Christian thinkers to avoid the association of faith with that authoritarianism have been only partly successful.

We can understand why authoritarian belief arises. We can see that it helps to maintain the unity of the church, and that, when the belief is sane and positive, it helps many individuals to have healthy and fruitful lives. There is comfort and relief in letting someone else do one’s thinking for one. And if one is in any case not going to work out his own beliefs, there are good reasons for turning the task over to the Catholic Church or the Bible rather than to many of the other willing masters that are around.

Even so, authoritarian belief is alien to the genius of Christianity. It even contradicts it. Authoritarian belief is simply the occurrence within our tradition of a fate that tends to overcome all traditions which survive the vitality of their childhood. Authoritarian belief blocks freedom, openness, and the quest for truth. It is the faith that kills.

Alongside this deadening form of faith there are others that quicken. The term for faith most commonly set over against authoritarian belief is trust. There is no question that trust quickens. I treated trust at some length in the chapter on "Trusting and Deciding." But quickening faith takes still other forms as well. We shall briefly consider six.

1. One meaning of faith is more clearly expressed as faithfulness. The man of faith is loyal, trustworthy, steadfast. He keeps faith with others. His word counts. His yes is yes, and his no, no. His behavior conforms to his assertions, and his assertions conform to his convictions. He endures in adverse circumstances. He is true to himself and true to his friends.

Faithfulness is exalted in the New Testament and in the Christian tradition. But faith in this sense is exalted everywhere. There is little that is distinctively Christian about it.

2. Another phenomenon that is sometimes called faith is life-affirmation. When after many catastrophes a man picks up the pieces of life and begins again, we say he has great faith. We do not mean that he is confident that all will go well. He knows better than that. We do not mean that he holds firmly to particular beliefs. Whatever he once believed may now be shattered. But he refuses to be beaten. He stands again on his feet. He does what is necessary.

I doubt that this kind of life-affirmation is ever in view in the New Testament. But in a broader sense, as we compare our Judeo-Christian heritage with other traditions we do see that it is a life-affirming one. It asserts that life as such is good despite all suffering. Hence it grounds also the response of affirming one’s own life even in the most adverse circumstances. But moving as this is, it is not what the gospel is about.

3. A third type of faith is the spirit of confidence in another. This is primary in Jesus’ use of faith. If in confrontation with him a person was utterly confident that he could be healed, then healing came. Jesus would say, "Your faith has made you whole."

Utter confidence, whether in another person or in God, is a powerful force. There is no reason to be skeptical of Jesus’ assertion that men and women were healed by it, even dramatically healed of decidedly physical diseases. Our understanding of these matters is still in its infancy, but there are several lines of contemporary experience and inquiry that suggest that in the future men will recognize a still closer interconnection of psychological and physical forces and a still greater possibility for changes in the psyche to affect powerfully the condition of the body. Confidence of the kind inspired by Jesus may even have an effect on the world outside one’s body. It would be dangerous to set any limit on the supernormal or miraculous changes effected by such confidence.

But confidence of this sort is not a specifically Christian phenomenon. It is evoked by other charismatic figures besides Jesus, both within and without the Christian community. On the other hand, many Christians lack any experience of such confidence and of the supernormal events associated with it. In our time of spiritual poverty, we tend to gape at such events, to be incredulous, and, if persuaded of their reality, to make much of them. But Paul rightly treated them as among the lesser gifts of the spirit. We may hope that the time will come when we can follow Paul here.

This kind of confidence is a valuable and positive force, and it usually works for good. But it is a serious mistake to identify it or its consequences with what is fundamental to Christian life.

For most of us most of the time the possibility of such confidence plays a paradoxical role. My parents are members of a prayer fellowship. On one occasion the fellowship prayed for several weeks for a young woman lost on a mountain in Baja California. She was found safe, and she fully recovered in a short time. My parents assured me that no one was more surprised than were the members of the prayer fellowship.

Clearly they were asking divine aid without expecting it. Would it be better to maintain, in the face of all contrary probabilities, an attitude of utter confidence that whatever we ask of God he will give us? Surely not! If we want to move mountains, we had better stick to bulldozers. It is a perversion of the gospel to suppose that the person who dies of cancer suffers because of lack of faith. It is well to remember that Paul three times asked for the removal of some irritant, and that his request was not granted. There is no particular virtue in working ourselves into special states of mind in our efforts to be confident that something will happen.

4. In the fourth place, "faith" is sometimes used to refer to our basic way of experiencing the world. Let’s call that our vision of reality. By vision I don’t mean simply sense experience through the eyes. I don’t mean visions either. Nor do I mean our explicit theories about the world, our world views, although that comes closer. A world view articulates a vision of reality more or less adequately, but the vision itself underlies and precedes the articulation. Much of it is usually unconscious. It is made up of elements that are so self-evident to us that it would ordinarily not occur to us to state them. Our vision of reality is the system of unquestioned presuppositions in relation to which other ideas appear as plausible or stupid.

However, our vision of reality can change. One way this happens is by verbally expressing heretofore unconscious assumptions and examining them alongside alternative assumptions. In such comparisons certainty about them is sometimes shattered.

Christianity is not bound up with any one world view, but it cannot be entirely separated from a vision of reality. That is, there are basic ways of perceiving the world that simply don’t fit the gospel. For example, if a man thinks of reality entirely as what is seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched, the needs to which the gospel speaks are not even recognized. The vision of reality of the Judeo-Christian community centers on personal subjects and their interrelationships, and these are not visible through the sense organs. Or if one perceives the world as made up of inexorable forces that by pure necessity work out their effects, then the responsibility which Christianity attributes to persons cannot be acknowledged. Or if one perceives all things as equally good or bad, recognizing no distinctions of better or worse, then the concerns for justice and peace, so central to Christianity, become nonsensical.

The Judeo-Christian vision of a reality in which personal subjects are of central importance, and in which they are responsible for what they do in relation to possibilities of good and evil, has been held by many people who did not call themselves Jews or Christians. They adopted it without thinking, simply as common sense. They have even employed it to criticize Christian teaching. Hence the gospel could be proclaimed in a context in which it made sense. Questions of philosophy or world view could be set aside.

Today, however, other visions of reality are challenging and displacing the Christian one. Traditional expressions of the Christian vision are crumbling and cannot be restored. The question of the future of Christianity and the question of world view have again become entangled. Faith in the sense of a vision of reality is important for the gospel.

But, of course, the gospel is not the proclamation of a world view. Originally it both presupposed and changed the vision of reality that it found. Today it must do the same. There is nowhere to begin except where people are. The gospel must be spoken in a way that makes sense. If it is, it can open the way toward a new, more congenial vision of reality, while theologians and philosophers pave the way with new insights and generalizations.

5. When the gospel is effectively heard it changes not only the way a person perceives reality but also the way he is. It changes his mode of existence. Theologians have increasingly directed attention to this Christian mode of existence and identified it with faith.

One reason for this trend in recent times is that the beliefs, and even the vision of reality associated with Christianity, have become doubtful. That seems to undercut also the grounds of faithfulness and the possibility of confidence. But the occurrence of a distinctive way of being is better understood today than ever before, thanks to the rise of existentialism.

Rudolf Bultmann has shown us that the modern philosophical understanding of authentic existence illumines Christian faith. Paul Tillich has described the new being as that mode of existence in which to participate is to have faith. Building on their work, others have described how Christianity has heightened man’s sense of responsibility for himself and of the gull between his best deeds, thoughts, and motives and that which he is responsible to be and do. It held up a new ideal of love and at the same time brought into being a way of life in which that love was both needed and possible.

To use the word "faith" to name the distinctively Christian existence is legitimate. But it is not free from problems. Many who sincerely believe in Christ as their savior participate very little in this way of being. Others who reject Christianity embody this mode of existence more fully. On the other hand, keeping faith in this sense alive is not as independent of doubtful beliefs as its advocates sometimes suppose. It may be clearer to think of Christian existence as an outgrowth of faith rather than as itself the one, key meaning of faith.

6. The contemporary German theologian Gerhard Ebeling has taught us to think of faith in still another way, which is the sixth and last we will consider in this chapter. Faith, he says, is certainty. When I first read that, I was put off by it. Certainty is bound up in my mind with particular beliefs, and I am suspicious of those who claim to be certain about anything. But that is not at all what Ebeling means. "Certainty" is the translation of Gewissheit, and a better translation in this case would be "assuredness." Traditionally we have spoken of assurance, but that too suggests that we are sure about something, whereas Ebeling speaks of a state of being in which we find ourselves grounded, established, or, in traditional language, justified. The man who is assured is free for what comes, free for the future, free for his neighbor. He is free to follow truth wherever it leads him.

Ebeling believes that this is the gift of the gospel. When the Christian message is rightly spoken it establishes the one who hears, that is, it makes him an assured person. Indeed, the Christian word is the word that accomplishes that result, whatever words are used in the speaking.

As I have reflected over this formulation of Ebeling to which I first responded negatively, I have decided that he does indeed come close to the mark. Of course, no early Christian would have put his thought in this way. And to me it seems that this is only one part of what the gospel does and cannot become the criterion of the whole. But the gospel does accomplish this to the extent that it is truly heard, and of all that it does, nothing could be more important than this. Whether or not we call it "faith," we must learn how to speak of assuredness, and more important, how to make it a reality.

Even so, assuredness is not the heart of the gospel. It is at most the heart of what the gospel accomplishes. The gospel is not about faith in any of these senses. The gospel is about grace. The gospel tells us what grace has done, and in the light of that we can discern what it is doing now. We are free to talk about that, to be critical even of the ways in which the New Testament describes it, to use whatever language most clearly communicates what we find. We are free to call it all faith, but we are also free to use other terms. Our effort to understand what grace does is a response to grace in which we can see the working of grace. We can learn much from the history of past efforts to describe what grace does, but we have much yet to learn.

So, in conclusion, let me say: be faithful, affirm life, have confidence, stand fast in a Christian vision of reality, enter more deeply into Christian existence, be assured. But do not be disturbed if your experience does not fit these concepts. You are not required to have faith in any of these senses. All forms of quickening faith are gifts. Grace works in us freely and according to its own purposes. Be glad, for you have been given much.

Chapter 9: The Grace That Justifies

The issue of Newsweek that appeared just after the landslide reelection of Richard Nixon reported that the President believes that this nation needs to reject permissiveness in favor of a new stress upon personal responsibility. His new administration is to be based upon this philosophy. In calling for this emphasis on the individual’s duty, Nixon is in tune with deep and widespread feelings in the American public.

Some people will react to this with anger. It suggests to them a form of law and order that is little more than the imposition of the will of the strong upon the weak, or of the majority upon the minority. There is reason to fear that some of this will be involved. But it would be wrong to suppose that this is all that is meant, or even that this is what is more fundamentally intended.

My own reaction is one of sadness. I believe in individual responsibility. I believe that some of what is meant by permissiveness has done damage in our society. But a renewed stress upon moral responsibility taken by itself is an effort to recover what is not recoverable and what would not be worth recovering.

Our society has alternated between a tight moralistic pattern and a loose easygoing one. In theological jargon we talk about legalism and antinomianism. A legalistic system tries to help people find the good life by providing numerous rules by which to live. The rules often come out of rich experience and deep satisfaction with that experience on the part of one generation. But the following generations find them oppressive. They revolt against them. Sometimes in doing so they attack all rules. They call for pure spontaneity and the liberty to do whatever one wants or feels like doing as the true way of finding a whole and satisfying life. This is anti-legalism or antinomianism.

Antinomianism, too, in the period of experiencing liberation from old rules, is deeply satisfying. But it does not satisfy for long. Outwardly it tends toward a chaos in which individuals find themselves less free than they had been under law. Inwardly it leads to meaninglessness. Some begin to find patterns of living that lead them out of chaos and meaninglessness. They offer these patterns to others. These become a new set of rules. Society adopts them. Legalism has returned. People revolt against it. Antinomianism follows.

The last century has illustrated this pattern. Victorianism means to us a rigid system of oppressive rules by which people pretended to live. Behind the facade we have learned to see resentment and lust. This unattractive culture had grown out of the evangelical revivals of the eighteenth century. In those revivals many people had found a new and richer life through personal and religious discipline. The children of the saved became respectable through the acceptance of that discipline. In Victoria’s time they ruled England.

Many factors combined in the past half century to destroy the sway of Victorian legalism. The name of Freud can represent some of them. The new self-understanding that the psychologies derivative from him have released into our culture has deeply transformed it and affected all of us.

Freudianism exposed the hypocrisy and repressiveness of Victorianism. In doing so, with or without the approval of Freud himself, it challenged every system of rules. It encouraged an attitude of appreciation for what is most deeply rooted in our natures, what is libidinal and erotic. Expression replaced control as the dominant value. The sense of obligation was seen as the problem rather than the cure to man’s ills. What one feels like doing, not what one thinks one ought to do, became the criterion of right action.

This antinomianism breeds a new legalism in two ways. First, insofar as it succeeds, it becomes a new set of rules itself. Many of us have been in groups in which in the name of complete spontaneity and honesty we felt pressed toward expressing quite limited aspects of what we were feeling and thinking. I have personally profited from such groups. But the requirement that I express only what I deeply feel and avoid all head-tripping is just as strict and difficult a rule as any that has been laid down in the name of moral obligation. It is enforced by social pressure in much the same way.

Secondly, there is revulsion against the extreme manifestations of this antinomianism. O. Hobart Mowrer a few years ago wrote a book bitterly attacking Freudianism for having undercut morality. He argued that psychological health depends upon clear and vigorous moral teaching and discipline. Some forms of contemporary therapy operate with contracts between the patient and the group. These contracts are commitments to take definite actions. They are enforced by group approval and disapproval. On a broader cultural scale we recognize the fresh articulation of the desire expressed by Richard Nixon to return to a society of responsible individuals.

Most Christians have tended toward legalism. Some have held to legalisms that are rigid and exacting. Others have followed the path of moderation. A few have rejected rules altogether in the name of the gospel of liberation. The alternation of legalism and antinomianism has been characteristic of Christian history.

Even so, on this point I dare to say that Christianity has the answer. It offers the alternative to both legalism and antinomianism that satisfies the legitimate concerns of both. It teaches grace and response. Even when as now its message is poorly understood, still it touches our lives and saves us from the final destructiveness of both life under law and the rejection of law.

The Christian position can be quickly summarized. It runs something like this: You don’t have to be or do what you ought to be or do; therefore you are free to be or do it.

Very simple! Also quite bewildering. Some would say, silly. Isn’t it self-contradictory to say that we don’t have to do what we ought to do? Or else isn’t it just stating the obvious fact that we sometimes don’t do what we should? How could the fact that we don’t have to do something make us free to do it? And if we are free to do what we ought to do, are we not equally free to do something quite different? Doesn’t that give us a license to do evil?

These are perfectly good questions. They arose in the early church in response to the message of Paul. They have recurred whenever the gospel in its distinctiveness has been preached. They point to the fact that the Christian message is paradoxical in the sense of being against the grain of common sense. But perhaps at this point common sense is no adequate guide. Perhaps common sense runs back and forth between legalism and antinomianism and can find no way out. Perhaps we should be prepared to listen to surprising ideas and to be patient while they try to explain themselves.

We live in a psychological age. To explain a basic Christian teaching is for us, therefore, largely a matter of explaining it psychologically. In the process something may be lost of the original meaning, but psychology is a good place to begin.

Paul too gave a psychological account of the problem in Rom. 7:7-12. He said that as an infant he had natural and spontaneous desires which were perfectly innocent. In that condition he was very much alive. But as he grew older he learned that he ought not to desire things which belonged to other people. He recognized that and he tried to obey it. But recognizing the value of the rule did not destroy the desires that went counter to it. Instead, he found that the knowledge that he ought not to want certain things made him want them even more. The harder he tried to obey the law, the more inwardly frustrated he became. The rule that was good in itself tore him up inside. It seemed that he could never again have that innocent wholeness which had made him so alive as an infant.

The solution to this problem in Paul’s terms is Jesus Christ our Lord. We must try a psychological translation, since that is where our understanding begins. Paul believed, and we agree, that the rule against coveting is a good one, so we can’t solve the problem simply by approving of coveting. But we can see that if man is to have life, he has to become free from the cycle of struggling not to covet, coveting, and condemning himself for coveting. To do that he has to stand outside that whole cycle and adopt a different attitude toward it. He has to recognize that that is "where he’s at," and that it is not a healthy place to be. He then has to see that the reason he’s caught up in it is that it is so important to him to be a good person. He can see that deep down he has to believe that he is a good person in order to live with himself with any inner comfort or satisfaction. He doesn’t like himself except as he conforms to his notion of goodness. But even when he understands himself, his insight does not change his condition.

Still, change can occur. He can experience himself as so fully loved, accepted, affirmed by another, that his need to win his own approval diminishes. Its power over him won’t disappear, but in principle, we may say, it is broken. That is, there is another basis now for his self-acceptance and his inner comfort.

When this happens the whole situation changes. He still sees that coveting is wrong and that he continues to covet. But that no longer upsets him deeply. He can face the fact of his own failure to live up to his ideals about himself without becoming preoccupied with this failure. He is free to turn toward others, and to act in their behalf. In the process the actual coveting declines. He finds himself obeying the law.

At the psychological level, that is what I mean by the principle: "You don’t have to be or do what you ought to be or do; therefore you are free to be or do it." You as a person, in your fundamental worth, are secure. Hence you should be under no psychological compulsion to prove yourself. When you appropriate that truth psychologically, you are free from the tensions that make the moral rules destructive. The rules remain, but you now find yourself conforming to these rules without pain and struggle. They express and describe what you want to be and do.

Paul did not have in mind the accepting love of another human being. And even when we approach this matter psychologically, we should not stop with that. The power of human love to free the neighbor should not be minimized, but it should not be exaggerated either. When is human love really without conditions? The vivid experience of a liberating love is so rare and precious that in our eagerness to retain it we may place ourselves in bondage to conditions, real or imagined, that we associate with it. Also no fellow human can know us in such a way that we can be sure that his acceptance includes everything about us, or that it will last.

Our need of acceptance, if we are to be freed from the pressure to prove or to justify ourselves, is total. The question I confront about myself finally is not whether what I am or do is acceptable to this person or that, although that matters greatly to me. It is whether what I am and do is acceptable. If it is not, then I cannot accept it, except by self-deceit, even if some other human being seems to accept it. If it is, then I can stand secure even if other human beings condemn me. If in order to be acceptable I must cease to covet, then I am caught in the cycle of self-preoccupation and misery that Paul described. If I am acceptable even in my coveting, then I can accept myself, transcend my coveting, and live.

Further than this psychology cannot go. It can describe the need to believe ourselves acceptable. It can teach us techniques by which we may try to persuade ourselves that we are acceptable. But it cannot announce that in fact we are acceptable.

For this very reason psychology sometimes cheats us here. It tries to enable us to accept ourselves by dulling our sensitivity to the moral law. It suggests that coveting is not, after all, so bad, since everyone covets. We are taught to accept ourselves by lowering the standards of expectation.

There are expectations that many of us have internalized from which we do indeed need to be freed. We have been taught to condemn sexual desires that should not be condemned. Christians have sometimes thought that they should be free of hostile and negative feelings in ways which could only lead to unhealthy repression. Hence we are indebted to the psychologists who have helped us to understand the distorted forms that the law has taken.

But there are true moral principles to which we should not dull our sensitivity. We should act so as to contribute to justice and peace. We should avoid involving ourselves in the exploitation of the less privileged. We should act now so that the conditions on this planet for our children and our grandchildren will be healthy and hopeful. We should become more aware of the feelings of others and deal more openly with them. We should love our neighbors as ourselves.

If we sensitively attend to these laws, they will affect us in much the way that Paul described himself as affected by the law against coveting. They, too, will destroy the spontaneous life within us. Insofar as we try to deal with this destructiveness by weakening our seriousness about the laws, we seek our own health at the expense of the neighbor. These laws, in Paul’s terms, are holy, just, and good. But they condemn us and destroy us.

In the face of moral laws like these how can we believe that we are acceptable? It cannot be on the basis of our innocence, for none of us are innocent. It cannot be on the basis that we have met standards for acceptability. The man of sensitive conscience knows that he has not. And it is not sufficient that a fellow human being accept us, valuable and helpful as that is.

As I have wrestled recently with this problem, I have been helped by some comments of a friend, Lauren Ekroth, who is deeply involved in several forms of the human potential movement. He said that in order to receive benefits from these methods of human development, it is necessary at first to rely upon the experience and wisdom of the leader. But in the end, when insight and understanding have come, or when new wholeness and strength are experienced, a person finds that they are his own. They well up within from depths he did not know he had. The sense of deriving these benefits from the teacher turns out to be an illusion.

So it is with the acceptance that frees a man from the need to justify himself. He seems to experience it in the words and gestures of another person. But finally, if it is real, it turns out to be within himself, independent of the imperfections of a fellowman’s acceptance. It wells up within him from depths he did not know he had -- from the depths where God is.

The basic task of the church is to announce and realize God’s free acceptance. It does so by being itself an accepting and affirming community. But it does so more fundamentally by pointing, through word and sacrament, to the reality that it serves and from which it lives.

To be faithful, however, the church must affirm acceptance in a way that does not dull the sensitivity of our consciences. It continues to make us aware of the legitimate demand of true righteousness. We are not freed from the consciousness that we are often, even continuously, in the wrong. The church’s task is rightly to balance grace and law.

Herbert Braun recently retired from an illustrious career as a professor of New Testament at the University of Mainz. Once when he preached at the leading Protestant church in that city he attacked the congregation for having come to church. He urged that they should be out on the golf courses, enjoying themselves.

That was a dramatic way of preaching grace. Braun believed that many of those who attended church did so out of the belief that faithful churchmanship helped them to become acceptable people. Certainly that has been a widespread reason for supporting churches. Church attendance is felt to be a particularly meritorious kind of action that may compensate for some of the compromises with which daily life and business are filled. Insofar as that is the reason for coming to church, Braun is right. The man who has heard the gospel will know that he does not need to support the church. But if Braun meant that the one who had truly understood the gospel would in fact not come to church, then I think he was wrong. The man who is freed from the supposition that church attendance is a way of gaining merit and of justifying himself will ordinarily support the institution which bears that message.

Carl Michalson used to make the same point about prayer. The Christian, he said, doesn’t need to pray. In the pietistic circles of Methodism that sounded strange. I grew up thinking that the more I prayed, the better; that prayer was the means of becoming what I should become. But Michalson was right. If one uses prayer as a means of meeting the requirements of acceptability, then prayer becomes an enemy of the Christian message that we are accepted already. On the other hand, Michalson was not attacking prayer. The Christian, he said, is at liberty to pray. He does not live under obligation but under freedom. He may approach God whenever he wishes and chooses.

The meaning of grace goes still farther. It touches us in the very ground of our being at that point of gnawing anxiety about ourselves which is deeper than all the particular worries and fears in which we express it. How much of my behavior, and I suspect of yours as well, is to be explained by this deep-seated uneasiness that something is missing, something is lacking, something is insufficient. Sometimes I feel that if only I could get some idea across, publish one more book on just the right subject, or shape the minds of a few students in the appropriate way, then I would have accomplished something, be somebody, fulfill my mission in life. Sometimes in the face of the acute practical problems of the world, I feel instead that only by contributing to their solution can I justify myself, that is, can I be and do what I should be and do. Thus I am driven to work by a need that is deeper than fear or ambition.

Now, insofar as I heed the gospel, I find that I do not need to write books or engage in social action in order to justify my existence. But I do not necessarily stop writing or acting. I may instead find that I am freed to work better as my response to the grace by which I live.

There is a special irony that a discussion of grace may be peculiarly liable to communicate law instead. Suppose that you have found what I have said to be persuasive. How then do you react? If I were in your shoes, I would be inclined to engage in some self-criticism. How little I am open to grace! How hard I work to justify myself! And how barren are the results! I must work harder at living from grace and not from law! Alas! If grace becomes law, where can grace be found?

The good news is not that if we will meet certain conditions, open ourselves in a certain way, or give up trying to justify ourselves, God will then be gracious to us. The gospel is instead that God is gracious to us. Therefore we can be open and cease to try to justify ourselves. But whether we are open or not, whether we trust him or not, God is gracious. Indeed, God is nothing other than Grace itself.

Chapter 8: Trusting and Deciding

The words "trust" and "decision" point to two quite different styles of life. "Trust" suggests that we let others make the choices for us. "Decision" suggests that we take the responsibility upon ourselves.

Both words have an important place in describing the Christian life. On the one hand, there is the slogan for trusting: "Let go, and let God." On the other hand, there is the slogan for responsible decision-making: "God has no hands but our hands."

These two themes are in obvious tension. One points to an emptying of oneself and passivity. We used to sing: "He is the potter, we are the clay." But we also sang "Onward, Christian Soldiers" and talked of building the Kingdom of God.

Is Christianity simply self-contradictory in affirming both of these? Should we choose one against the other? If so, which?

In the ‘70s our wise men and teachers are encouraging trust. As individuals we are urged to recognize our need for help. We have been trying to solve our problems by reason and will, and we have failed. We have tried to control our feelings and make both our feelings and our actions conform to principles in which we rationally believe. The result has been a stifling of feeling and a failure of action. We need to develop an attitude of trust toward others and toward the unconscious levels of our own being.

In small groups we have been learning again to trust one another. We have risked sharing our feelings and found that they were accepted. Others appreciate our openness. We thought they would despise us because of our weakness, and we find that instead they love us when they know us as we really are. It is an exhilarating experience.

Even more difficult for many of us than trusting one another is to trust the deeper dimensions of our own individual being. I speak here from painful experience of failure to trust my own unconscious and my body.

One of my vivid, and vividly unpleasant, memories of childhood is of piano recitals. Anticipation of such recitals clouded many weeks of my life. As the day came closer I would be gripped by anxiety. I would practice, and I would have no problem playing the piece by heart at home. But I was terrified that when playing before others I would forget. And of course such expectation is self-fulfilling. Sometimes I did forget. I remember one time especially. It was a piece in which the first part was repeated once before the end was played. I got through that far, but then I could not think how to make the transition to the last part of the piece. The knowledge was, of course, well established in my fingers and muscles. But I could not trust my body. I was reduced to playing the first portion a third time and then retiring in humiliation.

My case was an extreme one. Many people are able to develop great skills and to trust their bodies to perform well. But we are learning today that we have trusted our bodies far too little. Our culture has turned our bodies into instruments for the effecting of rational purposes. We have strengthened our wills precisely by denying our bodies the satisfaction of their needs. Even among primitive peoples men established their manhood by forcing their bodies to perform unnatural feats of suffering and endurance at the behest of their minds. We have now learned that the whole history of civilization has involved suppression of the body and its natural rhythms, needs, and wisdom.

When men cease to control and manipulate their bodies and the feelings that are most closely related to them, they enter into a quite different experience. The tension goes out of them. They have a new wholeness and spontaneity. Their imagination floats free. They become more creative. In these and other ways the attitude of trust opens us to resources for fulfilling our desires that are closed to us as long as we attempt to win our goals by controlled action.

Even so, it would be a serious mistake to take this trusting attitude uncritically. The body, the unconscious, and other persons are not wholly trustworthy. Animals have a bodily wisdom that causes them in general to eat what is good for them, but they can be tricked into eating poisoned food. The wisdom of our bodies is no greater. The attitude of trust toward others can be exploited by con artists. Madison Avenue advertising can manipulate our trust for the enrichment of business or the advantage of a politician. In the end it seems best to trust others and our bodies and unconscious only as far as critical reflection on the consequences of such trust justifies it.

This should be no news to a Christian. In traditional language it would be idolatrous to trust the body or the unconscious or other people in any unqualified way. Unqualified trust should be placed only in the One who is absolutely trustworthy, and that is God.

But practically speaking, what does it mean to trust God when we face a decision? Does it mean to go limp and see what happens? Sometimes it has meant that. In the Old Testament we read of the casting of lots in order to learn God’s will. In the Middle Ages there were trials by ordeal. John Wesley used to close his eyes, open the Bible at random, and then place his finger on a verse, supposing that God would so control the movement of his hand that the verse would answer his question.

Few of us believe in these practices. Yet when God is thought of as being outside us, working on us like an external force, these customs are understandable. The idea is to remove human control from the situation on the assumption that when this is done and divine aid invoked, the external divine power will take over. In this picture the antithesis of trust and deciding remains. To trust is to give up human decision in favor of what is supposed to be divine guidance. Man reduces himself to a puppet in order that God’s will may be done.

Most Christians who have understood trusting in this way have wisely preferred to assume responsibility for their own decisions. Is it not best to decide by rational evidence how far to trust what -- even reputed means of letting God make the decision? Are we not condemned to depend finally upon the individual and independent will to act, and upon reason to guide the action to the right end? Instead of trusting something else or someone else, must we not rely upon our own thinking and deciding? Is not every attempt to escape from this total personal responsibility finally a cop-out? Does not ethics, after all, have the last word about human behavior?

Certainly ethical action is desirable, worthy, and admirable. Reason and rational action are essential. It is by thought that questions of justice and the general good are to be decided and action is to be guided toward their realization. There are many things that should be done to attain these ends regardless of how individuals feel about them.

But there are problems with the ethical life. To be strictly ethical is to be constantly deciding what to do in the light of all sorts of considerations. Even if the ethical man decides to be spontaneous, he has to be spontaneous "by the numbers." He acts spontaneously when, and as long as, his rational reflection leads him to judge that it is right to act spontaneously. In such spontaneity something is missing.

The ethical life is a burdensome one. It is hard to know what is right. There are so many claims upon us that seem justified that it is difficult to decide how to balance them against one another. We are always left with the sense that there is more to be done. We find ourselves driven and weighed down. Others sometimes find our dutiful and righteous actions oppressive. We do not enjoy life, and others enjoy life less when we are around.

Recognizing these problems, some of us make a point of not being too righteous. We allow ourselves a few carefully selected vices. We filter out many of the claims upon us so that they will not trouble our consciences. In short, we seek moderation. We want to be ethical where it really matters but casual elsewhere, knowing how to have a good time.

Both those who strive for the full ethical life and those who for good reason dilute it with moderate self-indulgence are victims of the final corruption of such a style. That corruption is self-righteousness. The man who works diligently at acting righteously in all things knows that others do not do so. He cannot avoid recognizing his superiority even if, as a matter of principle, he avoids mentioning it. It is simply the case that, measured by the standards that are evident to him, he is more moral than those who cater to their own fancies without regard to the wider consequences of their acts. Those who moderate their virtue with self-indulgence in order to avoid this offense are often the more guilty of it. For they believe themselves to be superior, in true goodness, to those who go all the way in the ethical life as well.

There is an opposite problem that also afflicts the ethical man -- the problem of despair. He recognizes that his ethical actions fail to achieve their goals. He seeks the good of others while actually often offending them. He redoubles his efforts to do what is right only to find that the harder he tries the less successful he is. He knows that much of the problem lies in his spirit or attitude which seems to others hard, brittle, and critical. So he tries to make himself gentle, flexible, and accepting. But his efforts to change his own spirit are frustrating and futile. The more sensitively he perceives what he ought to do and to be, the harder he tries to do and to be it, the more is he aware of the gulf that separates him from his goal. To avoid despair he may make himself less sensitive and engage in self-deception. The man who begins with a passion for total righteousness sometimes ends in a lie.

We seem to have arrived at a dilemma. On the one hand, trusting, in the sense of turning over decision to something or someone else, fails us. On the other hand, the life of ethical deciding does not attain the goodness toward which it strives.

Christianity has rightly understood that we can go beyond the ethical life only if there is a completely trustworthy reality. But traditional Christian teaching has been much less clear as to how the existence of such a reality solves our problem. When God is conceived of as an external, transcendent reality, he may be supposed to be fully trustworthy, but it is not at all clear that we have trustworthy access to his purposes. If we are told that we have such access through revelation, the problem is complicated but not helped. Do we have trustworthy assurance that revelation has occurred? Is there a trustworthy account of that revelation? And, if so, is there a trustworthy way in which the revelation can be interpreted in its relevance to the concrete situation I now face? In responding to such questions the church develops an elaborate system of apologetic theology and of moral rules much like those against which Jesus and Paul protested. Trust in God is transformed into acceptance of authority and obedience to established teaching.

If the reality of One who is trustworthy is to free us to go beyond the ethical life, that One must be trustworthily present in our experience. There is a Christian tradition of such presence as indwelling Christ, Holy Spirit, and inner light. This tradition has been profoundly hurt in its influence by exaggerated and distorted expressions, which have attracted widespread attention. In the second Christian century some Christians claimed to have been informed by the Holy Spirit just when and where Jesus was coming again in final judgment. Similar erroneous claims to private inspiration have recurred frequently in Christian history.

But the presence of the trustworthy need not be associated with visions and trances and claims to new revelations. More fundamentally it is experienced as an empowering, healing, directing, and enlivening power that operates within. If the reality of such a power can be believed, then an attitude of trust is justified.

Can we believe in the reality of such a power? Traditional language about it carries little weight with us outside the often artificial context of the church. But the inward quest for a trustworthy power is very much alive. There are two directions of this quest which together can help the liberal Christian to move forward.

In many of its forms the human potential movement is a quest for a trustworthy center within the psychic life. It teaches that when obstacles are removed, there appears an inner power which makes for healing, for growth, and for mutual love. Although some forms of the movement seem to call for a generalized trust, others are rightly concerned to direct trust toward that which is trustworthy, recognizing that many of the most powerful forces within us are dangerous. When the rational will releases its tight control over feelings, a lot of aggression and bitterness may pour out in all kinds of senseless ways. In themselves these are destructive, and their open expression must be carefully channeled. They are certainly not what is to be trusted and acted upon. The trust is rather that these negative feelings, this garbage, is not the deeper reality of the person, that beyond it and beneath it is something else. When one gets in touch with this something else, and trusts it, growth occurs.

What is trusted is sometimes thought of as the true self, and this is contrasted with the ego of ordinary experience. Since this ego is the rational will which is the agent of deciding, trusting is set sharply over against deciding. Insofar as the true self is able to organize experience and personality, the task of the ego is to relax its hold and passively allow this to happen.

The human potential movement has grown out of the discipline of healing. To the restoration of normality it has added as a goal a deeper fulfillment of human potentiality. But its disparagement of deciding in favor of trusting is connected with its inattention to ethical issues. Here lies its widely recognized limitation.

The second direction of the quest for the trustworthy is found within existentialism, where deciding, rather than trusting, has been stressed. In some of its forms existentialism has denied that there is any trustworthy ground for deciding at all. Deciding is seen as arbitrary. But even those, such as Jean-Paul Sartre, who seem to hold to this position, qualify it. Sartre’s own life and teaching testify to a profound recognition of the importance of human freedom and deep sensitivity to how it is to be achieved.

What existentialists do oppose is every form of legalism. They deny that there is any body of external rules which binds us or that the superego as an internalization of such rules has final authority. Man’s dignity and responsibility consist in his freedom beyond all rules. He can and must face the future in free choice. The experience, wisdom, and habits of the past should not finally determine him.

Situation ethics is a recent expression of this insight. Decision should be appropriate to the situation and not controlled by moral rules inherited from the past.

But what does it mean for action to be appropriate to the situation? How can one possible action be judged more appropriate than another? If this is not done by rules, it must be done more intuitively. The Sartrean might say: Act as freedom requires in the concrete situation. The Christian might say: Act as love requires. The meaning differs little. Both assume, unconsciously perhaps, that man can achieve a sensitivity to what is happening which enables him to see what is possible and needed. When we free ourselves from the blinders of habit and prejudice and the burden of moral rules, there is a deeper level of our moral being that grasps directly what is right and appropriate. In terms of this we can critically evaluate our actions.

Alfred North Whitehead pointed to this basic fact of ethical experience when he wrote that there is a universal "intuition of immediate occasions as failing or succeeding in reference to the ideal relevant to them. There is a rightness attained or missed, with more or less completeness of attainment or omission." (Religion in the Making, pp. 60-61; The Macmillan Company, 1927.)

The human potential movement works through the chaos of our feelings to a deeper center that is the trustworthy source of healing and growth. Existentialism works through our bondage to rules and habits to uncover the trustworthy grasp of what is appropriate, what is freeing and loving, in concrete situations. That to which both come is grace.

I fear that this sounds very abstract. It is time to consider what it means in daily life to live by grace.

Suppose you sense that someone is hurt and needs reassurance. You experience that need as a claim upon yourself which is at the same time an opportunity and an impulse to act. You act as the occasion seems to require.

This differs from the model of the purely ethical life in that you do not distance yourself from the situation in order to sift the evidence, judge the contemplated action in terms of moral principles, or think through the probable consequences of various courses of behavior. Instead, you trust your sense of the situation and the impulse to act. You decide in terms of that trust.

Now, your act may turn out to be in error. You may have misinterpreted the other’s expression, or even if your sense of his need was accurate, you may have blundered in your effort to reassure. You may have deepened his hurt and alienated him.

At this point you confront the key choice. How do you respond when you realize that your impulsive action failed? You may decide that trusting intuitions and acting on apparent opportunities is a mistake. That would mean that you would turn toward a more rational and calculating, that is, a more ethical, style of life.

But you may instead decide to trust grace. Then you would recognize your need to become more sensitive. That might mean that you would try to open yourself to the deeper levels of your own experience. You would work through your defensiveness and your tendency to project your own attitudes onto others and to try to control and manipulate them. Meanwhile you would continue to take the risk of acting on such light as you had, humbly learning from your mistakes.

You would do this in the conviction that there is within you a potency of real sensitivity and appropriate response. You would recognize that you cannot generate or control this potency. You cannot predetermine its contents by deducing them from rational formulas.

Trusting grace by no means excludes reasoning. The tendency to disparage reason on the part of both the human potential movement and some existentialists must be countered. The question is not whether to think but what to think about. If we try to decide what to think about by thinking alone, we are driven into a fruitless circle. The wise man is one who perceives what is appropriate to think about so that his thinking, which may be very abstract, complex, and subtle, becomes a part of the response to the actual situation. He uses thinking to clear away the impediments to accurate perception and sensitive response. What he perceives may be hidden to the man of less disciplined thought.

What of the relation of trusting and deciding when we live thus from grace? They can still be distinguished. Trusting our sense of what is needed can be distinguished from deciding to act upon it. But this does not do justice to our actual experience. The intuition of rightness is at the same time an impulse or a lure to the act. It can be resisted or rejected, and indeed there are powerful forces of habit and fear that oppose themselves to the impulse. That is why decision is necessary. But the decision operates within the impulse. It is made possible by the impulse. Insofar as it confirms the impulse, it is an act of trusting.

Trusting and deciding are both hard work. We experience the demand to trust and to decide as a heavy responsibility. But when we decide to trust and to make decisions in the context of trust, we realize that the grace we trust and for which we decide is at the same time the source of the trust and the decision. To live from grace is to receive by grace both trusting and deciding.

Chapter 7: Gratitude for Life

Grace is the final word of worship and the underlying experience of Christian life. But "grace" as a word has become foreign to our ordinary language. It appears now only as part of a technical sacred language that is little related to daily living. This chapter and the two that follow, on gratitude, trust, and justification, are attempts to make real for our situation aspects of the historic meaning of grace.

Luke tells a story of Jesus meeting ten lepers (Luke 17:11-18). In response to their cry for help he sends them to show themselves to the priests. All are cured of the dread disease, but only one returns to thank Jesus.

How much one has to be grateful for doesn’t have much to do with how grateful he is. Luke drove home that point in this story. It was driven home to me again on a tourist trip to Coconut Island, not far from Honolulu. For several minutes the captain told us about the former owner, Chris Holmes, in terms calculated to arouse our envy. Holmes apparently had everything a man could want. He was able to turn his beautiful tropical island into a miniature paradise exactly according to his desires. But at the height of his fortune, he killed himself.

It is ironic that some people who have so much despair of life and destroy it, whereas others who have so little cling to it. Those who are objectively the most fortunate sometimes are the most miserable, whereas others who have suffered terribly in outward ways are thankful for the gift of life.

Whether a man is grateful for what comes to him or resentful for what he lacks depends upon his basic orientation in life. Luke suggests that grateful men are in a small minority. Most people compare their lots with those of others who are in many respects like them, but who in some particular seem more fortunate. However well off they become financially, for example, there is always someone else who, by luck, has come out ahead. There is always some benefit of wealth that still lies beyond their means.

If a man’s interest is directed not so much to material possessions as to sexual enjoyment, he will compare himself with someone else who seems more fortunate. Even if he enjoys a full and healthy sex life, he can find someone else who is more attractive to the opposite sex and more able to enjoy his conquests. There is always some real or imagined pleasure that is still denied him.

In the academic profession each person tends to look at the colleague who is a step ahead. If one lacks a position, he compares himself with another person who has secured one. If one has trouble attracting students to his classes, he compares himself with a more popular teacher. If one has not published a book, he compares himself with a colleague who has. If one has published a book, he compares himself with an author whose book has been more widely or more favorably discussed.

This tendency to compare ourselves with those who seem a little better off is basic to our competitive system. It goads us to greater efforts that are often socially constructive.

But looking at ourselves in comparison with those who are a step ahead is not calculated to make us happy. Instead, it breeds restlessness and anxiety. Further, ungrudging admiration for someone who is a little more fortunate is very rare. We have a strong tendency to think that his success is not due to any real merit on his part. We suppose that the one who has the job we lack had connections or pulled strings; that the one who is more popular uses questionable devices; that the one who published first shirked his other duties in order to do so; and so forth. Thus comparison with those who are more fortunate than ourselves breeds envy and resentment. Since there is always someone who is a step ahead, or seems to be so, and since there is always some good that we lack, no amount of success in our chosen direction brings us the happiness we expect. Looking at life in this way, we see no cause for gratitude.

One might advise that instead of comparing ourselves with others who have, or seem to have, more, we should compare ourselves with those who are less fortunate. Indeed, that advice is frequently offered. Just before we stuff ourselves on Thanksgiving turkey, we are reminded that we should remember the starving.

We should indeed be mindful of those who are less fortunate, but that has its own dangers. If we compare ourselves with those who are much worse off, we are likely to feel pity rather than gratitude. Pity tends to be a complacent and ineffective feeling that rarely leads to action. We pity the hungry while we eat our turkey. We feel rather complacent about ourselves. We may express thanks that we are not in the situation of those other miserable wretches, but our thanks are smug and self-congratulatory.

If we compare ourselves instead with those who are just below us, our competitors for the social rewards we both desire, then we feel threatened. We resent the resentment of those we have worsted. We think we deserve their respect and we receive their envy instead. We are driven to work harder to maintain our advantage over them. In this competition there is no secure resting place. Gratitude has no place in our feelings.

The problems that arise from the competitive quest for the goods of life have been recognized for thousands of years. One response has been to cut the nerve of desire that underlies all these comparisons and the resulting unhappiness. If man can never succeed in achieving what he desires, is it not better to cease desiring it?

That view has been taken very seriously and consistently by Buddhists and Stoics. They show that by desiring nothing at all or only those goods which are within our own power to realize, we can be free from the endless unhappiness of comparing ourselves enviously and defensively with others.

Many others have agreed that to set one’s heart on wealth, sexual fulfillment, and professional success is a mistake. They hold that when we orient our lives around goals of this sort, we condemn ourselves to disappointment. They teach that only spiritual values are really worth attaining, and that if we sincerely seek these, we will receive them.

There is a profound wisdom in these doctrines, and people have achieved a good deal of serenity by practicing them. Much of our unhappiness does stem from setting our hearts on the wrong things. Especially the competitive element in these desires is wrong. These worldly goods should be subordinated to personal relations, justice for all, and ultimately the vision of God.

But Christianity cannot share in belittling the value of wealth, sex, and success. Christians think of the world as creation. Even in its crassest physical expressions, the world is good. God desires its existence and fulfills his purposes through it. The Christian cannot be indifferent to worldly goods. He is instead grateful for them.

Christian gratitude is not based upon comparison with others. To be grateful for being richer, sexier, or more successful than another is arrogance and selfishness. True gratitude can arise only when we give up comparisons and view life in an "absolute" way.

"Absolute" is a tricky word. It suggests something very mysterious, whereas what is intended here is fairly simple. By viewing things absolutely I mean seeing them just as they are in themselves. Most of the time it seems that to think of something as good is to think of it as better than something else. We are inveterate comparers. But it is also possible to ask whether it is good in itself. If we must compare, we can ask whether it is better than nothing at all. That helps us to answer the question. But the question of whether something is good need not involve any comparison at all.

If I am hungry and I am given a bowl of vegetable soup, I can appreciate that soup as good. I am not pronouncing it to be better or worse than something else I might have received, such as clam chowder. I am simply judging it as it is.

When we press down to the most fundamental level of our attitude, we come to absolute judgments of some kind. They are usually not conscious, but they govern consciousness. The comparative judgments that we consciously make are determined by them.

One unconscious, absolute judgment that many people make about life is that it is a task. They find themselves driven to achieve something. The meaning of life is measured by its success in attaining set goals. Comparisons with others follow along the lines set by these goals. Life as a whole is a strenuous effort. Some satisfaction can be taken in partial success, but for the most part life cheats a person of the fruits of his effort. Time erodes achievements. The most that can be done is to pass on the torch to others. The ultimate image of this experience of life is that of Sisyphus through all eternity pushing his stone up to the top of a mountain only to have it roll down again.

Others have been disillusioned by the consequences of the view of life as a task. If the goals cannot be reached, or if they are worthless in themselves, then the whole thing is ridiculous, absurd. Man is thrown into a swirl of events that do not add up or go anywhere. Everything is chance and necessity without meaning or purpose.

At this fundamental level of interpretation argument is out of place. There is no disproof of the view of life as "thrownness." But the philosopher whose analysis of human existence gave clearest expression to this way of understanding -- Martin Heidegger -- went on himself to another perception, one in which thankfulness dominated.

Rather than noticing the arbitrariness of our place in a meaningless world, we may experience life, the sheer fact of being alive, as good. We see that life is given to us freely in every moment as a fresh opportunity to be and to do and to enjoy. The means of preserving life are generally pleasant as well as necessary. And for most of us life makes possible more sophisticated pleasures as well. We have cause to be grateful.

This Christian understanding of man’s situation leads to the affirmation of life as it is given. It closely resembles the spirit of other traditions, such as that expressed in this beautiful poem from Zen Buddhism:

In spring, the flowers, and in autumn the moon,

In summer a refreshing breeze, and in winter the snow.

What else do I have need of?

Each hour to me is an hour of joy.

(Quoted from Edward Couze, Buddhism: its Essence and Development, p. 205; Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., Harper Torchbook, 1959.)

Surely the spirit of sheer immediacy in this poem is very close to the spirit of gratitude as the Christian knows it. The enlightened Buddhist in the Zen tradition accepts what comes in its immediate goodness. He does not compare what he experiences with anything else. He wastes no time on regrets or on envy of others. He is aware of what is as it is, and he affirms it. He does not inquire into the future consequences of events. The simple and direct awareness of what is present to him drives out all anxiety and restlessness.

Yet just here, where the spirit of Buddhism is so close to that of Christianity, differences appear. The Christian too is called to enjoy the flowers, the moon, the breeze, and the snow. But he is called to respond in gratitude. Since he has received such gifts, it is his opportunity and task to share with others. To whom much is given, from him much is expected. The Israelite knew himself to be especially blessed by God. For that reason, in gratitude for God’s gifts, he was called to costly service.

One reason that the spirit of gratitude has become so rare in our culture is that it has been mistaken for its perverted forms. Against these we have rightly reacted in disgust.

Pollyanna symbolizes one of these perversions. The logic of this perversion is superficially sound. The Christian sees life as good. He does not compare what comes to him with what comes to others. Must he not then deny the reality of evil and give up all realistic appraisal?

The answer is no. Pain and anxiety and separation and cruelty are part of what comes to each of us, and they are evil. In some cases they may contribute to a later and a larger good, but there is no guarantee of that. To believe that, in spite of this evil, life remains fundamentally good prevents us from being preoccupied with evil and from growing resentful and envious, but it does not hinder recognition of evil for what it is. On the contrary, it is only in the context of appreciation of the goodness of life that evil is fully recognized. Evil is the destruction of life. The more we love life and are grateful for the gift of life, the more sensitive we are to the ways in which life is curtailed and distorted.

The emphasis that life should be viewed absolutely rather than comparatively leads all too readily to a second perversion. Without comparing the conditions of men and our own condition with that of others, we cannot attend to questions of justice.

To guard against that perversion we must make a clear distinction between our most fundamental stance toward reality and the secondary activities that are allowed and encouraged within it. The basic Christian stance is one of thankfulness. But thankfulness is appreciation for real goods. How goods are distributed is important in a world in which what happens matters.

When we are victims of injustice, we do well to recognize that fact both for our own sakes and for others’ sakes as well. Even more important, we must never allow our appreciation for the goodness of all life to dull our awareness of the injustices inflicted upon others. It has done so at times in Christendom. It was in a Christian culture that Karl Marx called religion the opiate of the people. But the prophetic spirit that is our Jewish heritage, the spirit embodied also in Marx, reminds us repeatedly that the grateful man is active in behalf of the oppressed.

There is a third perversion, more dangerous perhaps, because so close to the true spirit of gratitude. It is symbolized in the flower children of a few years ago.

Central to the lesson that many young people tried to teach us in the ‘60s is the idea that life is to be enjoyed. They saw that their parents too often treated life as a task, a heavy burden, a labor to be accomplished. The youth protested that in working always for future happiness, we have ignored the goodness of what is already at hand. We have built a society that prizes expensive and difficult goods accessible only through the accumulation of wealth. Advertising suggests to us that we can be happy only by traveling to distant places, having fine food and clothing, owning luxurious homes, automobiles, and motorboats. We neglect the simple and readily accessible goods -- the beauty of nature, the enjoyment of friends and family, even the taste of simple foods.

This lesson has been needed. Young people taught us dramatically by public flouting of false, conventional values. They rejected competition in favor of those values which we can all enjoy together. By returning to simpler and more natural life-styles, some of them have shown that we do not have to submit ourselves so painfully to the pressures of earning a living.

But the lesson has been simplistic and one-sided. Not all effort is misdirected. Not all of the complexity of life is artificial and false. The richest values are not always the simplest ones. There are goals worth working for, and there is value in the process of seeking as well as in what is found. To affirm that life is good and to be grateful for it need not be to turn our backs on the achievements of civilization. These, too, are embodiments of life. If life is good, its refinement and its manifold expressions are also good.

To have the spirit of gratitude, then, is to affirm what comes. We are to enjoy it, but not without responsibility. We are to affirm the fundamental goodness of life but not so as to acquiesce in the power of evil as it thwarts and destroys life. We are to rejoice in life as it comes to each of us individually, but to remain concerned for justice in the distribution of what is valuable. We are to savor the elemental in life, but not in such a way as to disparage the more complex expressions of life in art and science.

When we understand what the spirit of gratitude is, we may decide that we ought to be thankful. Or when we see that the grateful man enjoys life in a way which is closed to others, we may desire to become more appreciative. In either case, we will seek ways and means of changing our attitude. And to some extent that is possible. As children we sang, "Count your many blessings, name them one by one." And it is true that thinking about our blessings does more to make us grateful toward life than does nursing our grievances. As adults we have been told by Norman Vincent Peale about "the power of positive thinking," and there is no doubt that some have found improvement through practicing the techniques he recommends.

However, these are superficial approaches to the problem. They alter temporarily our conscious attitudes, sometimes masking deep resentments underneath. By concealing from us the negativism of our fundamental attitudes, they can hinder the change that is really needed.

What is needed is to experience all life as grace. That means to experience it as a gift and to experience the gift as good. Grace means unearned favor. Life is not thrust upon us but is offered to us as opportunity. We have done nothing to merit this gift. It is completely free. And with all its problems and ambiguities it remains fundamentally and absolutely good.

The word "grace" has faded from our vocabulary. The experience of life as a free gift has declined. These two occurrences are both cause and effect of each other. Our sense of the burdensomeness of life and our resentment toward it have crowded out the experience of grace. With the loss of the word the moments in which life is known in its goodness and givenness pass by unnamed. What is unnamed is little noticed. What is little noticed fades from effectiveness. If the goodness and freeness of life are to be recognized again, the word "grace" must be restored to power. Where life is known as grace, gratitude springs naturally from the heart.

But how can this change occur? How can we cease to see life as pressure, demand, and pain and view it instead as grace? If we do not experience life as grace, it does not help to pretend that we do. It is much better to express frankly our disappointment with life than to feel a resentment we conceal even from ourselves. Sometimes it happens that by working through our negative feelings we become open for affirmative ones. We must trust the truth.

We can trust the truth, because life is grace. It is given to us, and what is given is good. That is the gospel, and it can renew itself in all its strangeness to the modern ear. When we hear it, then from time to time what it announces rings true. In those moments, whether things are going well for us or badly, gratitude becomes a reality. Gratitude, too, is a gift.

Chapter 6: Renewing the Vision

What we attend to determines to a great extent how we think, feel, and act. It shapes our vision of reality. Worship is one very important means of influencing what we attend to. It makes a lot of difference whether and what we worship.

The world as it is, or reality as such, is far too complex for us to attend to it in general. Attention is always selective -- extremely so. Pick up any university catalog and note the great variety of courses and how they are organized into departments. Every course deals with some aspect of reality. The aspect is selective in at least two ways. Some slice of the things that make up the world is selected for attention. And those things are looked at from a particular point of view or in terms of a particular method. For example, in a course on marine biology we would expect to deal with one segment of the living things on the planet. We would also expect to study them in terms of the categories of the biologist rather than those of the physicist or the poet. In addition, the particular perspective of the professor would be a further selective factor.

In the field of politics, so important to all of us, the selection for attention is still more extreme. The successful politician is the one who can direct attention to what is going on in such a way as to place himself in a favorable light and his opponent in an unfavorable one.

In the 1972 presidential election campaign, the Republicans were successful in drawing attention to shifts in emphasis on the part of the Democratic candidate George McGovern, his sympathy for causes such as busing for integration, amnesty, and liberalization of laws against abortion and marijuana that are farther left than most of the American people, and the danger of temporary economic dislocations caused by cutbacks in military spending and changing patterns of taxation. The Democrats were largely unsuccessful in directing attention to the close ties between Richard Nixon and the centers of economic power, the advantages to most citizens of redistribution of wealth and a shift from military to civilian spending, and such sordid tactics as those involved in the "Watergate affair. "

To be effective this process of attention-directing has to point us to something that exists. Total lies usually fail. But that is small comfort. For in all the infinite complexity of reality almost anything can be found.

Consider the way in which the Nazis reshaped the German mind in the ‘30s. Certainly they told some outright lies, but they won political power by directing attention to selected features of reality. These were lifted out of context, exaggerated, and distorted, but they were there.

There was injustice in the Versailles treaty, the presence of a Jewish community within an otherwise homogeneous culture did cause frictions, some Jews had been quite successful in business, and the Aryan race did have much to be proud of in its history and culture. By constantly calling attention to these features of reality and by constantly obscuring other, more important, features, the Nazis brought into being a quite new pattern of perception and understanding, a quite new vision of reality, that could be used to justify the most hideous acts.

Worship is the major way in which the church through the centuries has directed attention to those aspects of reality which it has thought most important. Although some of the prophets, such as Amos, denounced the worship of their day, the truth of the prophets has been made effective in history chiefly as attention has been directed to it in and through worship.

Not all acts of attention-directing are worship. The study of marine biology is not worship. The Republican and the Democratic political campaigns are not acts of worship, although there are liturgical elements within them. Even the great rallies at which the Nazis shaped the minds and destinies of hundreds of thousands of Germans were not quite worship, although they came very close.

These political movements direct attention to historical events understood to have temporary importance for some segment of mankind. Worship directs attention to what is felt as more encompassing, more basic, more ultimate, although it uses the more immediate as a means and points to it as an expression.

Some services of worship include a period for the sharing of concerns. This sharing of concerns is not in itself worship. The concerns may focus on the needs of the aged or on the protest against the war. As such, the statements of concern are social and political. But they are appropriate insofar as they give concreteness to ultimate commitments. The instances can function as part of worship insofar as they help to direct attention to the common and fundamental convictions that ground concern in individual cases.

One of the great problems of the church in every age is to find the right relation between the general and the particular or the ultimate and the relative. If worship calls attention only to that which is most basic and inclusive, many Christians will fail to grasp either the meaning or the implications of what they see. If worship directs attention primarily to the specific meaning of faith in particular circumstances, the ultimate will be falsely identified with instances. Also, judgments and theories on which Christians may legitimately differ inevitably enter into the selection of the instances.

This is a tension with which the church must always live. It becomes peculiarly acute in a time like ours when the ultimate as the Christian knows it is so hard to discern.

For worship to be effective, as is true for any means of directing attention, it must direct us to something we perceive as real and important when it is attended to. Too often in church services today what is said and done is felt by many of the most perceptive participants to belong to an unreal world. When this is the case, the participant, in defense of his integrity, must refuse the proffered vision. Then, of course, worship fails.

But when, in order to avoid this unreality, worship is brought into close relation with ordinary experience, then there is danger that it will lose its Christian substance. For worship to be Christian, attention must be directed toward something that is not simply identical with what is looked at most of the time. There must be some tension between the vision embodied in worship and the ordinary perception of reality.

I can make this point better with an example. Shortly before the Olympics were to be held in Tokyo, I was visited in Claremont by two Shinto priests. They were part of a committee to plan the use of flags for the Olympics. This provided them with an excuse for a tour of the world. They were using this opportunity to talk with representatives of other religions.

In the course of the conversation I spoke of how Christians in different countries tended to support their several governments in taking up arms against each other. More generally I was confessing the failure of Christianity to prevent its identification with national cultures.

I was somewhat taken aback, although I should not have been, when the priests asked, quite innocently, what was wrong with that? Was that not the proper function of religion? It was their view that their task as Shinto priests was to express, celebrate, and strengthen the spirit of Japan.

Christian worship all too often tends in that direction. It is hard for any of us to distinguish the values of our national culture, or of some subculture within it, from ultimate values. But most Christians would nevertheless react, as I did, with some surprise to the suggestion that no distinction is desirable. The relation is, for us at least, a problem.

Is it possible for worship to be at once real and Christian? The answer to that question may not be the same for all of us. Hence I shall state quite personally how, for me, worship both points to what I acknowledge to be real and remains in tension with my ordinary perceptions as these are shaped by my general experience.

I know that I am not the center of the universe, but I continually relapse into feeling and thinking as if I were. That relapse is checked in a variety of ways, but most of my general experience strengthens it rather than checks it. Worship, on the other hand, directs my attention to my finitude. It renews my conviction that I am only one among many, and it shapes my feelings and motives in a way that is more appropriate to that fact.

My tendency much of the time is to become settled in my attitudes and opinions. In the course of an ordinary week I defend them and extend them. They tend to become increasingly fixed bases for the evaluation of new ideas. I become less open to points of view that are really new. In worship, on the other hand, I am reminded that reality and truth lie far beyond me and that the opinions of others deserve respectful attention. I am challenged to give up my grip on the truths I think I know for the sake of receiving the truth that makes me free.

My tendency much of the time is to attend to what is disappointing, to note the little injustices of life, to become resentful that I cannot have all the advantages, appreciation, or admiration that I suppose someone else receives. That is, my natural self-centeredness leads to dissatisfaction with my lot and a vague resentment that life has not done better by me. In worship, on the other hand, my attention is drawn to what makes life good and to the generosity with which these gifts have been bestowed on me. I become ashamed of my resentment, and a sense of gratitude is renewed.

My tendency much of the time is to become complacent about my own goodness. I compare myself favorably with other people. But at the same time I suffer from guilt, I condemn myself for certain blunders I have committed, for failures to use important opportunities, for aspects of my personality which I seem unable to alter. Surprisingly my feelings of guilt don’t make me any less critical of others. On the contrary, I am likely to try to assuage my guilt by noting how others are even worse than I and even by blaming others for my own shortcomings.

In worship this structure of misery is challenged and in some fragmentary way overcome. I am turned from comparing myself with others to comparing myself with what I may and should become. My failure stands out more starkly, my excuses are exposed, my tendency to blame others appears as the final heightening of the guilt. But at the moment of recognition of guilt, I realize that it’s all right. There is no need to pretend to virtue or to defend myself, because I am already pardoned. I can turn away from guilt and begin again freely to deal with the new opportunities of the new day.

My tendency much of the time is to give up on the public issues of our time. I see an urgency of change in one direction for our very survival, and I see a continuing movement in a quite different direction. I see the church which might provide the spiritual dynamic for a great repentance profoundly unsure of itself and able to do little more than seek its own survival.

In worship I am brought face to face again with the mystery that checks my gloom and defeatism. My attention is called to a power that works for good within me and among others. I realize that my own impotence does not limit this power for good and that indeed when I attend to that power I am not so wholly impotent after all. Even I can be a participant in its work. I do not have to know the outcome in order to experience hope.

In worship, then, I am renewed by attending to that which is central to all reality, that which gives, judges, and forgives, and that which works for good and grounds hope. That, of course, is God.

I have been speaking of real potentialities of quite ordinary Christian worship. But rarely are all of them realized in a single service. Sometimes I seem to be hardly touched at all by what takes place, and I find it all too easy to understand why so many have dropped out of worship altogether. To make these potentialities real is an important responsibility for all who share in the shaping of services of worship. But even if the potentialities of traditional worship were fully realized, that would not be enough. Today we need to attend to aspects of reality that traditional worship has screened out.

For one thing, most traditional worship tends to estrange us from our bodies and our sexuality. The discomfort and confusion experienced about sexuality in most Christian cultures is intensified by worship. In reaction against those pagan cults in which sex and the divine were too nearly identified, our tradition has separated them far too much. Our worship has tended to desexualize us. We can rejoice to see the return of the dance and the physical embrace to our services, but that alone does not suffice.

Another need, urgent in our time, is the overcoming of our Christian exclusiveness. Our worship has traditionally strengthened our experience of our Christian corporateness -- and that is good. But it has tended to do so in such a way as to set ourselves apart from other traditions and communities. We need to learn how to attend to those aspects of reality highlighted in other traditions without losing sight of those which have been stressed in ours.

Traditional worship focuses on our relation to God and to our neighbors in such a way as to obscure our kinship with animal and plant life. It leads us to think of ourselves as actors on the stage of nature rather than as participants in the natural process. Here we can learn much from other traditions, but we cannot simply appropriate them. We must learn this as a new lesson in our own context of beliefs and understanding of man.

Finally, our traditional worship centers on the word. The word is the central means of directing attention. In the writing of this chapter, I have been using words, too many of them perhaps, to direct attention to the importance of how we direct attention. The primary task of worship is to direct attention more effectively and more healingly. But we are learning that there is another response to the recognition that all experience is selective. There are techniques developed especially by Hindus and Buddhists for achieving a state of consciousness that is not selective, or that is at least much less selective. That consciousness is expressed in silence rather than in words. We are now challenged to incorporate such meditative silence into our worship without abandoning the Word.

Often we leave our services of worship, especially we liberal Protestants, with a renewed sense of the problems of the world, the needs to be met, the work to be done. I am suggesting that in the area of worship there is work to be done.

But the final note of worship cannot be exhortation. You and I will not save the world. We will not even transform the worship of liberal Christians. Our contributions, even if we make them, will be slight. If we are to make even those slight contributions, we individually and collectively need to be reassured precisely that everything does not depend on us. We need our attention directed toward the tasks to which we are called, but still more we need our attention directed to that which uses for good even our failure to fulfill our task. We don’t have to succeed, because the last word of preaching, the last word of worship, the last word of the gospel, the last word of reality is grace.