Chapter 3: God and Existence

If God does not exist, it does little good to talk about him. "Philosophy destroys its usefulness," writes Whitehead, ‘when it indulges in brilliant feats of explaining away. Its ultimate appeal is to the general consciousness of what in practice we experience."(Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1929; New York: Macmillan, 1929], p. 23.)

There is no verification of assertions about God’s existence that matches the verification of scientific assertions. This is to be expected, for language about God operates on a different level from descriptive language. "Though God has never been seen by any man, God himself dwells in us if we love one another; his love is brought to perfection within us (1 John 4:12, NEB)"

In order to approach the issue of God’s existence with some degree of clarity, this chapter will examine briefly the writings of F. S. C. Northrop, Alfred North Whitehead, and Charles Hartshorne, as men who operate with similar assumptions about knowledge and metaphysics. Then we will consider some of the objections to reliance on religious experience. Against this back-ground, we can consider some aims of education, about which Whitehead has written. Later, in chapter 9, we will return to some of the metaphysical problems.

In the field of knowledge about God, there is no new information; yet the data we have are not convincing. Religious people have strong intuitions, deep convictions, and ultimate commitments which provide meaning and guidance for their lives, but often even they are hard pressed when they seek to support their own way of looking on God and the world. The Christian educator needs more than this, for he is asked to provide education in Christianity for others, not only to describe what it has been and is, but to use language in such a way that the learner will come to an understanding of the nature of Christianity and hopefully will discern the presence of God in his own life and commit himself to the Christian way. What we need to do is to make sense out of the evidence we have. Wittgenstein says, "The problems are solved, not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known."(Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations [2d ed.; Basil Blackwell; New York: Macmillan, 1958], p. 47e.) If we take seriously the creativity in human nature and the language that points to and shows the rich meanings to he found in human life, we can talk about the existence of God.

Creative Thinking and God

F. S. C. Northrop has worked out a sophisticated approach to the knowledge of God. He is concerned with the parallels between the generalized concepts of science and metaphysics, and their relation to religious thinking. He is also concerned with depth experiences that may be called religious. He believes that "the essence of man as a moral and spiritual being is that he is a knowing being." In man’s knowledge there are important distinctions that need to be made. The first is between the given facts of nature and those artifacts made by man out of cultural, human, and bodily behavior. When these two orders are confused, as they often are, we find ourselves in a mixture of language-games and cannot extricate ourselves. The second important distinction is between concepts that result from the examination of data from experience and concepts that are postulated In the intellect. Most commonsense ideas and many scientific experiments are based on induction from the data, or at least we believe that such concepts would stand up under such testing. But there are mathematical concepts which are imageless, which are independent of experience, and which are indirectly verified by the consequences, thus providing us with knowledge of the real world.

When I go for a walk, I experience space and time, and I can arrange to meet you at a street corner. But this is different from the kind of thinking that is necessary for two space vehicles to link up behind the moon, for this latter involves the kind of imageless thinking that is essential to modern physics. Columbus did not need a sophisticated analysis to find the new world, but the astronauts did to find a way to the moon. Yet both experiences refer to the real world.

The world is known, according to Northrop, in two ways: (1) by testing data from sense experience leading inductively to propositions about reality and (2) by imageless concepts postulated by the creative imagination and tested deductively. The problem is how to bring these two realms of discourse together. They consist of two widely different families of language, and Northrop says that we need a method of correlation, or correspondence, or coordination to bring them into a single view of reality. How this "epistemic correlation’ is worked out is rather technical. (See ibid., p. 90.) What is essential for us is to realize that the world of Einstein with his mathematical physics and the world of Joe Doaks who knows at least that the world is not flat are the same world and that some people can move from the one to the other.

This provides the beginning of a method for knowledge of God. Northrop has two crucial questions. The first arises out of his experience at a conference of philosophers of East and West, in which the concepts of "Nirvana" and "the Atman that is Brahman without differences" were considered. Nirvana is a Buddhist concept and has its meaning in an all-enveloping experience. The second phrase is used in Hinduism and has its meaning in the elimination of distinctions. Both concepts are derived from the data of mystical experience. Northrop was asked whether his phrase, "the undifferentiated aesthetic continuum," was identical in meaning. In all three cases, the phrase "without differences" is critical. It refers to one’s "radically immediate experience, with all the differentiations of sensing and sensa removed, signifying nothing beyond itself."(Ibid., p. 189; also see pp. 21-25)

Now the question for the reader is whether the description provided by Northrop has any meaning at all. Are there moments when one is swept up into a sense of oneness, when one is overwhelmed by the vastness in which he is engulfed, when one is at one with whatever being he conceives God to be? This is a kind of mysticism, reported by many as the experience of prayer or visions and by others as drug-induced. It is the keystone of many Eastern religions, as Northrop points out, but is not as evident in a practical and activist Western culture. It is so lacking in differentiation that it exists, as William James pointed out, at the periphery of experience. This is the approach to God through experience.

Now Northrop is ready for his second crucial question. Is there a basis for believing in God as a result of the imageless thinking of mathematics and physics? If so, can this be correlated with the undifferentiated experience of the awareness of oneness? The problem is that many philosophers think of imageless thinking simply as linguistic conventions which provide guidance to control reality without referring to it. Northrop, in contradiction to such a position, claims that there is presupposed in such concepts a "logically real self." (See ibid., pp. 216-31.) This position asserts that such knowledge of a "logically real self" is valid but open to improvement.

Nature, then, is a cosmos and not a chaos. There is a logos, a principle of order like unto mind, which is approached but never reached "by the changing, logically realistic constructs of Western mathematical physics."(Ibid., p. 230; also see pp. 84-85.) Note that this is the intellectual component. It is not different in kind from the more traditional emphasis on God as prior being, first cause, or purpose behind the universe, except that God is not a substance or a thing. God is to be loved with the human mind. For Northrop, God is spoken of as "an eternally-now logically realistic relation between beloved creatures."(Ibid., p. 236) At the same time, the result is not a consistent, mechanical kind of behavior. When one accepts the invariant order derived from our knowledge of the Principle of Relativity, one must supplement this with the Quantum Theory, allowing for chance, which Northrop says "operates within the restrictions specified by its invariant universal laws."(Ibid., p. 255.) This concept allows us to make room in our theology for both natural and man-made evil, for freedom to respond or not to respond to God, and for what seems to be the miraculous according to more rigid views of natural law. In this sense, both men and God are free. Northrop speaks of God’s freedom by use of the model of God’s "playfulness."

What Northrop has presented is an approach to God through philosophical reasoning as affected by Relativity Theory and Quantum Mechanics and correlated with the reports of Oriental mysticism. Underlying this is a carefully worked out view which he calls "logical realism," assuming that there is a reality approached through imageless concepts. Like Plato with his emphasis on wisdom that is higher than knowledge, Northrop is utilizing a major philosophical system as a basis for his philosophy of science. Within this system, also not unlike Plato he includes empirical verification based on an undifferentiated kind of experience which is akin to mysticism. By careful "epistemic correlation," he seeks to bring these two elements or realms of discourse together as a basis for belief in God.

This is one kind of answer to the challenge of the logical empiricists who claim that there can be no verification of assertions about God. Northrop, by changing the rules of evidence in the light of the philosophy of science, claims that language is not simply a linguistic convention but is a report on reality. Northrop claims that there is a mystical element behind all knowledge and all language. "No words mean or can say anything, except as one knows, with inexpressible and unsayable immediacy, what the words are pointing at or showing, independently of the words themselves. Such knowledge is what the word ‘mystical’ means."(Ibid., p. 241.) The limitation of language is that it can point or show, but it cannot say. There is nothing mysterious about this, for it applies just as much to language about the color "yellow" as about God.

Northrop’s argument is admittedly difficult and technical. What makes it so imposing is that it is based on modern ways of thinking. When we begin thinking about Christian education for those whose productive lives will be in the twenty-first century, those who are already having great difficulty with theological claims that are based on nineteenth-century science and confused linguistic analysis, we discover that Northrop’s claims, although open to objections on both the level of imageless concepts and undifferentiated experience, have at least as much certainty as we have about the existence of electrons. Is this sufficient?

The Immanence of God

The presupposition behind all language about God is that he exists. The primary tool of both theology and philosophy, as A. N. Whitehead writes, is language. There are appeals to experience and the interpretation of experience, and when they lead to significant evidence they require a recasting of language itself. Language, as we have shown, can be very slippery, and words can only point or show but do not say.(See Process and Reality, p. 14.)

In any discussion of the language about God, an appeal to experience is primary. Whitehead writes that there is wide agreement that "religious experience does not include any direct intuition of a definite person, or individual. It is a character of permanent rightness, whose inherence in the nature of things modifies both efficient and final cause." (A. N. Whitehead, Religion in the Making [New York: Macmillan, 1926] p. 61) A "personal" God, whatever the word "personal" may mean, is always an inference. Yet the experience from which the inference is drawn is subject to all kinds of pressures, is open to a variety of interpretations, and in the last analysis is dominantly private and subjective.

Whitehead believes that the church has been wise in its suspicion of "a direct vision of a personal God." (Ibid., p. 66.) But the intuition of the inherent rightness of things is capable of acceptance, although it is "not the discernment of a form of words, but of a type of character. . . . Mothers can ponder things in their hearts which their lips cannot express. These many things, which are thus known, constitute the ultimate religious evidence, beyond which there is no appeal."(Ibid., p. 67.)

As Whitehead develops this approach, examining the views of God of Asian religions, Semitic religions, and modern pantheism, he makes a striking point: As long as God is thought of as standing outside a metaphysical world view, he is unknowable. He can only be an unproven idea. "In other words," says Whitehead, "any proof which commences with the consideration of the character of the actual world . . . may discover an immanent God, but not a God wholly transcendent." (Ibid., p. 71.) This insistence on immanence is an important factor in any discussion of the knowledge of God. For once God is defined as wholly transcendent, there is no possible human knowledge of him. At the same time, Whitehead writes that God "transcends the temporal world, because he is an actual fact in the nature of things."(Ibid., p. 156.)

Christianity does not start with a world view, as does Buddhism, for Christianity "has always been a religion seeking a metaphysic." (Ibid., p. 50.) God, he writes, is "a non-temporal entity" and is

exempt from inconsistency which is the note of evil. Since God is actual, he must include in himself a synthesis of the total universe. There is, therefore, in God’s nature the aspect of the realm of forms as qualified by the world, and the aspect of the world as qualified by the forms. His completion, so that he is exempt from transition into something else, must mean that his nature remains self-consistent in relation to all change.(Ibid., pp. 90, 98-99.)

Such language is highly technical, including some complex metaphysical concepts, but it indicates an approach to the meaning of God similar to that of Northrop. The emphasis on God’s immanence should be noted, because most of the attempts to show that God is dead or that assertions about him cannot be verified are directed toward God as transcendent only. Perhaps here is one of the possible breakthroughs in talk about God.

Necessity and Intuition

Charles Hartshorne, who shares many of Whitehead’s views, states that God is a "necessary reality." he uses the tools of language analysis to make his point. "Divinity," he writes, "is not a mere fact or fiction of the actual world, but is either nonsense, in relation to all possible states of affairs, or a necessary reality, that is, the idea is metaphysical." (Charles Hartshorne, The Divine Reality: A Social Conception of God [New haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1948], p. xiii). Such truths are "certified by meaning alone," and so we can say that "God is the one individual conceivable a priori."(Ibid., p. 31). Therefore, we have literal truth about God.

We may use analogy and metaphor to talk about God, "but the pure theory of divinity is literal, or it is a scandal, neither well reasoned nor honestly dispensing with reason. It is precisely the being with a necessary essence that, as such, must be definable a priori." This literal truth Hartshorne sums up as follows: "Thus God is wise -- period. He is unborn -- period. He is everlasting -- period. He is socially aware of all beings, the actual as actual, the possible as possible -- period." "Whatever is good in the creation is, in superior or eminent fashion, ‘analogically not univocally,’ the property of God. Thus knowledge, purpose, life, love, joy, are deficiently present in us, eminently and analogically present in God."(Ibid., pp. 37-38, 77.)

There is a difference between what we can say literally and what we can say analogically about God. There is an abstract nature to the language used about logical inferences concerning a necessary being, but the concrete actuality, described in terms of analogy and metaphor, is something each man finally intuits for himself. However, even the literal meanings of theological terms come from men’s intuitions, and we need a theological method by which we can distinguish between normal intuitions which do not lead to insights into God’s nature and those more "conspicuous’ but less frequent intuitions which lead to deeper understanding.

There is a parallel here to Northrop’s method, for Hartshorne also builds on the combination of necessary postulates in the realm of abstraction and the intuition into the presence and nature of divine power. In developing his method, Hartshorne has provided a complex logic for analyzing such terms as omnipotence and omniscience so that there is a place for evil in his understanding of the nature of things, for genuine freedom, and for a deity who works through persuasion. As Whitehead says, "The power of God is the worship he inspires."(AN. Whitehead, Science and the Modern World [New York: Macmillan, 1927], p. 276.)

Hartshorne has adapted the metaphysics of Whitehead, with the emphasis on process and on God at work in the process. He has labeled this "panentheism," a term which Schubert Ogden and John A. T. Robinson have adopted. "‘The concrete reality of God,’’ says Hartshorne, "is in us only insofar as we with radical ineffectiveness and faintness, intuit it. Though it is vastly less true to say that we do than that we do not ‘have’ or include God, both statements are true. God, on the other hand, in his actual or relative aspect, unqualifiedly or with full effectiveness has or contains us; while in his absolute aspect he is the least inclusive of all individuals." (Hartshorne, op. cit., p. 92; see also Schubert Ogden, The Reality of God [New York: Harper & Row, 1966], p. 62; John A. T. Robinson, Exploration into God [Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1967], pp. 86, 89-96; Kenneth Cauthen, Science, Secularization, and God [Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1969], p. 164. See below, chapter 9, for a further treatment of metaphysics.)

Northrop, Whitehead, and Hartshorne provide us with the use of technical vocabularies and dynamic metaphysical categories to talk about God. They are able to do this in a meaningful way, because they are concerned with the view of the secular world as modified by the latest scientific insights, and they speak religiously without being limited to traditional forms of language. Northrop speaks out of personal acquaintance with Wittgenstein and Whitehead as well as out of knowledge of the broad field of the philosophy of culture. Whitehead’s influence is more and more permeating the current scene in philosophical theology as well as in metaphysical thinking. Hartshorne has applied a complex logic to thought about God and has influenced such theologians as Schubert Ogden, John Cobb, Kenneth Cauthen, Peter Hamilton, Norman Pittenger, and John A. T. Robinson. Northrop, Whitehead, and Hartshorne, therefore, throw’ much light on our endeavor to speak of God in the light of current developments in linguistic philosophy and secular thinking. They at least establish the philosophical respectability of "God-talk" in the contemporary world.

Skepticism and Religious Experience

But we are not home free. These three men come down finally to a reliance on some form of intuition or religious experience.(See Northrop, op. cit., p. 108. Whitehead, Religion in Making, p. 62; Hartshorne, op. cit., p. 38.) When Rudolf Otto describes the sense of the "numinous" or holy as an irrational experience both fascinating and awe inspiring, in which the content can only be felt and not spoken about, he is making a similar point. For Otto, this "wholly other" is transcendent rather than immanent, which marks it off from Whitehead’s insistence that immanence is the key, although both seem to be considering the same experiential evidence. For Otto, such experience stands alone, without value when reduced to language.(See Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy [London: Oxford University Press, 1923; Pelican Books, 1959])

A. J. Ayer is critical of propositions that result from such experiences. He writes, "In describing his vision the mystic does not give us any information about the external world; he merely gives us indirect information about the condition of his own mind." (A. J. Ayer, Language , Truth, and Logic[ 2d ed.; London; Gollancz, 1936] , p. 118.) One answer, provided by E. L. Mascall, is that the mystics have their own language-game, although the outsider does not have the slightest idea what it is all about.(See B. L. Mascall, Words and Images: A Study in Theological Discourse [London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1957], p. 12.) Ayer would respond that even if such language is used, it would have only "emotive" meaning.

Does religious experience penetrate reality and are propositions derived from intuitions to be considered seriously? This is a key question in any discussion of religious language. Not only. must there be some agreement about the meaning of the word "God" but there must be some kind of objective reference. Ian T. Ramsey speaks of a "cosmic disclosure, an element of transcendence in both the objective reference and in our own subjective response and commitment." (Religious Education LX [Jan.-Feb. 1965], p. 12) The key to this is "the method of empirical fit."(Models and Mystery [London: Oxford University Press, 1964]). You don’t verify a shoe, you wear it. If it does not fit, you discard it. If, after a few wearings, it becomes fairly comfortable, even though it may not be waterproof, it does the job. So it is with theological models. Unlike models in science which may be verified, the testing is a different kind of process. Ramsey says:

Theology is founded on occasions of insight and disclosure when . . . the universe declares itself in a particular way around some group of events which thus take on cosmic significance. These events then become, and naturally, a self-appointed model which enables us to be articulate about what has been disclosed. ( Ibid., p. 58. See "Linguistic Models and Religious Education," ‘ Religious Education, LXI (July-Aug. 1966), p. 275.)

Many models may be used for this kind of testing. One of the weaknesses of theology has been its reliance on single model approaches. Horace Bushnell understood this clearly over a century ago. If a theologian, wrote Bushnell,

is a mere logicker, fastening on a word as the sole expression and exact equivalent of truth, to go on spinning deductions out of the form of the word (which yet having nothing to do with the idea), then he becomes a one-word professor, quarreling, as for truth itself, with all who chance to go out of his word; and, since words are given not to imprison souls but to express them, the variations continually indulged in by others are sure to render him as miserable in his anxieties, as he is meager in his contents, and busy in his quarrels.(God in Christ [Hartford. Brown and Parsons, 1849], p. 50; reprinted in H. Shelton Smith, ed., Horace Bushnell (New York. Oxford University Press, 1965), pp. 92-93.)

So it is that many of us have intimations of the divine. We may or may not like the words that others have used to indicate what the divine means to them. But we may be helped if we can speak of God in a framework that makes sense in today’s world. This is the point at which such men as Northrop, Whitehead, and Hartshorne may be helpful to some, for not only have they laid a foundation for belief in God as real and existing, but they have done so within the framework of a modern world view.

There is no coercive and convincing evidence. There never has been and there never will be. Those who want to be absolutely sure will have to rely on their own bliks, such as Hare has described, and not on the evidence. But decisions, attitudes, and imagination have much to do with dealing with the facts and coming to conclusions, as John Wisdom has pointed out:

Things are revealed to us not only by scientists with microscopes, but also by the poets, the prophets, and the painters. What is so isn’t merely a matter of ‘‘the facts.’’ For sometimes when there is agreement as to the facts, there is still argument as to whether the defendant did or did not exercise "reasonable care," was or was not negligent." And though we shall need to emphasize how’ much "There is a God" evinces an attitude to the familiar, we shall find in the end that it also evinces some recognition of patterns in time easily missed, and that, therefore, differences as to there being any gods is in part a difference as to what is so and therefore as to the facts, though not in the simple ways which first occurred to us.(John Wisdom, "Gods." Reprinted from Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 1944-45, in Antony Flew, ed., Logic and Language [Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1951], First Series, p. 192; and in John Hick, ed., Classical and Contemporary Readings in the Philosophy of Religion [Englewood Cliffs, NJ.: Prentice-Hall, 1964], p. 417.)

The decision one makes, therefore, is not simply of deduction or induction, or even a combination of the two, although it is more like the combination. It is, says Wisdom, like the decision of a judge in the face of a complex presentation of evidence, which involves many subtleties, including the judge’s attitudes. His ruling is like an exclamation that has its own purpose and logic and value-judgment.(See Hick, op. cit., p. 420) Theology is a way of calling attention to a pattern by which the facts may be seen and understood. It assists one to penetrate more deeply into the possible meanings of reality. But the reports are always incomplete, although

by no means useless; and not the worst of them are those which speak of oneness with God. But insofar as we become one with him, he becomes one with us. John says he is in us as we love one another. This love, I suppose, is not benevolence but something that comes of the oneness with another of which Christ spoke (John 16: 21) Sometimes it momentarily gains Strength -- Hate and the Devil do, too. And what is oneness without otherness?"(In Hick, op. cit., p. 428)

Skepticism concerning the empirical base for belief in God does not seem to be supported by the evidence. On the other hand, there is no overwhelming evidence in favor of belief. It is a matter of judgment in the light of many data. We cannot spin meanings out of the words we use, but we use words to analyze, point to, and show meanings that are found in human experience at the deepest levels. The words that penetrate successfully can clarify our experiences, but not in forms of formal logic. This is, indeed, a difficult matter, partly because the most "conspicuous" intuitions are given only to the few and partly because our logic prevents us from expressing what we dimly discern. The problem of language centers in the logical mapping of religious assertions and in the further understanding of language-games.

Educational Implications

The modern secular man, who probably cannot understand mathematical physics but has heard of the Principle of Relativity and the Quantum Theory, does not realize how much this kind of thinking penetrates his thought processes. Although he lives in a world of common sense, he knows that nuclear science, space exploration, and studies in neurology and brain chemistry are changing the picture of the world. Insofar as he thinks about God, he worries about the way in which God is related to this new view of the world. He may escape for a while into a search for the meaning of his own existence, which is essential for his well being, but if he thinks for very long, he comes back to the problem of how God is related to the world.

What Northrop has done in a necessarily limited way is to provide a beginning concept of God for the post-Sputnik world. He has mixed two areas of discourse, both of which contribute to the concept of Cod when interpreted in Northrop’s manner. Whitehead and Hartshorne, using similar philosophical concepts, also rely on a combination of abstract thinking and particular experiences or intuitions. Religion, says Whitehead, "stands between abstract metaphysics and the particular principles applying to only some among the experiences of life." The educational problem lies in the fact that "the relevance of its concepts can only be distinctly discerned in moments of insight, and then, for many of us, only after a suggestion from without."(Religion in the Making, p. 31.)

Certain educational implications of this approach begin to become clear. First, the "conspicuous intuitions" are given only to the few. Second, "suggestions from without" are essential. Third. duty and reverence are closely related. Fourth, careful use of words must relate dogma to experience. Fifth, the solitary experience of insight must be related to the life of the community. Sixth, we must utilize these insights in accordance with our knowledge of child development. Finally, we turn to Northrop’s illustration from baseball of God’s playfulness.

If everyone does not have a "conspicuous intuition," how can we teach about them? The tendency has been to rely on the depth experience of great saints, such as Francis of Assisi, or great heroes of the Bible who had dramatic experiences, such as Isaiah or Paul. Stories of this kind have validity, but they also are clearly unreachable by most people and seem to some to have an aura of unreality, although what has been called ‘‘the mystical germ’’ in us max respond positively. Religion, suggests Whitehead, applies to "only some among the experiences of life," but these do not have to be peculiarly "religious." Can we not find a "religious dimension" of all experience? Or can worship still arouse the sense of the holy, so that one’s emotion of awe or wonder can open one up to appropriate the experiences of others? Whitehead says:

The essence of education is that it be religious. . . . A religious education is an education which inculcates duty and reverence. Duty arises from our potential control over the course of events. Where attainable knowledge could have changed the issue, ignorance has the guilt of vice. And the foundation of reverence is this perception, that the present holds within itself the complete sum of existence, backwards and forwards, that whole amplitude of time, which is eternity. ( The Aims of Education [Mentor ed.; New York: Macmillan, 1929; New York: New American Library, 1949], p. 26.)

If there is to be "suggestion from without" by means of words in order to evoke "moments of insight," we are still operating on empirical grounds, for in order for there to be a common expression of such insight there needs to be "first a stage of primary expression into some medium of sense-experience which each individual contributes at first hand." (Religion in the Making, p. 132.) Action, words, and art can then be interpreted so that a community of intuition is brought to expression in worship and response.

This process involves a careful understanding of the use of words. For if words do not say, some point and others show. If we choose our words correctly, some will point to the area of abstraction, of principles, of patterns, of forms, of imageless concepts; others will point to the reality reached by intuition with its mystical overtones. For we are concerned that there be a moment of insight, discernment, or disclosure; that this intuition of ultimate reality be open to analysis; that upon being convinced of its truth we be free to respond in terms of our relations with men.

This is a far cry from the prosaic grammar of description of everyday events, and therefore moves beyond the meager imaginations of those who dwell only in the flat and descriptive world of sense experience. Once one is convinced that the word "God" or one of the many synonyms for the divine refers to an activity, or process, or function, or idea, or form, or being in the actual world, the language of faith becomes a possibility.

Religion, for Whitehead, begins in solitariness. However, this is only the beginning, and he has been quoted on this point many times out of context. The individual, he says, has the moment of intuition or insight for himself; he needs to see its meaning for himself, and the theological formulation of dogmas helps him to understand his insight in relation to his world view. "A dogma," writes Whitehead, "which fails to evoke any response in immediate experience stifles the religious life." The expression of belief "is the return from solitariness to society. There is no such thing as absolute solitariness. Each entity requires its environment. Thus man cannot seclude himself from society."(Ibid., p. 137.) As beliefs are verified in common, there is a common language which expresses the conviction that the gospel is good news.

This approach to the understanding of religious education underscores the significance of clarity in the use of language, which is at the same time sufficiently unique to evoke new insights. Whitehead often relies on unusual or invented words in order to explain his metaphysical system. The Bible, even though oriented to a different culture, provides resources for communicating its ideas because of its unusual use of poetic and mythic imagery and of the unexpected twists of logic.

It is amazing how much we know about child development, even in terms of what might be called "religious readiness," in terms of needs, aptitudes, problems, and ways of learning and thinking. (See my Education for Christian Living (2d ed.; Englewood Cliffs, NJ.: Prentice-Hall, 1963), pp. 77-96 and bibliographical listing on pp. 414-17; also, Merton P. Strommen, Profiles of Church Youth (St. Louis: Concordia, 1963); Ronald Goldman, Readiness for Religion (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1965; New York: Seabury Press, 1968) and Religious Thinking from Childhood to Adolescence (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964; New York: Seabury Press, 1968). Yet we ignore the limitations that children have in forming concepts and in the uses of language. We do not pay attention to the greatest of all the limitations in talking about God, the Bible, or other religious issues with children, the problem of literalism. Goldman’s studies show that approximately 60 percent of children below twelve years of age accept literal interpretations of biblical events. As soon as they can think in more abstract terms and make distinctions between literary forms, this percentage goes down to about 30 to 35 percent. By the time they reach fifteen years and a mental age of about seventeen and a half, only 5 percent take the stories literally, although 25 percent still show a partial literalism. This indicates why so many adolescents reject religious beliefs as they hold on to childish views too long and then cannot make the adjustment to other ways of thinking about religious stories and assertions.(See Religious Thinking from Childhood to Adolescence, pp. 75-80.)

Children mimic adults and often acquire a considerable vocabulary of religious terms. But they are likely to put the words to use according to their experience. A child who had tea with his vicar announced, "I had tea with God." The phrase "The Lord is my shepherd" relies on some acquaintance with God, sheep, human beings, and shepherds plus the ability to reason by analogy. Jesus as "the light of the world" is purely metaphorical in its meaning and even experiments with light will not be of much help with younger children.(See Goldman, Readiness for Religion, pp. 32-33.) Even children who show a natural reverence in saying prayers often get confused about the language, as in "Lead us not into Penn Station" for New Yorkers and "Lead us not into Thames Station" for Londoners. Their prayers are literal. These same children are likely to conceive of the Bible "as a book of magical veneration, written by God or one powerful holy person, . . . and is therefore to be accepted at a literal level as entirely true." (Ibid., p. 81.) Only in adolescence, says Goldman, do pupils show the capacity to handle propositions, ideas, relationships in abstract terms and to treat myths, legends, and poetry properly.(See ibid., p. 163.) This does not mean, however, that we need to wait for adolescence to make such distinctions. If we wait too long, the damage will have been done. If teachers are acquainted with the categories of religious language, even younger pupils can participate in the analysis and come to their own conclusions.(See Religious Thinking from Childhood to Adolescence, p. 85.) It is the only way to avoid a "two world" view, one of which will sooner or later be discarded except by those whose religious thinking is arrested at what Piaget calls the "concrete operational" level. (See ibid., p. 242.)

Northrop moves cheerfully into the fantasy world in order to talk about "God’s playfulness." He takes a seemingly outlandish illustration from a game of baseball, in which human beings err as they play the game within the rules:

Otherwise there would be no "booting the ball" after the manner of a clumsy and aesthetically crude, Brooklyn bum. Hear his religious language: "Blankety blank. This burns me up like hell." Nor would one in the next inning have the unsayable experience of seeing that same sinful, very human soul, the vulgar crowd still trying to boo him out of Flatbush, scoot Peeweelike, back to his right, deep into the hole between Short and Third, to come up with the ball in the smooth single motion over to First that has the Divinely Creative Omniscient Anticipation, Beauty, and Grace of a Rizzuto as he nips an Eddie Collins at First by an eyelash when the Umpire there, his car on the ping in the baseman’s mitt, his nose in the dust, and his eye on the runner’s foot by the sack, snaps up his right arm, its Englishlike thumb pointing outward, with a shout that means "Out!" If this be not Heaven and its Judgment Day, what is? God has spoken! Yes, he has spoken, even though the fleet runner’s coach does not believe God, and emphatically says so, not realizing -- his acquaintance with Wittgenstein being slight -- that not even the language of a Durocher can say anything."

This strange poetic description helps us to point to the meaning of God’s playfulness, to his lawfully regulated sportsmanship, and to his creatures who are free to err and to protest within the game. But the voice of the Lord makes the crucial decisions. Or, as Northrop concludes on this particular insight into God’s nature:

Sports do more than

Malt and Milton can

To point and show

God’s Ways to man.(Ibid., p. 251)

There is the additional problem of which language-game, which choice of words, which particular story will operate to assist in producing moments of insight. My guess is that chiefly among boys in baseball-conscious America or Japan, Northrop’s flight of imaginative writing would be effective. I doubt that it would work with girls, or with most woman teachers, and certainly not in a culture dominated by soccer, cricket, or tennis. What this story does suggest, however, is that all religious language is logically odd, and to this issue we turn in the succeeding chapters.

A Note On Expanded Empiricism

The argument in this chapter is limited to evidence which is consistent with empirically based language. One may, for example, move from a strictly empirical method to more expanded forms of empiricism. Schubert Ogden speaks of "nonsensuous perception," which involves "an awareness of our own past mental and bodily states and of the wider world beyond as they compel conformation to themselves in the present.(Schubert Ogden "Present Prospects for Empirical Theology," in Bernard E. Meland, ed., The Future of Empirical Theology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1969), p. 82.)

As one moves to such expanded forms of empiricism,(See my "Empirical Method and Its Critics," Anglican Theological Review, XXVII (Jan. 1945), pp. 27-34.) the next step is to go beyond these to the use of speculative theory, analogy, and myth in the formulation of beliefs.( See my What We Can Believe [New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. 1941], pp. 201-21.)

My own theological method has always included these enrichments of empirical procedures in a way that I hope has consistency and coherence. At any rate, it has made it possible for me to discuss the relation of theology to Christian education on a much broader basis than I am doing in this book,( See my The Clue to Christian Education (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1950), pp. 1-17.) to look carefully at the implications of biblical theology for Christian education (See my Biblical Theology and Christian Education (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons 1956), pp. 16-31.) and to deal theologically with the nature of the church. (See my Christian Nurture and the Church (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1961), pp. 1-32.)

In this view, a theory of revelation is essential as a basis for understanding the purpose of Christian education,( See "Revelation, Relevance, and Relationships," Religion in Life, XXVII (Winter, 1957-58), pp. 132-43.) especially if this view of revelation is related to empiricism as in the thought of William Temple.(See William Temple, Nature Man and God (London: Macmillan Co. Ltd., 19340, pp. 301-27; Sara Little, The Role of the Bible in Contemporary Christian Education [Richmond: John Knox Press, 1961])

But unless God is, however dim may be our awareness and however vague our formulation in language of this awareness, all the superstructures of belief lack a firm foundation. In this assertion of the existence of an actual deity, we have the basis for the doctrines of creativity and redemption. If we look on the world as created and redeemed by God, using the Bible as our guide, we have a foundation for our beliefs about God, about Christ, about the Holy Spirit, and about the church. Christology, like revelation, depends on a prior knowledge of and acquaintance with God. This is the logical order of the language of faith. From there we can move to broad speculations about the nature of God and the universe, using theological and philosophical tools.

The psychological order of coming to an attitude of faith and the development of beliefs, however, may not be and usually is not logical. One may come to share the Christian faith exclusively through belief in Jesus as the Christ, or through exposure to the life of the existing church, or through the contagion of the freedom of Christians. The moment of disclosure or discernment and the resulting commitment is not dictated by the logic of theological discourse. But if one comes to God through these other routes, as most people do, the intellectual sustaining of this faith ultimately goes back to belief in the existence of God as an "empirical anchor." Otherwise, one may be left with a Christology that is not grounded in God, as in van Buren’s case, or with a church that is not grounded in worship, or with Christian behavior that is not grounded in a grace-faith relationship.(See my Christian Nurture and the Church, pp. 33-35.)

One major task of Christian education, therefore, turns on the language that we can use to speak of the existence of God. This becomes the basis for all other talk about God, where there is room for speculation, imagination, fantasy, and hope.

Chapter: 2: The Challenge of Language Analysis

The use of words and sentences derived from the Bible as a basis for Christian education has led to more and more difficulties in the modern world. When one adds to the Bible such forms as catechisms, theological propositions, literary sources not based on the Bible, and the normal discourse of teaching situations, it is clear that the results are less than satisfactory.

We have chosen to explore the findings of contemporary language analysis as one way of mapping, however roughly, the logical placing of the language of faith. Linguistic analysis is a use of philosophical tools to get at the verification, use, and meaning of words in their contexts. We take religious assertions, examine their functions, check the possibilities of testing them in experience, and come to conclusions about the meaning that may be communicated.

Such a study should prove valuable for anyone involved in the communication of Christian beliefs, especially teachers of religion in churches and schools but also those who participate In the educational process at every level. Some of the findings, being primarily negative, can serve only as a warning to those with minds that tend to literal interpretations of religious language. More recent findings, however, point to more creative and imaginative uses of religious assertions that move beyond an empirical base.

Early Linguistic Analysis

A new tool was introduced into philosophy in the late 1920’s. A group of scientifically trained philosophers meeting in Vienna began asking about the proper use of language, beginning with a minimum of propositions. At this early stage, the movement had no place for religious or metaphysical propositions, and there was no direct contribution to Christian education. But we need to understand why this was so, both because the warnings were important and because of the development of this movement of analysis to the point at which it is extremely valuable to the building of a theory of Christian education.

Is it meaningful to talk about God at all? In the early days of linguistic analysis the answer was an unqualified "No!" The key issue turned on the verification principle. A logical analysis of the use and meaning of words, it was said, led to two types of language: (1) tautologies, where what is said is logically true, as in mathematics or in such statements as "a rose is a rose" or "I am I," and (2) synthetic or nonanalytic sentences, in which the meaning is its method of verification. For example, if one says," It is raining outside," the listener can look outside and see it or go outside and get wet. The way in which even a scientific formula makes sense to a layman is to reduce it to the tests which verified it. Thus, only sentences which can be verified in sense experience have validity.

Now it is obvious that many sentences do not fit these two categories, but for the early linguistic analysts no other kinds make sense. If a sentence cannot be tested in sense experience, it is said to have "emotive" meaning but it is literally "nonsense. All poetry, religious and metaphysical thinking, and ethical principles fall into this category, and therefore cannot be called true assertions. This was the extreme position, and it became popular among a small number of philosophers. However, it reflected one kind of scientific mentality and can be found among many people who would not be able to expound it.

This point of view was popularized by A. J. Ayer. He modified the position slightly by making room for probable knowledge based on history, provided it was tested in someone else’s experience, calling this "weak’’ verification. He still dismissed all ethical, metaphysical, and religious statements as having no meaning except to make people feel good. "‘We often say that the nature of God is a mystery which transcends the human understanding. But to say that something transcends the human understanding is to say that it is unintelligible. And what is unintelligible cannot be significantly described." He was equally condemnatory of the mystic with his visions of God, who, "so far from producing propositions that are empirically verifiable, is unable to produce any intelligible propositions at all.’’(A. J. Ayer, Language, Truth, and Logic [2d ed.; London: Gollancz, l936], p. 118.) Ayer was perfectly willing to agree that a person who thought he was experiencing God had experienced a certain kind of sense content, but this does not lead to the verification of a statement about a transcendent God.

The other side of the coin, which seems to some people to be equally devastating, is the principle of falsifiability. If someone believes in God, say, on the evidence of experience or tradition, what kind of evidence would falsify this belief? how much evil in the world would cause a believer to cease to believe? The believer makes vast assertions about the power and goodness of God which seem to be factual, and then he begins to qualify them, until finally, as Antonv Flew put it, the belief dies a "death by a thousand qualifications." "Now an assertion, to be an assertion at all, must claim that things stand thus and thus; and not otherwise. Similarly an explanation, to be an explanation, must explain why this particular thing occurs; and not something else. Those last clauses are crucial."(Antony Flew and Alasdair MacIntyre, eds., New Essays in Philosophical Theology [London: SCM Press, 1955], p. 106; see also Antony flew, God and Philosophy [New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1966] for a full-fledged attack on belief in God.) Many religious thinkers, says Flew, try to hold to two conclusions at once, either as a paradox or as an unrecognized contradiction, and this is a form of doublethink as described by George Orwell: "‘Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs simultaneously, and accepting both of them. The party intellectual knows that he is playing tricks with reality, but by the exercise of doublethink he also satisfies himself that reality is not violated.’" (1984, p. 220; quoted in Flew and MacIntyre, op. cit., p. 108.)

There is no easy way to resolve such contradictions. One answer is that we "know by faith." But if the belief is contradictory or incomprehensible, it is not clear what is being believed whether by faith or otherwise. "If you do not know what it is you are believing on faith," asks Bernard Williams, "how can you be sure that you are believing anything?"(Ibid., p. 209.)

Thomas McPherson, in a cryptic statement, summarizes this point of view: "What to the Jews was a stumbling-block and to the Greeks foolishness is to the logical positivists nonsense." He takes seriously the reports of mystical experience as the experience of the inexpressible and agrees that what is essential in religious beliefs cannot be put into words. Therefore, "the way out of the worry is to retreat into silence."(Ibid., p. 133-34.) McPherson claims to be a friend of religion but an enemy of theology, because "religion belongs to the sphere of the unutterable." By "nonsense" he means what is not verifiable by sense experience. He places Rudolf Otto, Ludwig Wittgenstein, and Martin Buber in the same category and suggests that the "I-Thou relation" vanishes when one tries to analyze it, because it then becomes "I-It."(Ibid., p. 141, n.) Or as Martin Buber put it: "A God about whom one can talk is not a God to whom one can pray"(As quoted by Heinrich Ott and reported by Dietrich Ritschl, Memory and Hope [New York: Macmillan, 1967], p. 158, n.)

The results so far are primarily negative. They seem to leave Christian education with nothing to do except perhaps to provide the opportunity (in silent worship?) for an experience (hopefully) of the holy. What these findings serve to do, however, is to be a warning to all teachers that pupils who have been trained in strictly critical scientific thinking may want to apply the categories of literal sense experience to religious beliefs, with similar negative results. If they do this, one cannot get out of such a situation by the application of doublethink, appeals to knowing ‘‘by faith,’’ or even by relying on tradition as authority. We will return to these issues in chapter 3.

Functional Analysis

The reliance on strict rules of verification, however, was seen by the philosophers of language to be so limiting that very little was left to talk about. Language simply is not used in this limited wax-. It is obvious that many sentences function in such a way that meanings are communicated, although such meanings cannot be equated with a hard-nosed empiricism. Wittgenstein saw this clearly when he listed many possible language-games, by which he meant that there are different levels or orders or categories of use of language in which sentences find their meaning in their use. He listed some of them as follows:

Review the multiplicity of language-games in the following examples, and in others:

Giving orders, and obeying them --

Describing the appearance of an object, or giving its measurements --

Constructing an object from a description (a drawing) -- Reporting an event --

Speculating about an event --

Forming and resting a hypothesis --

Presenting the results of an experiment in tables and diagrams --

Making up a story; and reading it --

Play-acting --

Singing catches --

Guessing riddles --

Making a joke; telling it --

Solving a problem in practical arithmetic --

Translating from one language to another --

Asking, thanking, cursing. greeting, praying --

-- It is interesting to compare the multiplicity of the tools in language and of the ways they arc used, the multiplicity of the kinds of word and sentence, with what logicians hayc said ahont the structure of language. (Including the author of the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.) (Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (2d ed.; Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1958; New York: Macmillan, 1958), pp. 11e12e.)

The concept of language-game is not frivolous, and it may prove of profound importance in the communication of religious assertions. It indicates that there are different uses of language according to sets of rules. Just as cricket and basketball have little in common besides having their own rules, so language-games have sharp differences. But there are families of language-games just as softball, Little League baseball, and professional baseball have similar rules with a few significant differences. But this does not mean that you can play checkers while I play contract bridge, and that we will have no dealings with each other.

The danger is that someone will want to play solitaire and claim that his game is the only legitimate one, so that all words and sentences are used with arbitrary and artificial meanings. Or, on the other hand, someone will claim that he has a game that includes all the others, just as the Olympic Games Committee controls all the sporting events at the Olympics. But track and swimming and sailing remain different games, and this is where the players are.(See ibid., pp. 31e- 32e; William Hordern, Speaking of God [New York: Macmillan, 1964], p. 87; James A. Martin, Jr., The New Dialogue Between Philosophy and Theology [New York: Seabury Press, 1966], pp. 108-9, 154-60.)

"The term ‘language-game’ is meant to bring into prominence the fact that the speaking of language is part of an activity, or of a form of life," says Wittgenstein.(Wittgenstein, op. cit., p. 11e.) The human form of life stands behind all language. There is no higher order of language than that provided by human beings who are both responsible and responsive. A person backs his language by his life as a whole, and yet he participates in many language-games.(See Dallas M. High, Language, Persons, arid Belief [New York: Oxford University Press, 1967], pp. 99-106.) It may be, then, that as a religious person speaks, he uses language that reflects the meaning to be found in his own life style.

The meaning of a word or a sentence is found in its use rather than in its testing. Analysis is used to uncover misuses and to clarify actual uses. The use of a word in one sentence can be compared with its use in another in which its meaning is admittedly clear. Key words used religiously, if the meaning is not immediately clear in our modern culture, can be placed in their ordinary secular setting in order to clarify the meaning. For example, when "redemption" is discussed in a religious setting, its meaning may be clarified by using the word in relation to the redemption of bonds or of stamps at a "Green Stamp Redemption Center." When its crasser meaning has become clear, it may be possible to transfer its use back to its religious significance, possibly with adequate limiting qualifiers.

A variation of this principle of meaning according to use is modified by R. B. Braithwaite. He takes seriously the claim that we cannot verify statements about God, thus eliminating this issue from the discussion, and moves directly to the use of religious assertions for moral purposes. "A statement," hc says, "need not itself be empirically verifiable, but that it is used in a particular way is always a straightforwardly empirical proposition."(An Empiricist’s View of the Nature of Religious Belief [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, l955], p. 11.) By using ‘empirical" in this way, he lets ethics into the discussion, but he has already applied a more stringent empirical test for the word God. What he has done is to reduce all meaningful religious assertions to moral statements, so that one may "follow an agapeistic way of life,"(Ibid., p. 19.) which is the way of love.

The purpose of religious teaching is served by telling stories that encourage Christian love. The purpose of a story is to strengthen one’s resolutions to follow a way of life, and different religions have different stories. It is irrelevant whether the stories are true, and this irrelevance is considered important. Braithwaite writes:

My contention that the propositional element in religious assertions consists of stories interpreted as straightforwardly empirical propositions which are not, generally speaking, believed to be true has the great advantage of imposing no restriction whatever upon the empirical interpretation which can be put upon the stories. The religions man may interpret the stories in the way which assists him best in carrying out the behavior policies of his religion.(Ibid., p. 29. See Ian T. Ramsey, ed., Christian Ethics and Contemporary Philosophy [London: SCM Press, 1966], pp. 74-94, for comments on Braithwaite’s position and Braithwaite’s response.)

On Braithwaite’s grounds, the teacher could select any story that serves to strengthen moral intentions.

It is easy to demonstrate that such stories, with no basis in fact, do serve this purpose. Jesus told parables that have had profound effects on men’s behavior, without there being such a person as a good Samaritan, a wicked steward, or a prodigal son. Children have been nurtured on stories from secular sources, from Aesop’s Fables to Batman, which have had moral implications. But there is more to Christian education than this.

The Easter Event

The most serious and consistent attempt to deal with the Christian story from the point of view of verification of assertions about God and Jesus is that of Paul M. van Buren. "Christian faith," he writes, "has to do with the New Testament witness to Jesus of Nazareth and what took place in his history. Christology, however it may be interpreted, will lie at the center of our understanding of the gospel."(Paul M. van Buren, The Secular Meaning of the Gospel [New York: Macmillan, 1963], p. 8.)

The difficulty with talk about God, says van Buren, is that the word does not refer to anything that can be described in empirical language. All statements about God can be translated into statements about man without losing their meaning. Today, we do not know enough to say that "God is dead," but it is certain that "the word God is dead."(Ibid., p. 103.)

However, to speak at all we need to realize that behind all that we claim to know there is a "blik." This word, derived from R. M. Hare, is used to refer to a basic conviction, probably grounded in the unconscious, that cannot be falsified. The classic example is the student at Oxford who thought that all dons wanted to murder him. No evidence to the contrary could be accepted. This is, says Hare, an "insane blik," and what we need are sane ones. A blik, then, is not based on impartial evidence from without by someone who does not care, but arises from self-involvement and deep caring. It is from the focus of one’s blik that he observes his world and provides his explanations. Flare writes, "Certainly it is salutary to realize that even our belief in so-called hard facts rests in the end on a faith, a commitment, which is not in or to facts, but in that without which there would not be any facts." (In Basil Mitchell, ed., Faith and Logic (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1957), p. 192. See Antony Flew and Alasdair MacIntyre, eds., New Essays in Philosophical Theology [London: SCM Press, 1955], pp. 99-103. "Blik" is a Dutch word [German blick] meaning "glance, look." Si jn heldere bilk means "his keen insight." This use may or may not have a connection with Hare’s.)

The language of faith, for van Buren, even though it has no reference to God, has meaning because it is the language of one who has been "caught" by the gospel, whose blik is functioning, who is addressing himself to his situation in the world. This faith turns on what happened at Easter.

The idea of Jesus as "a free man" is essential to van Buren’s portrayal. Jesus was free from many claims on him in terms of family, law, and authority; he was free to speak on his own authority and to do so without making any claims for himself. ‘He was above all free for his neighbor." (Van Buren, op. cit., p. 123.) This, says van Buren, is the "logical meaning" of faith.

This freedom was not evident in his followers and there were "no Christians before Easter." After Easter, the disciples were changed men. "Whatever it was that lay in between, and which might account for the change, is not open to our historical investigation. The evidence is insufficient. All we can say is that something happened." "The freedom of Jesus began to be contagious." (Ibid., pp. 128, 133.)

As van Buren recounts this story, he is careful about his choice and use of words. He says that "contagious" may be used in a figurative sense, as in "He has a contagious smile." "It carries the sense of our ‘catching’ something from another person, not by our choice, but by something which happens to us. We use it to point to the event of Easter, not of course to describe it." (Ibid., p. 133.)

So we can point to the liberating effect that Jesus has on those who are gripped by him. It is the story which is central, as the Gospel narrative is essential for this work to go on. For the believer in the Easter event, the gift of freedom is offered, and the result is a meaningful life with a historical and ethical dimension. All of this can become operational without reference to assertions about God.( For evaluations of van Buren’s position, see my article, "The Easter Event and Christian Education," Near East School of Theology Quarterly (April 1967); symposium, "Linguistic Philosophy and Christian Education," Religious Education, LX (Jan-Feb. l965), pp. 4-42, 48; David M. McIlhiney, "Paul van Buren and the Christian Stories," Religious Education, LXII (Jan-Feb. 1967), pp. 32- 37; Gerard S. Sloyan, Speaking of Religious Education (New York: herder & Herder, 1968). pp. 42-51; Robert L. Richard, Secularization Theology (New York: Herder & Herder, 1967), pp. 36-42, 49-50, 74-119; Schubert M. Ogden, The Reality of God (New York: Harper & Row, 1966), pp. 13-15, 85-90; E. L. Mascall, The Secularization of Christianity (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1965), pp. 40-105.)

Values for Education

For those who rest easily and uncritically within the uses of language in the Christian community, the kinds of questions posed by the philosophers of language may lead to uneasiness and therefore rejection, or the questions may not even be considered. Yet in the world of today, we are aware that what is said is not understood, and if this is so, the blame must be placed squarely where it belongs -- on those who fail to communicate.

As we turn to Christian education, we are faced first with the question of verification, which does not seem to bother such men as van Buren and Braithwaite. Then we can see how van Buren makes use of stories as stories and speaks of teaching about love. At this point we take up some hints from the distinctions between various kinds of language-games, which is a particularly important insight for Christian educators. We find that we can still talk about a world view or metaphysics, even though language is a weak stem on which to build ultimate meanings. Finally, we note some elements in the discipline of education as pointed out by Marc Belth.

Normally, when we make assertions, we do not even bring up the question of verification. Language arises from persons who speak, and the uses are as varied as the persons.(See Dallas M. High, op. cit., p. 42) Language deals with experience in the broadest meaning of the word, and it is a mistake to limit its basis to a narrow interpretation of experience (See Brand Blanshard, "The Philosophy of Analysis," in H. D. Lewis, ed., Clarity Is Not Enough [New York: Humanities Press, 1963; London: George Allen & Unwin, 1963], pp. 80- 109.) We know enough about the neurological system to be aware of the way in which the human brain can absorb impressions, retain concepts, understand relations, and create imaginative ideas which can be communicated to move beyond the senses as the only source or test of knowledge.

Van Buren has looked at the classroom in his article "Christian Education Post Mortem Dei." (Religious Education, LX [Jan.-Feb. 1965],pp. 4-10. Reprinted in Theological Explorations [New York: Macmillan, 1968], pp. 63-77.) In this situation, "the teacher can (1) teach the Christian story, (2) clarify the relations between faith and knowledge, and (3) clarify the relations between believing and living." (Religious Education, op. cit., p. 6.)Crucial to Christian education is the teaching of a story as story, leaving the telling of the story to pulpit and holy table. The stories are not to be understood as factual or critical histories, but simply as stories which can be appreciated and hopefully lead to ways of understanding and being understood.

As soon as one comes up against religious assertions, the pupils will have questions. One can verify the statement that the Rev. Mr. Blank is the rector of the parish, but one cannot in the same way verify the assertion that Jesus is Lord. Here is where clarification about language enters the educational process. Van Buren suggests that one way of resolving this issue may be found in a consideration of art. Trying to explain the beauty of a painting after it has "come alive" is different from reporting the score of a baseball game. One learns to talk about art, music, or love, but he needs to understand that the logical placing of such language is different from reporting the score of a ball game. This logical placing of the language of faith is something that must be learned.

A helpful illustration is that we cannot "teach love" but we can "teach about love." Van Buren suggests that the literature of love stories and poetry might be a starting point. In the process there would be a discovery of the different kinds of language that are used. But this analogy cannot be pushed too far, for "believers have stories to tell, not a photograph to look at." (Ibid., p. 10.)

Wittgenstein’s suggestion of the great variety of language-games is possibly the most important clue derived from this approach to language analysis. The teacher can help the student, possibly from about the age of seven, to recognize different categories of language use. For example, there is the simple distinction between factual and imaginative language. When a seven-year-old asks, "Is it true?" he has in mind empirical evidence. If he has heard Bible stories, he interprets them in a literal manner. It is at the age of from seven to eleven that we have the problem of their reducing other language-games to the descriptive, thereby providing a false base for future religious belief or for the rejection of it. Ronald Goldman’s studies, supported by many others, indicate that only after the watershed of the beginning of puberty do we find the capacity to think in terms of abstract propositions and especially in terms of analogical and imageless concepts.(See Ronald Goldman, Religious Thinking from Childhood to Adolescence (New York: Seabury Press, 1968; London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1963); Violet Madge, Children in Search of Meaning [London: SCM Press, 1965]; Edwin Cox, Sixth Form Religion [London: SCM Press, 1966]; Harold Loukes, Teenage Religion [London: SCM Press, 1963]; J. W. D. Smith, Religious Education in a Secular Setting (London: SCM Press, 1969], pp. 71-81.)

To take another example, if a seven-to-eleven-year-old child should ask if the ascension story is true, the proper reply is "No." For in his framework, "true" means empirically and descriptively so. If the question, "How fast did Jesus go up?" is improper, we need to find a way of distinguishing between the language of myth and that of the astronauts. We can say that it is just a story, or that it is early science fiction, or that it was an attempt of the early Christians to tell of a unique experience. The problem is one of meaning for those who told the story. We have some evidence that children of this age can deal successfully with parables and other imaginative stories in just this manner. They will say of a parable, "It’s not true, but it helps me to understand."

There are a number of language-games which pupils may be helped to recognize. If I say, "Shut the window please," this is an imperative. One does not normally ask for verification of the window, but one responds by closing it. It would have nothing to do with proof if the hearer replied, "Close it yourself." Imperative language operates with meaning outside the limits of verification. "Go therefore and make disciples of all nations (Matt. 28:19)" is an imperative from a biblical source.

If John says, "I, John, take thee, Mary, to he my wedded wife," the words do something. Without these words, the marriage does not occur. The words are the act, provided that there is no impediment. The words are completed publicly, and the clergyman says, "I pronounce you man and wife." Such language is performative and self-involving, and, as we will see, is significant for Christian education. "I accept Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior" is such a performative statement.

"Art thou the man?" represents an interrogative form of speech and is equally essential for meaningful discourse. The question may be rhetorical or may be for the purpose of stimulating thought. In some cases, it demands a direct answer.( See Frederick Ferré Language, Logic, and Cod (New York Harper & Row, 1962), pp. 55-57.)

Religious experience carries one into an area of mystery, and sometimes silence is the only possible result. But we try to explain and this leads to the use of paradox, sometimes in very helpful ways. John Wisdom has called paradoxes "symptoms of linguistic penetration."(Philosophy and Psychoanalysis [Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1953], p. 41.) Language is at work in such a case, even though the result does not resolve the paradox.

We can and do speak of a world view, of metaphysics. We need a way of looking on life and the universe as Christians. As long as a world view is rooted in empirical facts, it may provide a reasonable way of looking on things. Various maps of the world may show its mineral resources, its mountains and rivers, or its national boundaries. It may be a globe or Mercator’s projection. I may need a map to get from New Haven to New York City, or a sea chart to sail to New London. In any case, I am trying to gain perspective on where I am going.(See H. H. Price, in H. D. Lewis, ed., Clarity Is Not Enough, p. 37.) Ultimately, I need to connect things together, or find out that God has already done so. For the Christian, metaphysics helps place God at the center of meaning, as the key word.

The above examples may prove helpful to teachers, but what is essential is to be willing to explore these distinctions with children. The foundation of Christian education lies in the stories, myths, legends, poetry, and history of all people. Out of an attack on language and its meanings, probably in adolescence, belief in God may begin to emerge as one s own belief. In the current confusion, this is where the difficulty is greatest.

"Language," writes Brand Blanshard, "is a very dim and flickering taper with which to explore infinity, or freedom, or causality, or substance, or universals. In such questions, commonsense meanings can, at best, provide a point of departure, and one from which thc critical mind makes its departure rapidly and into distant places." (In H.D. Lewis, ed., op. cit., p. 103.) But these distant places are difficult to talk about, and this is where the problem is most crucial. Van Buren will let us talk about Jesus and contagious freedom, but for him the word "God" does not operate. This is not a new problem, however. As far back as 1928, Henry Nelson Wieman suggested that "we do not know what we arc trying to do in religious education because we have no common understanding concerning the word God. All sorts of diverse ideas are held concerning what the word stands for. . . . If we could banish the problem by simply banishing the word, all would be well. But it is not so simple as that." (Religious Education, XXIII (Oct. 1928), p. 715. For some of the difficulties presented by current theologies, see Theodore McConnell, "The Scope of Recent Theology: New Foundations for Religious Education," Religious Education, LXIII (Sept-Oct. 1968), pp. 339- 49.)

What Education Is

We can be helped further with this kind of analysis if we turn our attention to some logical distinctions in the study of education. First, according to Marc Belth, we need to distinguish between education and schooling. A school is a reflection of the interests, needs, and purposes of a community and therefore does many things in the interest of the students’ welfare which are not strictly education, such as concern with health, athletics, manners, citizenship, and other desirable services. A church school or a parish school may have similar concerns, plus such activities as worship, within the framework of an objective that includes indoctrination.

Education, however, says Belth, "deals with the relationship between concepts and powers nurtured in learners, and with the methods of creating concepts as the inventions of intelligence, in whatever fields these methods come to be employed Education becomes a way of raising and answering a question not otherwise asked, a question centering on the problems of improving the ability to think. . . . It is . . . concerned with the development of powers of thinking, symbol manipulation, and identification of theoretical bases for the acting and speaking, the exploring, and the describing which identify man."(Marc Belth, Education as a Discipline [Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1965]. pp. 7,13, 39. See Charles F. Melchert, "The Significance of Marc Belth for Religious Education," Religious Education, LXIV (July-Aug. 1969), pp. 261-65.)

Education is concerned with bringing the old and the new together, so that the learner will continue to increase his powers and to find deeper meaning in the world. This goal points to three criteria: (1) Expansiveness, or the pursuit of liberation, is the broadening of the base of study and the refusing to accept premature conclusions. It is the recognition that no "derived or inherited system of beliefs is beyond further inquiry." (Belth, op. cit., p. 41.) (2) Exploration makes use of everything that is available in experience and moves on to a consideration of literacy as a source of further information. The power to compare, test, and evaluate must accompany any exploration. We need to remember that Germany was the most literate nation in the world when I Hitler took over and used an uncritical literacy as a means for maintaining his power. (3) Analysis is the power to discover and modify structure and meaning. This needs to begin at an early age. We now have evidence, says Belth, that "children, even at the kindergarten age or earlier, learn science in a way which enables them to understand the interrelationship of elements in an operation being explored." (Ibid., p. 43.) This is particularly so of mathematics. But children may also develop the power to analyze different forms of language-games and thus escape from the unwitting literalness which Goldman reports is typical in the religious thinking of those from seven to eleven.(See Ronald Goldman, Readiness for Religion [London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1965, New York: Seabury Press, 1968], p. 18.)

The fundamental functions of education are probably universal, although they may be stated in different forms. The suggestion of Belth is that there are supportive, preservative, and deliberative functions, which can be outlined briefly as follows:

Supportive

1. Powers of observation or perception

2. Sign or symbol manipulation operations

3. Instrument skills

Preservative

4. Memory

Deliberative

5. Inference making

6. Test making and test performing (See Belth, op. cit., pp. 75-76.)

Most education, especially religious education, gets cut off somewhere along the way, or there are serious omissions that make the last step impossible. The stress on the authoritative teaching of Bible or church often leads to stopping at step 4. If the learner can repeat the answer, whether a theological proposition, a catechetical response, or a Bible verse, this is sometimes satisfying. But it is not education.

It is proper, educationally, to speak of students who "do" theology or Bible study or moral analysis, utilizing the skills which we have helped them to develop. These include skills of logical analysis and straight thinking based on the gathering of sufficient data, in an atmosphere in which differing with the teacher is considered a normal response. Indeed, in one set of curriculum materials this is recognized in a teacher’s guide in which there is a warning against becoming an "answer man or calling in the clergyman as the supreme "answer man." The teacher, as an enabler or equipper or coach, no matter how expert he is as a scholar, is in his teaching function asked to help the student to release and develop powers of observation and reasoning that will serve him as a continuing learner.

If the above can be said of all education, what can be said that makes it "Christian" or "religious"? First, there is the subject matter to which education as a discipline is applied. Second, there are the overtones of commitment and loyalty to the object being studied, so that the personal element enters fully into the picture. Third, it takes place within a community which is empirically anchored in worship of God, who is the object of study. Fourth, the teacher, and presumably the pupil, at least potentially, are loyal members of a community of believers. There is, then, a nurturing atmosphere in which the process of education per se is found, so that commitment is encouraged.

Belth suggests that the model of education we choose will determine both goals and outcomes. In order to help both teacher and pupil cope with the world, we need a model that is effective.(See Melchert, op. cit., p. 265.)

One way of moving toward such a model is through a consideration of the philosophy of language. Because all education, especially in the liberal arts and in religion, is so highly verbal, we need to be able to make the distinctions between models of language use that will clarify the issues and make intelligence a competent factor in religious thinking. This is not all there is to Christian education, which is rooted in the issues which arise and the needs which exist in the lives of people, and we need to recognize this limitation in language study, but it is clear that we cannot get very far unless we know how we are using words and what our assertions mean.

First, we need to look at the kinds of intellectual operations we can use in relation to the data for thinking about God as real, and to this we turn in the next chapter.

Chapter 1: Language and the Gospels

"How does one speak of God in a secular age?" This is the complex and difficult question facing all religious teachers and communicators. It is not a new problem, but today it cuts across all areas of religious education. In spite of many developments in educational theory and practice, the evidence of religious illiteracy is startling. In spite of the many people who still attend church school, parochial school, church, and synagogue, the results in terms of articulateness as well as commitment are unsatisfactory.

This stress on the verbal side of education cannot be ignored, although there are many ways of reaching people through appeal to senses other than hearing and seeing, and experiments with multi-media approaches are important. Christianity has historically been a verbal religion, relying on scripture, liturgy, and theology as means of teaching and survival. Life in community, drama in worship, and action in the world have been expressions of Christian living, but at the center has been "the word of God." Much routine teaching has been in terms of using words; it has been linear rather than multi-media; it has been logical and systematic rather than poetic and impressionistic; it has emphasized the givenness of the content rather than the discovery of meaning.

Even in the recent past, an emphasis on the right answer in the catechism, the proper Bible verse, the correct moral decision, or the acceptable behavior in worship has been considered at least a minimal objective for religious education; some teachers have been satisfied with this approach, but others have claimed that such results are a parody of Christian expectations.

Today, however, most teachers are aware that they do not have all the answers. Indeed, some of them are sensitive to the changes taking place in religious thinking, to the uncertainty about many traditional beliefs, and to the difficulty of speaking of God so as to be understood. They are seeking to be honest about their beliefs, to recognize myth and legend and poetry, to see the validity of festival and fantasy, to relate their faith to the secular world, and to speak to the new generation in language that can be understood. These teachers are charged with using a biblical faith as a basis for illuminating today’s world, and they are frustrated by the difficulty of interpreting first-century Eastern literature to a twentieth-century technological society.

The language of the early Christians fitted their culture. At first, they used the Jewish scriptures, which reflected the life of the Middle East. As Christianity moved into the world of the Greeks and the Romans, their uses of language changed to meet the new situation. After the canon of the New Testament was closed, they continued with their theologies and later their catechisms to adapt their language to the changing conditions. As long as there was a relatively close connection between the language of Christians and the culture, teaching was not difficult. Even the Reformation with its return to biblical language did not provide too great a strain.

However, whenever Christianity was introduced into a strange culture, difficulties emerged. Missionaries have always faced the problem of how to communicate their beliefs without at the same time introducing their own cultural presuppositions. They usually followed colonial invasions with the cultural accretions that accompanied them. If enough British culture, for example, was introduced in India or Kenya, then the people could become Anglicans at the same time. In countries where Westernizing influences were slight, the missionaries had more difficulty.

When a foreign way of thinking is introduced into a culture, the tendency is to form an antibody to dispel it (as with a transplanted kidney) or to disintegrate as the new form takes over. Unless there is a point of meeting that accepts the merging of the two, the results are disastrous.

A familiar illustration of this point is the failure of the American Indian to be integrated into the common national life. Clyde Kluckhohn spent many years studying the Navahos. He used all the tools of cultural anthropology to observe, classify, and evaluate his data. But he did not understand them. When, finally, he learned to use their concepts to describe the facts observed in their way, he was confronted with a philosophy that made sense of their way of living. The Navaho view at points is irreconcilable with the white man’s, and what seems just and fair to the white man is demoralizing to the Navaho.(See Clyde Kluckhohn, "The Philosophy of thc Navaho Indians," F. S. C. Northrop, ed., Ideological Differences and World Order (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1949), chap. 17; also, F. S. C. Northrop. Man, Nature and God (New York: Pocket Books, Inc., 1962), pp. 34-35) Every culture and subculture has a system of meanings that identifies it and becomes a basis for the thinking and behavior of its members.

None of us is asking how to think as a Navaho in modem society. The problem is similar, however, if we ask how to be a first-century Jewish-Christian Bible reader, with the accompanying concepts that made sense in that context, in today’s world. Or, if this jump seems too big, at least we are asking how we can think as a sixteenth-century follower of Luther, Calvin, Erasmus, or Cranmer in today’s world. Or, as the problem seems to emerge today, how one who thinks in terms of the Christian beliefs of the 1950’s can be relevant in the world of the youth of the 1970’s with their own subculture, of those who are developing a new sense of identity in the black subculture, or of the members of a technological society that has lost the sense of mystery and poetry.

This problem has become clearer as we approach new studies in religions language. Ian T. Ramsey suggests that when we see that

these biblical narratives and classical references were themselves interlocked with a contemporary culture and social pattern, and in this wider context had their point, then there is reason to hope that this original point may now break in on us as we bring alongside our own particular situation. We may then, using an obvious model, talk of God speaking to us in our own day.(Ian T. Ramsey, On Being Sure in Religion (London: The Athlone Press, 1963), p. 35.)

Ramsey’s diagnosis is probably correct, but the solution bristles with difficulties. Our Western culture has moved so rapidly in the past half century, our ways of thinking have been so affected by the scientific, technological, and secular advances, that our situation seems divorced almost completely from society as presupposed in biblical and traditional theological thinking. Achievements in terms of comfortable living, rapid transportation, mass media, and health turn people’s thoughts to technology, automation, and computers. The increasing urbanization, with its attendant problems, leaves little room for meditating on rural and nomadic scenes in biblical literature. Social changes, especially as demanded by blacks and students, point to new idealisms and new pressures. Poetry, mystery, and talk about revelation have more and more dropped out of contemporary life. Traditional moral sanctions are seriously questioned.

Biblical language might free us from some of these limitations if we were capable of thinking in such images, but we have become too literal in our thinking. Are we not like Nicodemus who, when Jesus talked about being reborn, wanted to know if one would literally return to his mother’s womb? What do we do with such phrases as "Christ lives in me" or ‘‘work out your own salvation. . . . but Christ works in you" or (from Ignatius of Antioch) "Jesus Christ, his son, who is his word proceeding from silence"? Christianity formed its own vivid, imageful, poetic vocabulary, and the question today is, What does it all mean?

Christianity a Speech-Event

As background for any approach to Christian education through the insights of the findings of the philosophers of language, we need to look closely at the uses of language in the Bible, and especially in the Gospels. Amos N. Wilder provides an analysis of early Christian uses of language which is extremely helpful.(Amos N. Wilder, The Language of the Gospels: Early Christian Rhetoric (New York: Harper & Row, 1964). This book provides the basis for many of the comments in this chapter.) It is the nontechnical speech of the common man, lacking in literary pretensions. It is a language with uplifting properties, speaking of new tongues and new songs, reporting on events and teachings that promise the coming of salvation. Because it was a new way of looking at God, man, and the world, it needed new forms of expression.

Ernst Fuchs has called Christianity a "speech-event," a renewal of myth. "Primitive Christianity," he writes, "is itself a speech phenomenon. It is for this very reason that it established a monument in the new style-form which we call a ‘gospel.’ The Johannine Apocalypse and, indeed, in the first instance the apostolic epistle-literature, these are creations of a new utterance which changes everything it touches."(Ernst Fuchs, "Die Sprache im Neuen Testament," Zur Frage nach dem historischen Jesus (Tübingen, 1960), p. 261; quoted by Wilder, op. cit., p. 18.)

The religion of Israel, even though it appealed to all the senses, had a special place for hearing, and as the oral mode became permanent, it was transferred to the written. It was not a scientific and descriptive language but a means of providing God’s commands for the hearers who are expected to respond. Thus Israel and after it Christianity became religions of the "book."

There was no holy language; it was the common everyday language translated into whatever tongue the listeners spoke and infused with the enthusiasm of the believers. The New Testament used the rich store of images in the Old Testament, interpreting them with great freedom and mixing them with new ones. Only occasionally were Old Testament prophecies used in a wooden way to underscore the significance of an act of Jesus.

The oral speech behind the written record seemed often to be extempore and immediately relevant. This was particularly true of the words of Jesus, whose use of direct discourse and dialogue led to confrontation not only with him but through him with the Father. Paul preferred oral speech and sent letters as a substitute, and even these letters preserved the occasional nature of spoken dialogue.

Even though Christianity placed great emphasis on the word, and especially the oral word, it was not ‘just talk." The purpose was to portray a revelation and not to win an argument. Therefore, the writings were brief and to the point. One makes a different selection of points to bring about a new insight from those chosen to win a debate. The Gospels, written to reveal the nature of the Son of God, do not pretend to be biographies of Jesus. No inflated rhetoric was necessary, and the need for brevity led to both liberation and purification in the use of language.

Two other points made by Wilder need to be kept in mind. First, the significance and depth of the New Testament writings were "evidently deeply determined by the faith or life-orientation that produced them."(Wilder, op. cit., p. 34) Second, particular social patterns led to the formation of this literature, which is the expression of the faith of a community. A new society had been formed which used these materials in their worship and in their common life, and in turn these demands forged the materials prior to their final, written form.

These new forms cannot be identified simply as history, biography, oratory, or poetry, although these are elements in the writings. Partly because Christianity was a novelty in its own right and was a "speech-event," and partly because it arose out of a tradition of Judaism and the Orient, these categories do not fit. Wilder suggests that we use Gospel, dialogue, story, parable, poem, and myth.

Gospel

The one new kind of writing is the Gospel. It does not fit the categories of biography, hero story, or tragedy. It is not a myth or saga. It is not the work of a single author. It is a community’s expression of the record of "a divine transaction whose import involves heaven and earth"(Ibid., pp. 36-37.) in which the believer finds himself a participant. Here is the meaning of life for the believer in community, as he himself is transformed into a new being.

Yet the four Gospels are not alike. Mark is something of a faith story. Matthew is more a tract of instruction. Luke -- Acts is written as if from a later perspective. John is more like a "sacred drama or oratorio." The major thrust of these writings is found in microcosm in the anecdotes of healing and exorcism, in the parables, and in the passion and resurrection stories as the "concrete dramatization of the power of God effecting what is impossible with men."(Ibid., pp. 37-38.)

The Gospels combine what Jesus said and did with the faith of the Christian community, and this community knew Jesus partly by remembrance but chiefly as a living, contemporary, and human-divine figure who needed to be interpreted in order that the community could live in terms of its divine commission. It not only needed to hear the Gospel; it also needed to weave the Gospel into its worship and life. The earliest liturgical forms grew from the soul of the Gospels; the earliest preaching recounted the Gospel anecdotes or summarized the whole story as did Peter at Pentecost. For a time this process was chiefly oral, partly because oral transmission was customary but chiefly because oral transmission provided the sense of immediacy that the Gospels intended. The expectation that God would bring an end to things made written words unnecessary. Even when the expectation of the end was postponed, the immediacy of the claim of God upon them was never lost. This note of immediacy remains today as an essential note of the Gospels.

It is not hard to believe that the early followers of Christ found this kind of reality in the Gospels. But the twentieth-century Western man has difficulty today in recreating the sense of urgency. Man has his own anxieties in the twentieth century, which may be as pressing as those of the first century, but he has difficulty in grasping the meaning of his life in terms of the Gospel. The Gospel as a "speech-event" forces modern educators to look to the analysis of language to discover how the basic meaning of the Gospel can be communicated in today’s world.

Epistles

There is nothing new about the letter form, and in the days of the New Testament letters were sometimes unsigned or written in another’s name. Discourses meant for wide circulation were sometimes written as letters. The value of a letter is that it is personal and flexible and comes nearest to oral speech. Some of Paul’s letters were dictated and maintain an oral atmosphere. Letters, furthermore, can be relevant to a particular situation and may become part of a dialogue.

What is radically new about Paul’s letters is the way in which they are addressed, an opening which is Christianized and which presents the writer as one who speaks under God for the community. They serve a purpose different from that of the Gospels. They are more didactic, include some dogmatic statements, provide moral instruction, and even suggest forms of organization. Beneath these practical considerations, they express in ways that often approach poetry the deepest aspects of Christian faith. They seek to express in new ways the mystery of the transaction whereby Jesus Christ mediates salvation to those who believe.

Take, for example, Paul’s statement in 2 Corinthians 6:8-10: "As deceivers, vet true; as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold, we live; as chastened, and not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing all things." This passage has been full of vivacity and power for many believers, as it was for Paul’s original readers. Yet, if it is reduced to a logical definition, it is absurd. "A theological paradox," writes Charles Hartshorne, "it appears, is what a contradiction becomes when it is about God rather than something else, or indulged in by a theologian or a church rather than an unbeliever or a heretic."(Charles Hartshorne. The Divine Reality: A Social Conception of God [New haven, Conn,: Yale University Press, 1948], p.1.) However, the canons of logic may not be suitable for judging this statement; for this assertion, just because of its logical oddity or paradoxical form, may trigger a disclosure that is essential to the possibility of a religious commitment.

We may use the epistles, then, for a variety of purposes. As occasional letters, they sought to speak to specific situations, and each situation required its own content and logic. Only on occasion did Paul’s imagination rise to flights of paradox and poetic forms. This is where the high poetry of the passage on love in 1 Corinthians 13 or the paradoxes on the nature of sin in Romans 7 have immediate cash value. A careful analysis of the use and meaning of his language is essential for using his writings today.

We may come to the same conclusions concerning the letters which are not so direct and personal in intent (e.g., James) and examine them on their own terms. These letters show more concern with the language of obligation as it is related to the language of faith. To be equipped for ministry in the world becomes an essential part of the educational process.

Dialogue

The preference for the oral as against the written tradition continued even after the New Testament was in written form. Quotations from the early Church Fathers often are variations of the written form and represent what they heard. Wilder believes that we now have tools for getting closer to the oral forms, for they also had their own conventions. ‘The perennial features of natural eloquence had been developed to a high art in the tradition that lay behind the parables and aphorisms of Jesus."(Wilder, op. cit., p. 51.) We find a combination of novelty and tradition so that images and forms were affected by the content.

There is much two-way speech in the Gospels: dialogue in the forms of question and answer, discussion, and story and comment. We see the background for this in the Old Testament, especially in God’s dealings with men, where men listen to God, argue with him, and submit to him. There are also many passages of dialogue between men. In the New Testament, this tradition is carried on.

The power of such dialogue is illustrated by the denial of Peter when he was accused of being with Jesus prior to Jesus’ arrest: "I do not know this man of whom you speak (Mark 14:71)." Wilder says:

We have here a plebian, low-life episode involving personalities that are nonentities -- a police court disturbance. Yet in our gospel context all the issues of world-history gather about it; issues of blessedness and damnation, whether for Peter, or for those to whom the early message was orally preached, or for us who read it after two millennia. This new plain rhetoric of the Gospel was what it was only because it was prompted by a new direct speech or word of God himself to men. What makes such stories and such dialogue so formidable is that in each one God, as it were, forces us to give him a face-to-face answer, or, to look him in the eye.(Ibid., p. 56.)

It is an illuminating experience to go through the Gospels seeking to identify genuine dialogue. Sometimes the questions are staged or inept, as so often in the Fourth Gospel, but there is a realism about most of the situations in which "radical personal challenge and encounter are primary." (Ibid., p. 61.) To discover who puts the question or what the situation is, to see the force of the answers or the point of the discussion, is to be drawn into the significance of the dialogue ourselves. This may be carried over into the responses in worship, antiphonal forms of prayer, and hearing the sermon.

The use of dialogue has become dominant in some theories of Christian education in recent years. Reuel L. Howe has defined it as "that address and response between persons in which there is a flow of meaning between them in spite of all the obstacles that normally would block the relationship."(Reuel L. Howe, the Miracle of Dialogue [New York: Seabury Press, 1962], p. 37.)

If we take a more verbal view of dialogue, as do the linguistic philosophers, we need to be sure of the agreed meaning and uses of the words. Jesus is portrayed in dialogue with enemies who have not sought an interpersonal relationship with him. Their questions are meant to trap him into indiscreet or treasonous replies. He needs to understand the implications as well as the direct meaning of their questions and to answer in a way that will safeguard his meaning. But in his discourses with his disciples, Jesus is portrayed as having a sound interpersonal relationship and yet the disciples have difficulty in understanding what seems to us, from our standpoint, as the plain meaning of his replies.

One purpose of dialogue is to get people on the same wave-length, to establish the way words are being used, to agree o which language-game is valid for the particular purpose. For example, when a seven-year-old asks, "Is it true?" his language that of the one who wants to test the assertion by an appeal experience; he is uninterested in more sophisticated theories the nature of truth, and he considers myths, fairy tales, legends, parables, and poetry to be "untrue" even if useful. But the dialogue does not clarify anything unless we can operate terms of his view of truth, which establishes the form of his language-game. The problem is similar when a child asks "Which came first, Adam and Eve or the dinosaur?" He has already mixed his language-games and it is necessary to establish the proper categories of language before either Adam and Eve or extinct Mesozoic Saurian reptiles can profitably be discussed. The dinosaur belongs properly to the scientific language of the reconstruction of biological history, and the Genesis story be longs to a biblical category of mythic thinking. The proper us of question and answer can help the student to make distinctions on his own, and the art of conversation is an excellent tool for eliminating misconceptions based on category mistakes.

A final point about dialogue is that it can be a means of in sight when the answer is unexpected or contains an element of distortion or hyperbole. This is evident in much of the dialogue given to us in the Gospels. A mixing of logically odd assertions from two language-games may lead to a disclosure. A statement, "Thou art the man," can convict David of his misdeed with Bathsheba.

Stories

Another important literary form in the Gospels is the story. Teachers have always used stories, often with certain aids to memorization such as rhythms, factual expressions, and gestures. Stories are living, oral speech.

The Gospel stories have some unique characteristics, according to Wilder. They have a simple, secular base that may be misleading, for they point beyond the immediate experience. They draw into themselves the great plot of God’s redemption of mankind, reflecting the overall drama of the Bible in many small subplots. They have a power to draw the listener into the meaning of the story. "Perhaps the special character of the stories in the New Testament lies in the fact that they are not told for themselves, that they are not only about other people, but that they are always about us."(Wilder, op. cit., p. 65.) The story may end, but our participation may carry on in terms of challenge, belief, and action.

One impression we get from the Gospels is that they are strung together from a number of anecdotes which are not necessarily in the order in which they occurred, even if they are historical. They probably circulated as independent units at first; they were sharpened and improved with constant retelling, although some may have been garnished with extra details and therefore became less clearly focused. Undoubtedly some were dropped from the repertoire, as the Gospel of John suggests. These anecdotes were fitted into the larger frame of reference, usually from the perspective of the post-Easter church.

Because of the post-resurrection viewpoint, anecdotes of healing and exorcism were combined with the passion story and the words of Jesus as the Son of God in a transaction that changed heaven and earth. The faith of the community was expressed by and undergirded by the Gospels.

Wilder illustrates this thesis with one of the healing stories.(See ibid., pp. 70-74.) We miss the point if we concentrate on Jesus the wonder worker or use the story to bolster our hopes when we go to a healing service or shrine. These things may or may not be suitable, but they are not the point of the story. The meaning of the event is seen in a post-resurrection perspective "as a manifestation of a general redemption for the whole people of God." Physical, moral, and spiritual distress were all one for the early Christians, and they were concerned with the redemption of the total person.

The place of the story in Christian education is of paramount significance, and we will return to this topic from time to time. A special form of it is the parable.

Parables

The parables are integral parts of the telling of the story of redemption. They have great variety of form but always speak of the purpose of revelation. They are more like a metaphor than a simile, for a metaphor provides "an image with a certain shock to the imagination which directly conveys vision of what is signified." (Ibid., p. 80.)A metaphor, as Ian I. Ramsey says, "yields many possibilities of articulation,"(Ian T. Ramsey, Models and Mystery (London: Oxford University Press, 1964), p. 48. See his whole treatment of the topic, pp. 48-57. "A simile is a comparison proclaimed as such, whereas a metaphor is a tacit comparison made by the substitution of the compared notion for the one to be illustrated. . . . Every metaphor presupposes a simile & every simile is compressible or convertible into a metaphor. . . . It may fairly be said that every parable is extended metaphor & allegory extended simile." Margaret Nichcolson, A Dictionary of American-English Usage, based on Fowler’s Modern English Usage (New York: Oxford University Press. 1957), p. 520.) and this opens up the variety of interpretations some parables have received. Some scholars insist that a parable has only a single point, and to find other points is like pushing an analogy too far. Yet both Wilder and Ramsey assert that a metaphor, like a parable, stimulates the imagination and therefore evokes insight that it may not control.

Jesus’ parables reflect the places and times of his own ministry. They have a secular note about them. There may be some Old Testament allusions, which are also secular. As a result, the moral and religious applications or implications refer to the world in which men live. There is no precious religiosity in them.

Wilder helps our understanding of the parables of the kingdom. Because they arc clearly metaphorical, they stimulate the imagination in various ways, and so, from Wilder’s point of view, they may be misinterpreted as, say, parables of growth. They need a context in which the harvest is coming. The prophetic expectation is to be fulfilled in the here and now. Jesus combined the language of the coming kingdom and the language of the layman to make his point. He is not advising the farmer to "keep his chin up" because next year the rains might come. "The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys the field (Matt. 13:44). Here the emphasis is on ‘‘the joy in the discovery’’ and not on the value or the sacrifice.(Wilder, op. cit., p. 94.)

Both parables and stories are essential in all teaching. The language philosophers, as we shall see, are happy with both, especially with the parable because it is never purely factual and therefore needs no verification. Yet a parable has a basic realism about it, which can be destroyed if it becomes too obviously allegorical. Perhaps this is the proper test for all parables: if the ornamentation is not necessary for the parable to make its points, then that portion of it should be eliminated. Jesus’ parables stand up under this test. Those who are teachers necessarily tell their own parables, and the penetrating realism of Jesus is a proper example of what teachers in their lesser ways are trying to do.

Poetry

The poetry of the Bible, and especially of the Gospels, does not fit into our Western norms, except that rhythm is basic. In the New Testament, the poetic prose of the Greeks and the parallelism and accentuated rhythms of the Jews are apparent. We find aphorisms, prophetic oracles, psalms, and hymns, some of which reflect heathen patterns with a Jewish or Christian cast.(See ibid., pp. 103-5, 112; also Ian T. Ramsey, Christian Discourse [London: Oxford University Press, 1965], pp. 14-20.) It is not easy for the modern Western mind to distinguish prose from poetry, and one is not helped by the way many translations of the Bible have been printed. (See, for examples, Ephesians 5:4; I Timothy 3:16; 2 Timothy 2:11a-13a; I John 2:9-11.)

The early Christian community had its own poetry and songs: "Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, as you teach and admonish one another in all wisdom, and as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs with thankfulness in your hearts to God (Col. 3:16)." The freedom and creativity of the speech-event are evident, especially when we remember that speaking with tongues expressed this same enthusiasm. Such poetry was naive and lacking in sophistication and sustained style, but it sang a new song in no uncertain tones.

As we will see in chapter 6, this use of what Canon Drink-water calls "poetic-simple" language is significant for the communication of religious faith. It is the language of disclosure, discernment, or insight; and its proper use may evoke a new way of looking on life. It is a language-game in a new dimension, and it has its own uses and meanings which point to a reality that includes a profound mystery, the mystery of life and death.

Myth

Western categories do not take adequate account of myth. Myth, ritual, and emotion interact in primitive religion, and they are necessary in any profound worship. This "mythic mentality’’ runs throughout the New Testament. Such pictorial imagery reaches a surrealist stage in the Book of Revelation, but this must not hinder us from seeing how mythic thinking permeates all the writings.

Wilder understands myth

in the sense of total world-representation, involving, of course, not only what we would call the external cosmos but man as well, and all in the light of God. . . . If the Word of God must necessarily speak with the mythopoetic words of men, it is all the more inevitable that this should be so where the ultimate issues of existence are in question.(Wilder, op. cit., pp. 128-29. A consideration of Bultmann’s approach to myth appears in chapter 4.)

We are operating here with a specialized language-game, a category of language that cannot be reduced to factual description, and yet with imagery that cannot be reproduced without assistance in the twentieth century. The early Christians formulated the myths of their time both to express their faith and to combat early or erroneous contemporary myths. Just as twentieth-century myths have to be combated, so did earlier ones. We have had Hitler’s myth of Aryan superiority and the place of the Jews, myths that accept scientism as an accurate portrayal of the meaning of life, myths of the destiny of the American nation as a melting pot or as a guardian of the world, and the myth of Horatio Alger. But we have difficulties with the myths of the New Testament, and we need to learn how to use mythopoetic language derived from the biblical faith in the modern world. To this problem we will return in chapter 4.

Educational Implications

What this chapter has demonstrated is that insofar as Christian education is based on the Bible we have to see how much we rely on specific literary forms for teaching. These forms are sometimes alien to the modern generation, or at least they are not recognized as the forms being used and therefore the wrong questions arc asked of them. Any mixture of categories of language can be dangerous, and yet some mixing is essential if one is to gain insight into religious meanings. Further analysis of religious language is necessary if we are to clarify our verbal approaches to teaching.

But even as we begin this study, we can gain some educational insights from Wilder’s approach as it stands. He warns that "one cannot merely repeat the words of the Bible, or lay one passage of the New Testament next to another, and so pretend to communicate the gospel." Interpretation is essential. We need to discover what the images meant originally, within the life situation of the speaker and the hearers, and this opens up the possibility of interpretation for our own day.

Wilder, like others whom we will examine, places emphasis on the story, for it is through the story that the Christian confesses his faith. Personages in stories can be identified with, and thus the purposes of the stories may be appropriated. In this sense, every Christian story is open-ended, leaving the future in the hands of the hearers. Furthermore, when enough stories have been told, the hearer begins to see the framework of the Christian view of life, with its emphasis on the work of God in the world and on the promise of salvation. Every form of Christian rhetoric derives ultimately from this world view.

Another implication is that the teacher must be able to move from theological to lay language. This is what parables are admirably equipped to do. To do this takes a combination of imagination, sensitivity, and skills that challenge any teacher.

However, the Bible remains a strange book. The more prosaic minds have not been happy with it, and some of the philosophers of language, in spite of their use of stories, have difficulty with the rich, mythic, paradoxical imagery. The daring assertions about the nature of God, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, man, and the world strain the credulity of the modern man. He finds the following statement made by Horace Bushnell in 1849 difficult to accept:

There is no book in the world that contains so many repugnances, or antagonistic forms of assertion, as the Bible. Therefore, if any man please to play off his constructive logic upon it, he can easily show it up as the absurdest book in the world. But whoever wants, on the other hand, really to behold and receive all truth, and would have the truth-world overhang him as an empyrean of stars, complex, multitudinous, striving antagonistically, yet comprehended, height above height, and deep under deep, in a boundless score of harmony; what man soever, content with no small rote of logic and catechism, reaches with true hunger after this, and will offer himself to the many-sided forms of the scripture with a perfectly ingenuous and receptive spirit; he shall find his nature flooded with senses, vastnesses, and powers of truth, such as it is even greatness to feel.(Horace Bushnell, God in Christ [Hartford: Parsons & Brown, 1849] pp. 69-70; reprinted in H. Sheldon Smith, ed., Horace Bushnell [New York and London: Oxford University Press], pp. 96-97)

Bushnell’s statement is fundamentally sound, especially when it is understood within the context of his theory of religious language, which we will consider in chapter 6, but it may mislead those who are caught up in some forms of biblical theology. Biblical theology has been helpful in clarifying some of the major themes of the Bible and in seeing that it has a complex unity. It is necessary that we think of the Bible as a record of the mighty acts of God, and it may well be understood as a drama, the five acts being Creation, Covenant, Christ, Church, Consummation( See my Biblical theology and Christian Education [New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1956]). But within this drama, each portion of scripture must be examined on its own merits or it may be twisted out of its proper context in order to fit a prearranged scheme. Furthermore, there is no excuse to move beyond proper linguistic analysis in considering the meaning of terms.

It is at this point that James Barr’s warnings are relevant. There is a school of thought that advises us to "think biblically," and yet neglects "the social consciousness of the meaning of words," and "the exact contribution made by a word in its context and communicated between the speaker and the hearer, or the writer and the reader." (James Barr, Semantics of Biblical Language [London: Oxford University Press, 1961], p. 281.) They have their good words and their bad words, and they seek to fit their biblical materials into a "good word" theology. The objection, from the standpoint of language analysis, is that they have not paid adequate attention to the normal use and meaning of words. If the Bible is to speak plainly, it must not be subject to imposed patterns even if they seem to be theologically proper.

Wilder’s approach avoids this kind of distortion, and if we follow his approach in Christian education we will be on the right track. Within the broad scope of belief in a "God who acts," we are free to examine the speech and actions of men, and we discover that most of their language is nonspecialized and nontechnical, with occasional words that are specifically religious in their connotation. The ease with which the early Christians translated their writings into Greek and other languages indicates that they, at least, had no prejudice in favor of any language, even Hebrew or Aramaic, for communicating religious ideas. In Christian education, then, the translation that comes closest to being the language of the students is the one to use.

Yet this early Christian vocabulary was plastic, rich, poetic, logically odd, and in some eases novel. In our effort to show that there was no "holy language," we must not forget that the language dealt with such concepts as "holy," "glory," and visions of the future, and did so in such a way that enduring impressions were made on the total persons of those who came under its influence.

As we turn to consider the theories of religious language that can help us in the proper verbal uses in Christian education, we need to keep in mind that the "God-talk" of the early Christians was on the whole nonspecialized and secular, and yet such talk dealt with holy things and with the drama of the salvation of mankind.

Preface

This book is written for Christian educators, trainers, teachers, and lay people who are facing the question: "How can we say what we mean about God so that our assertions will be understood, accepted, and responded to?" When we speak of God, many people do not realize what the word means or to whom it points. The influence of Western technological culture has infiltrated the thinking of educated people throughout the world and the categories of secular concepts are used to explain everything from repairing a bicycle to interpreting the scriptures.

Part of thc problem lies in the nature of religious language. We have become aware of the difficulty of communicating the mythic images of the Bible, due partly to Rudolf Bultmann’s theory of demythologizing, but the difficulty is more likely with the language itself. The high poetry of the Gospels is often considered to be fantasy by those who think only within the limited framework of verification of sense experience. Even when liturgical forms are deeply moving, the emotional response is not considered to be grounded in reality.

Within the Christian community, there are many who are at home with the traditional forms, which continue to have meaning for the initiated. These people tend to resent the efforts to communicate in new words and liturgical acts, object to translations of the Bible into current language, and fail to see the distinctions between various categories of language usage. Yet, they find increasing difficulty in communicating what they believe in societies influenced by modern secularism or by differing religious viewpoints.

One important resource, it seems to me, for overcoming some of these difficulties, is language analysis, a philosophical study of the use and meaning of language. Words and sentences are used in different ways in order to express various levels of thinking. We work by means of systems of words, and these systems cannot be mixed except with the greatest care. These systems or categories of language usage are called language-games by Wittgenstein. Each language-game has its own logic and means of verification, and it is important to establish the logical placing of the language of faith.

This book is not a critical study of language analysis. It is an attempt to present the findings of such study in terms of their application to Christian education. In each chapter, a survey is made of a significant view of the use of language, followed by comments on the educational implications. We are concerned with the use and meaning of language for the purpose of Christian education. This book is an extension of the thinking that began in a portion of chapter 5 of my Christian Nurture and the Church (1961) and presupposes the overall theory of Christian nurture espoused there.

It is important to recognize, the self-imposed limitations of this study. We are to deal with the key problem of how to talk about God, as this issue is illuminated by our understanding of how religious language works. This book does not pretend to offer a full-fledged doctrine of God; it deals with the doctrine of Christ only in passing; it mentions other doctrines by illustration. The full picture can be seen in other books I have written.

The approach is straightforward. We begin with a summary of the language of the Gospels, recognizing that Christianity is what might be called a speech-event. Then we turn to a survey of early language analysis, drawing on Paul van Buren’s development of this kind of thinking and his views of Christian education. This sets the stage for asking if there is a God who exists about whom we may talk, and at this point we rely on the writings of F. S. C. Northrop, Alfred North Whitehead, and Charles Hartshorne, and then we consider the educational results of their approach. Against this background, we begin a consideration of the use of language with the study of biblical myth, relying on Bultmann and Schubert Ogden, and we see what religious discourse means for Christian education according to Bultmann or Ogden or Amos Wilder. Now we are ready for more constructive suggestions, beginning with Ian T. Ramsey’s analysis of religious language as logically odd, a kind of speaking which may evoke a disclosure and lead to a commitment; his own examples provide an approach to how Christian education works through models and qualifiers. This approach is continued from another perspective in the thinking of Horace Bushnell and Francis H. Drinkwater who work through the language of the heart and provide us with the category of poetic-simple. But language does more than produce disclosures or reach the heart, and in the thinking of Donald Evans we come to the self-involving and rapportive language that does things; this gives us an opportunity to see how a changed onlook can lead to effective confirmation results. This problem of change in persons is looked at again in the next chapter, using the convenient labels of bliks and onlooks as a basis for seeing what education can do as initiation. One step beyond this is the issue of how one looks on God and his world, which brings in the problem of a world view in which Christian education can operate effectively today. The concluding chapter seeks to wrap up the discussion by consideration of the thinking of Reuel L. Howe, David R. Hunter, and Gerard S. Sloyan in Christian education, followed by a brief treatment of worship and ecumenical education.

This approach is, I hope, not too technical. I have omitted most of the difficult jargon, the critical evaluations, and the detailed extension of the arguments. The primary purpose is to use these insights in order that the verbal side of Christian teaching may be more effective. Certainly, if we take these findings seriously, we who teach will avoid many of the worst blunders. At least, we will be conscious of the language-game we are using and will assist our students in understanding how we point and show in religious language in a way that is different from how we do so in a chemistry laboratory.

The reading of Ian T. Ramsey’s Religious Language (1957) started my thinking in the direction of the thesis of this book. In 1965, I gave a seminar covering some of this material at Union Theological College, Vancouver, BC. The following fall, I repeated the seminar at Yale Divinity School, and for this I wrote a paper on "Linguistic Models and Christian Education," which I later read at the Professors and Research Section of the National Council of Churches and published in Religious Education for July-August 1966. The seminar was repeated at Union Theological Seminary in the summer of 1966, at Yale in the fall of 1967 and 1969, and at Drew in the fall of 1968.

A sabbatical year gave me the opportunity to do some additional study while teaching at Serampore College, India, and later at the Near East School of Theology, Beirut. Schubert Ogden, Donald Evans, and Paul van Buren have written to me after reading earlier drafts of the chapters on their positions, and I have been helped by their criticisms. Mrs. Miller and I were the guests of Bishop and Mrs. Ramsey, and I benefited from his response to the chapter on his position. The students in my seminars have provided me with criticisms that have helped in this final redrafting of the material. Philip Scharper, Chairman of the Board of the Religious Education Association, put the current version on the right track. My wife, who is always helpful about such things, listened to each chapter as it came out of the typewriter.

I have used translations of the Bible marked as follows:

G -- The Complete Bible: An American Translation, by J. M. Powis Smith and Edgar J. Goodspeed (copyright 1939 by the University of Chicago Press)

NEB -- The New English Bible (copyright 1961 by the Delegates of the Oxford University Press and the Syndics of the Cambridge University Press)

P -- The New Testament in Modern English, by J. B. Phillips (copyright 1958 by J. B. Phillips, the Macmillan Co.)

TEV -- Today’s English Version of the New Testament (copyright 1966 by the American Bible Society)

The unmarked scripture quotations are from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyrighted 1946 and 1952 by the Division of Christian Education, National Council of Churches.

I am indebted to these and other publishers in cases where they have granted me permission to quote copyrighted material, indicated in the footnotes.

 

Randolph Grump Miller

Yale University

The Divinity School

Bibliography

The intent of this bibliography is to present, as far as possible, a complete listing of significant works on Whiteheadian process theology. It includes all of the works by Whitehead and Hartshorne that have obvious theological importance, works on theological topics that have been significantly influenced by Whiteheadian philosophy, and essays that are critical of process theology. It does not include unpublished articles and dissertations, most book reviews, or journal articles that have been subsequently published in books (including the present volume). Neither does it include a complete bibliography for any individual philosopher or theologian, since the philosophers have written material that is not directly relevant to theology and the theologians have written material that does not especially reflect the influence of process philosophy.

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____________ Review of Charles Hartshorne, The Divine Relativity, in The Journal of Religion, XXIX (1949), 304-305.

Fitch, Frederick B. "The Perfection of Perfection," Process and Divinity, William L. Reese and Eugene Freeman, eds. LaSalle, Ill.: Open Court, 1964.

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Ford, Lewis S. "Boethius and Whitehead on Time and Eternity," International Philosophical Quarterly, VIII (1968), 38-67.

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________ "Is Process Theism Compatible With Relativity Theory?" The Journal of Religion, XLVIII (1968), 124-135.

____________ "On Genetic Successiveness: A Third Alternative," The Southern Journal of Philosophy, VII (1969-1970), 421-425.

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Gilkey, Langdon B. Maker of Heaven and Earth. New York: Doubleday, 1959, 1965.

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Chapter 25: The Aims of Societies and the Aims of God by George Allan

From the Journal of the American Academy of Religion, XXXV, 2 (June 1967). Copyright 1967 by the American Academy of Religion. Used by permission of the publisher and George Allan. George Allan holds degrees from Union Theological Seminary, New York, and Yale University. He is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Dickinson College.



This paper defends the view that human institutions have aims not reducible to, yet inextricably bound up with, the aims of individuals. Human and institutional behavior both exhibit the formal characteristics of purposiveness; in particular, both have aims they seek to actualize. On the one hand, these aims are distinguishable: institutional goals are not simply the sum of individual ones. But, on the other hand, they are inseparable in the sense that personal goals are shaped by the purposes of the institutions which environ them while community ends are molded by the aims of the individuals who comprise them.

It follows that a theology of God’s activity in history is inadequate if it denies or slights the question of his purposes for nations and institutions. It will be argued that the divine aims are substantially the same for societies as for persons, and consequently that such qualities as sinful, wayward, moral, and redeemed characterize institutions as truly as they do men. In short, the question to which this article addresses itself might be phrased: "Is there any salvation apart from the salvation of the social order — or, for that matter, apart from the salvation of the world?"

I

Almost all activity is oriented activity. There is a given state of affairs and there are the real possibilities for the immediate future. What activity there is in the present is oriented toward at least one of those possibilities, and the new state of affairs that comes to occupy the present expresses the success or failure of that orientation.

I shall call this structure within which action occurs a "teleological ordering" of the situation. Teleologically structured activity is to be distinguished, however, from purposive behavior as genus is distinguished from species. A "purposive" order is teleological, but with the added factor that the possibilities orienting activity are consciously envisioned and desired by the actor, In other words, purposive situations involve values, the entertainment of which functions causally to orient action toward specific goals.

The heliotropic movement of a plant illustrates a teleogical but non-purposive orientation. Its direction of growth is not random, but rather oriented toward a state of affairs initially unactualized. Yet the plant certainly does not behave purposively; the end for the sake of which it moves is not envisioned and valued by the plant itself. However, I shall pass over this obviously Whiteheadian claim that all activity is teleological, and instead limit the discussion to that particular kind of orientedness I have termed "purposive."

Teleological purposive ordering can be analyzed in terms of the five necessary and sufficient conditions of its occurring. (1) There is the completed present, a created temporal accomplishment slipping into the status of the freshly past, and leaving its legacy of attainments and of problems. Thus, for example, after a hard hour’s work I find my throat parched: I stand on the threshold of the present, and I am thirsty. (2] There are the teloi or ends that deploy themselves as possibilities for the present. A situation in which I am no longer thirsty is a possibility I, as thirsty, might entertain. These possible future states-of-affairs include, in the short run, my having drunk a glass of water or, more mediately, the possession of a new well or the diverting of a river. (3) There are those values that determine one from among the presented possibilities as a goal to be realized, and transform an end into an end-in-view. It is because I crave the quenching of my thirst that the drinking of a glass of water becomes no longer a mere possibility but a goal-for-me. (4) There is an activity that defines the method by which the end is actualized. To attain my goal I drink water, or hire a drilling rig, or organize a lobby for a federal dam. (5) There is the new world that is born out of this flux of activity, incorporating with characteristic success and failure the ideals and possibilities that called it forth.

Hence a structure of goals, values, and means characterizes the behavior of certain of the entities in our world. Quite obviously, individual human actions are in this sense purposive. But not only human actions. Social institutions are phenomena with a unity and stability sufficient to qualify as effective agencies with identifiable activities and patterns of behavior. I suggest that it is a valid application of our thesis to attribute to them also purposive structures of activity.

Men, being social animals, find their behavior inescapably infecting and infected by the behavior of other men. Thus, the structure of goals, values, and means that describes their activity will of necessity include description of the clash and agreement of ends, goods, and methods. The clash is the locus of individuality; it is in decisions made among competing claims to one’s loyalty and energies that the individual emerges as a center of value and accomplishment in the midst of his environment. But, conversely, agreement on ends, goals, and methods celebrates the birth of transpersonal purposes. The harmonization of activity in virtue of shared values and common goals marks the emergence of institutions — ephemeral ones such as social cliques and pressure groups, enduring ones such as churches and empires.

An institution is not merely a convenient tool in the kit of instrumentalities by means of which an individual makes his way toward a plethora of destinations. It has a life of its own in the sense that it shapes individual activity as well as serving as an outlet for it, entertains goals and affirms goods as well as being the empty form on which they may be hung. In the subordination of idiosyncratic ends or values to ones held in common, a transformation occurs in which mere agreement among individuals gives way to what can only be described as trans-individual goals and goods. In short, collective ends can and do become the ends of collectives; commonly held values can and do become values of the commonwealth.

As the goals of diverse individuals come to converge and to be routinized and directed in terms of institutional structures, an institutional purpose becomes visible alongside individual purposes. The institutional purpose is transcendent to the purposes of individuals, even though dependent upon them and inseparable from them. The national purpose is not merely the purpose of the president or premier; in fact, one criterion of greatness in a national leader is his ability to subordinate his own interests to those of the commonweal or, better, to identify the former with the latter. This presupposes that institutional ends are not reducible to those of its spokesmen. Nor are societal goals and values merely the sum of those of its constituency. Public opinion polls may shed light on societal values, for citizens express and influence institutional aims and goods. But it would be false to contend that the polls describe those values in their statistical summaries.

Certain ends and norms cannot, in fact, be coherently understood except as transpersonal. It is the university and not some one of its officers that incurs debts and grants degrees. If the United States is said to have pursued an inconsistent foreign policy over the past hundred years, it is the nation that is being accused of inconsistency. While each secretary of state may have been himself consistent, the inconsistency requires a referent transcendent to any single policy maker. The locus of the inconsistency is institutional rather than individual.

It is extremely difficult, however, to speak about institutional aims without either reifying or reducing their reality. An institution is conspicuously dependent upon individual human beings for its existence. For instance, if an organization may be said to have an articulated aim, the articulation rests ultimately upon the expenditure of human energy. The muscles of a human throat or hand are the inescapably necessary conditions for such expression. A given foundation may grant a million dollars to a certain college, but it is a particular representative who speaks for the foundation and it is a human counterpart who graciously accepts the gift in behalf of the college. In this sense an institution is the creation of persons. It expresses their attitudes much as a smile expresses happiness; it exhibits the attainment or the ruin of their desires in the same way as any human artifact.

However, it is equally obvious that an individual is dependent upon institutions for the way in which he exists. One’s goals are in large part derived from and sustained by the social structures that impinge upon him. It is a commonplace of sociological theory that a person defines himself in terms of the social roles he plays, out of either necessity or choice. Although it would be false to reduce an individual to the societal forces that shape his behavior, it would be an act of blindness to ignore their influence. In this sense a person is the creation of the societies to which he belongs. They orient his activity both from without and by means of the phenomenon of internalization. They provide him with his aims and attitudes much as parents provide their child with food and clothing.

To talk of the activity of institutions apart from the men who create and sustain them is a useful abstraction susceptible to the dangers of reification. Philosophers of history of the mold of a Spengler or a Hegel tend to commit this fallacy of misplaced concreteness. But to talk about the life of men apart from the societies that shape and constitute them is similarly an abstraction which borders on the reductionist fallacy, which sees social wholes as merely summaries of individual behavior. Positivistic philosophers and historians are open to a fallacy of misplaced concreteness in this different sense.

On the one hand, attention to the widespread presence of societal forces obscures the reality of autonomous individuality; on the other hand, a concern for the fact of idiosyncratic action beclouds awareness of the reality of social wholes. An adequate theory must do full justice both to the claim that culture is an expression of human aims and understandings and to the claim that persons are expressions of institutional forces and structures.1

The conclusion seems trivially true, and in fact almost anyone will readily admit that social interaction is a compromise between Walden One and Walden Two, between freedom and order, the individual and the collective. But everyone is not so ready to accept the ontological conclusions that this middle-of-the-road solution entails. In particular, it is typically difficult to accede to the grand assertion that an institution has as much ontological claim to the approbative status of "purposive entity" as does an individual. However, such equality of status can be shown by referring to institutions as individuals, as in legal theory concerning corporations. Or it can be done, as in Whitehead, by referring to human beings as societies. It is enough for the purposes of my argument to show that societies exhibit in their behavior the same five necessary and sufficient conditions for purposiveness that I applied at the outset to individual behavior. This behavioral isomorphism, despite all other obvious differences, elects societies as well as persons to membership in the select club of entities that, amid the multitudinous teleologies of the universe, are also purposive in their activity.

Whether the institution be a nation or a garden club, a business corporation or a family unit, the pattern is the same: (1) There is the contemporary generation, whose members exhibit in their being the traits peculiar to that society: the Frenchman with his linguistic artistry, the executive with his immaculate grooming. There are also the babies about to be born and the young men about to enter the world of business, bearers of future possibilities. (2) There are ideal possibilities for attainment — perhaps expressed in some archetype or paradigm of the relevant qualities already embodied brokenly in present attainment; perhaps expressed only by unreasonable hopes and the dim awareness of worlds beyond imagining. There is the possibility of reasserting the grandeur that is the "rightful" possession of France; there is the vision of corporation expansion and success. (3] There is a reciprocity of "care" or intentionality that defines the valuational woof upon which the disparate threads of individual activity are woven into a social fabric. The activities of both the seasoned corporation officer and the bright new initiate are oriented in terms of common values, shared judgments concerning the desirability of certain ends. For the present generation there is the aim of transforming the environment so as to mold the future closer to the heart’s desire; for the rising generation there is the aim of embodying that perfection. The executive seeks young men who will be effective servants of the business, and young men present themselves as the answer to his needs. (4) There are the activities undertaken in the light of these orienting goals that effect their attainment, in part or in whole. Through the mediation of a commonly envisioned and valued ideal, characteristics qualifying the present generation come to qualify its successors. The young man buys his proper suit of clothing; there grows upon the child a dawning awareness of himself as citizen of a nation and partial custodian of its destiny. (5) There is the dawn of the new day or age — a world in which French grandeur is a bit more evident, in which corporation profits are a little higher; or a world that marks the failure of such ideals and the triumph of other dreams. Here are the visible signs of that kind of purposive ordering that defines an institution: acquired characteristics commonly qualifying a number of individuals in virtue of the goals and values they collectively share.

II

So far I have argued three points: that persons engage in behavior patterns which can be characterized as purposive, i. e., as exhibiting a structure of aims, values, and methods of attainment; that individuals and institutions are interrelated, with each side influencing and being influenced by the purposes and activities of the other, although with neither being in any way reducible to or explicable solely in terms of the other; and that the institutional pole in this interaction shares with the individual as its opposite those characteristics that define its behavioral patterns as purposive. If this line of interpretation is at all adequate, it raises some interesting and important theological issues, to which we may now turn.

Christian thought has usually placed an emphasis upon the relevance of God to the question of aims and values. It is characteristic of Christianity, and even more so of the Hebraic heritage in which it is grounded, to assert that one of the few qualities shared by men and God is purposefulness. In the hands of the theologians this trait has often been intellectualized at the divine level into the qualities of omniscience and foreordination. But for the anthropomorphizing poets and prophets of the Bible it means the conviction that God wills and acts, that Yahweh grows angry or tenderly gives succour, that the father of Jesus Christ directs his love toward men and prepares them for the closing of the ages.

However, human social activity — that is, historical activity — is inescapably purposeful. If it is asserted that God acts in history, then the claim is being made that God is caught up in the structures of purposefulness. Such divine involvement should, I suggest, be seen as twofold. First, to believe that God acts in history is to assert that the aims, values, and methods of an individual’s activity are influenced by the divine presence. This may find expression in such existential language as "encounter," "confrontation," "I-Thou." Second, one claims that the divine reality itself considers certain things valuable, entertains ideal ends, and engages in behavior aimed at the actualization of those ends. It is this latter claim that underlies the contemporary attacks on the doctrine of God’s aseity. To biblical theologians and followers of Charles Hartshorne alike, the structures of purposiveness preclude the notions of classical perfection and of the God who, in his eternal completeness, lacks nothing. It is not my concern here to argue this point but, having assumed it, to draw out a few of its implications in relation to the prior discussion. If God has aims and men have aims, interaction among these aims finds expression in the further assertion that God has aims for men and that the true or authentic aim for a man is at ends and activities that accord with God’s aim.

The structure of the divine purposings can be analyzed apart from any presumptive claim to private knowledge of what God’s purposes in fact are. To act in history is to have purposes, no matter what they are, and consequently to exhibit the characteristics of teleological order strictly defined. Since biblical faith involves the further belief that these purposings include purposes for men — or, put existentially, for me — three things follow immediately. First, some potential, though not now actual, state of affairs, involving my self, my being-in-the-world, is a part of the divine vision. Second, this possibility is valued by God for me on the basis of criteria of value that he entertains or creates or is. Third, certain activity, engaged in by God, aims at transforming the realizable into the realized. Whether this activity is inexorable in its accomplishment of the divine intention or whether it can be thwarted by human activity is open to argument. I favor the latter view, primarily on the basis of its greater adequacy to the facts.

A right relationship, as understood by the religious individual, is similarly threefold. Among the possibilities for my life are those entertained by God. If I come to appropriate these divine goals-for-me as my goals-for-me, then the orientation of my behavior is, in terms of ends, identical with God’s. This orientation will be achieved, presumably, only to the degree that I also appropriate God’s system of values as my own. From this, appropriate activity should issue as a means to attain the valued end-in-view.

Any suggestion here of an overly simple piety or optimistic works-righteousness is blocked by an insistence upon the ideality of the model just constructed. The human situation is such that it frustrates at every point the ideal’s full accomplishment. God’s purposes are in part, and more often than not in whole, inscrutable. In their hiddenness they compel the individual to act without the assurance that he acts as God wills. Only in retrospect may one say with Paul, ‘Not I but Christ in me’; in the existential moment, decision is shot through and through with risk and hence is carried out in faith. Moreover, the individual’s intentions are never so pure as always to quicken him into compatible activity for the sake of divinely given goals, even when he has or thinks he has full knowledge of God’s will. Men are sinners as well as fools.

Having spoken against some particular heresies, I shall say no more of them. The task at hand is to extend this individualistic analysis to the social order. I have suggested that Christianity makes a claim concerning God’s activity that is susceptible to analysis in terms of the interpenetration of divine and human structures of purposings. But I argued earlier that individual values, goals, and activities are inextricably bound up with the social order, and that one of the results of this is the emergence in history of institutions, of transindividual realities that exhibit as literally as do individuals the threefold qualities of goods, goals, and methods. I am now ready to argue that the Christian belief in a God who acts in history entails the belief that God has aims for institutions and that a nation or a church, or even a garden club, is in right relationship to God only when its aims are identical with his.

The conviction that God has a purpose for the nations is well grounded in biblical thought and accordingly reiterated in Christian theology, most notably by Augustine. The phrase "God’s purpose for the nations" is equivocal, however. It can be taken to mean that God has a use for nations, that they have a role to play in the divine economy. His purposes for institutions are in this sense akin to his purposes ; for other inanimate or nonhuman portions of the creation, They are: necessary conditions instrumental for the fulfillment of human aims and of the divine aims for human beings. On the other hand, the phrase can be interpreted as asserting that God provides a purpose to the nations, that with respect to an institution, God entertains a goal-for-it just as he entertains a goal-for-me. He confronts the institution with that goal as a possibility for it to actualize.

The first of these two meanings requires no reinterpretation of the ontological nature of social structures. The familiar idea of the "fullness of time," for example, reflects an instrumental view of institutions. Thus, the function of the Roman Empire has been identified as making possible the proclamation of the Christian message to "all" men, so that the particularity of final revelation might be given a universality akin to natural revelation and "all" men might be left without excuse. Or, heuristically speaking, the rise and fall of empires might be construed as means by which men are brought to a realization of the vanity of their earthly, God-thwarting purposes. In this sense, however, a natural event or thing can serve as readily as an institutional event or structure as a catalyst for a person’s conversion or chastisement. Martin Luther was caught at one time in a thunderstorm and at another in a controversy over indulgences. But the acts of Pope Leo X were no different than the flashes of lightning: simply stimuli to occasion individual choice.

One difficulty in this approach is that it inadequately explains the meaning of man’s social existence. That the fall of a nation is on the same level as the withering of a fig tree — functioning merely as a sign of the divine intentions — makes arbitrary the social quality of human life. Society, like food and sex, is seen as a given pre-condition for the fulfillment of purposes but not as itself purposive. Nor does it appear even necessary: like sex, if not like food, it can be foresworn by those saints who would follow the higher pathways to salvation. What is amazing is how such tendencies of thought could survive as they did in the face of both biblical and philosophical evidence of their inadequacy.

The second interpretation of the assertion that God has purposes for societies is at the same time more in harmony with Hebraic and Christian insights and more adequate to philosophical reflection, Institutions, as purposive structures, have ends that orient their behavior guide their policy, and inform their obligations. God purposes to influence these social aims just as much as he seeks to influence the aims of the individual members of the social fabric. When God is said to will that Israel be a light to the nations (Isa. 49:6), it is Israel and not just the Israelites with whom he is concerned. And the demand is not simply that the nation be a showpiece that lights the way to God as a beacon lights the way to harbor. Rather God’s purpose is revealed as intending that Israel’s national purpose — its very national and cultic policies — be such that it leads the other nations to God. Israel’s role is an active one, not a passive one. It should be noted that Israel is identified here as a light to nations, not just to individual people. The subjects of the whole passage are institutions, and the revelation concerns the relationship of the purposings of these institutions to the purposings of God.

The interpenetration of self and society requires such a conclusion. If men will evil and if society is shaped by human ideas and actions, then social purposes will be molded in evil ways. But it is equally true that if societies are oriented toward evil ends and men are influenced by ideologies and customary patterns of behavior, then individual goals will gain an evil tone. In this sense men are a product of their societies, just as societies are a product of the beliefs and practices of their citizenry.

Hence, if God aims at the salvation of men, at transforming individual lives so that they are lived in transparent harmony with the divine purposes, he must also be said to aim at transforming the social order in similar fashion. A man can be forgiven his failure to hear or heed God’s will in an evil and wicked age. The achievement of an I-Thou relation is difficult in the absence of a We-Thou relation. Whereas it is anachronistic to condemn Aristotle for recommending slavery, it is morally right to criticize a contemporary Westerner for merely condoning racial segregation. So also an institution can be forgiven for its actions when it is under the control of evil and wicked men. The attitudes of victorious nations to the vanquished may at times reflect this last point — as, for instance, in the Allied inclination to "forgive" Germany for its Nazism.

My argument would he lost, however, if the above reasoning were taken to mean that men have no social responsibilities and that states have no moral responsibilities. For a person to see himself as the wholly innocent observer of institutional atrocities beyond his control either implies the very bifurcation I am attempting to deny or else entails a deterministic view of social and individual behavior that is equally opposed to the view I am defending. For example, granted that the evil acts of the Third Reich may have molded the moral beliefs of its citizens so that they became literally incapable of seeing the evil as evil, it is also the case that Nazism was itself possible only because of the willingness of individual Germans to have the nation’s policies translated into fact. The choice between condemnation and forgiveness rests on judgments concerning the freedom of the parties involved. Was the individual sufficiently free from the influences of anti-Semitism to be able to oppose it? Was the ethos of the nation such that it could provide reasonable instrumentalities for effective opposition to Nazism. The tragedy of human history is exemplified in the ever recurrent ambiguity of the answer: yes and no.

The relation of God’s purposings to the historical situation suggests his role as source of the power that makes for creative transcendence of the given. In an evil world, communication of the divine vision of a better order of the ages can lead an individual to entertain goals contrary to those of his environment and empower him to act for their accomplishment. Of such stuff are heroes and martyrs made. Similarly, an institution can come to reaffirm old values or envision new goals, and in this way come to alter its wicked course. Israel may repent for its violation of the Covenant; a college newly seeking excellence may positively transform faculty, student, and alumni attitudes in ways that amaze both outside observers and those within.

However, God can fail, just as individual men or societies can. There are triumphs of evil over good as well as the victories of light over darkness. Most frequently, there is inertial preservation, with only minor modifications of what is neither wholly good nor wholly evil, neither totally conformed to God’s aims nor totally athwart them.

III

If societal institutions are objectifications of human subjectivity, then their aims and the values in which they are rooted express the goals and goods of the individual saints and sinners who populate them. The divine aim to raise up persons whose goals and values are identical with God’s goals-for-them and whose actions are complementary to the divine activity succeeds, therefore, only in so far as social ends and cultural traditions are also in harmony with the divine. For if the objective situation be alienated from God, the subjective activity which it expresses must also be alienated from him. And conversely, since individuals are subjective distillates expressing the wider social forces that environ and mold them, their private aims and personal beliefs are as cryptograms, wherein the trained eye can read the workings of the era or locale that brought them forth. The divine aim to call forth civilizations whose meanings and purposes are at one with God’s purposes-for-them and whose histories accord with the divine activity succeeds, therefore, only where individual human beings, citizens of those societies, act and believe in ways transparent to the ways of God. For if men act evilly, the times are put out of joint.

The God who acts in human history acts for the salvation of his children. But since these children are inseparable from the social meanings and structures within which they move, God’s aims for men imply and are implied by his aims for societies. Sin and waywardness, rightness and righteousness, characterize, therefore, the activities of civilizations and civic groups as well as citizens. Both have ends-in-view, orienting their behavior in accord with the divine ends, or out of accord with these ends. Both accept and embody structures of value and meaning that either reflect or blur the values and meanings that God creates and is. Both employ methods, successfully or not, for translating desired ends into present realities. Thus, in the midst of the multifarious, cacophonous activities of men and nations, God works to bring the goods and goals of individuals and societies nearer to the inscrutable purposes he holds for each. The salvation therein hoped for is the world’s, apart from which no man is saved.

  

NOTES:

1. These polarities can be suggestively associated with the sociological theories of, respectively, Max Weber and Emil Durkheim. Cf. Peter Berger and Stanley Pullberg, "Reification and the Sociological Critique of Consciousness," History and Theory, IV, 3 (1965), 196-211.

Chapter 24: Time, Progress, and the Kingdom of God by Daniel Day Williams

From God’s Grace and Man’s Hope by Daniel Day Williams. Copyright 1949, 1965 by Harper & Row Publishers, Inc. Used by permission of the publishers and Daniel Day Williams. Daniel Day Williams attended the University of Chicago, Chicago Theological Seminary and Columbia University. He is Roosevelt Professor of Systematic Theology at Union Theological Seminary in New York.

The Christian faith that God works creatively and redemptively in human history does not contradict the facts of history. It is required by those facts when we see deeply enough into them. So we have asserted. We have argued that man’s bond with the ultimate structure of God’s good, and man’s dependence upon the working of God’s power is disclosed in the midst of the turmoil of our existence. We can discern the presence of the ultimate order of love even in the political orders where compromise, clash of interests, and warfare seem to prevail in disregard of the divine law. God’s Kingdom, which is the assertion of His love with power, does "press upon" the world at every moment. Yet even as we make this assertion we recognize that we live in actual estrangement from God. There is a dark reality of evil which sets the creation against God’s love, and turns the human heart upon itself. We are left therefore with the perplexity which we must examine in this chapter. Can we believe in the progress of the reign of God in history or is the ultimate conflict between His Kingdom and the kingdoms of this world unresolved to the end of time?

I

The question of progress involves the problem of the nature of time which has been hovering on the edge of our discussion and which must now be brought to the center of attention. Our life passes from birth to death. The world moves into its future, and moment by moment dies away. What is lost and what is saved in this everlasting passage? Does God’s Kingdom really grow in depth and fulfillment through the long sweep of the ages, or is that merely an outworn liberal notion which has brought liberal theology to its present extremity?

There are some who say that all attempts to speak of the course of events in relation to an indeterminate future are speculative and fruitless. Had we not better say "it doth not yet appear what we shall be" and go about our business unafraid and untroubled? Certainly humility and reserve are appropriate. No questions lead us so quickly beyond our depth as those concerning time. There is a certain practical wisdom in refusing to allow the fulfillment of today’s task to depend upon answers to obscure questions about tomorrow.

Yet to leave the matter there is not only superficial, it is paralyzing to action, for hope has practical consequences. Hope in the human spirit means its relation to the future before it, the eternity above it, and the saving of the precious values of its past. The depth and range of hope qualifies our sense of the worth of the present. I am in part what I hope for; for what I am is what I am willing to commit myself to, and that depends upon what I believe finally counts. As Professor Whitehead observes, "The greater part of morality hinges upon relevance in the future."1 I encounter my neighbor as one who shares with me the fate of death. If death destroys for me my hope, it also destroys my valuation of my neighbor. I can treat him as a bit of earth dust, to be exploited for whatever momentary benefit I can secure from him. But if my hope for all of life involves the belief that the good of life has eternal stature then I see my neighbor in a different light. Berdyaev is profoundly right in insisting that all ethics needs eschatology.2 One factor in the sickness of the modern world is the loss of confidence in any abiding significance of the transitory goods of life. For evidence we may cite the contemporary existentialist philosophy in which nothing matters but the moment of experience. Its consequence is the hell depicted in Sartre’s No Exit. The possibility that our civilization and perhaps even the human race itself might be destroyed in atomic warfare has but given new intensity to the problem which has always haunted man the creature.3

If hopelessness breeds paralysis of will, hope releases human energies. The causes which enlist men always give some assurance that what is to be sacrificed for will bear fruitful consequences in some new order. The dynamic of fascism, communism, and democracy is in each case related to a faith in which each individual can see his life linked with a significant future. Hitler promised the thousand year Reich, the Marxists believe in the inevitability of the classless society, Democrats proclaim the century of the common man.

The Christian interpretation of man’s pilgrimage in time cannot be put into a simple parallelism with these political philosophies. Christianity does not ignore the vision of a redeemed political order but it sets all political hopes in a perspective which relates each person and each historical fact to the ultimate community of all life with God. A Christian view of time and history which preserves the truth and rejects the illusion in man’s vision of history can organize and release human energies today as it did in the days of St. Augustine, and as it did in the bright days of the nineteenth century when the prospect of a reborn society on earth seemed to light the way.

If a new vision of man’s destiny is to come it will have to be founded on something different from the liberal theory of progress, and also something different from the complete rejection of that idea in contemporary theology. In this chapter I shall state the reasons for saying that the liberal doctrine will not do, and then try to save out of the liberal perspective the valid concept which it possessed. We can then examine the views of history of those who reject entirely the concept of the progress of man toward the Kingdom of God. Finally, we shall state the key concept by which a Christian conception of history can maintain fidelity to the facts and yield a more sobered but still hopeful view of the long pilgrimage of man.

II

The notion of a cumulative achievement of good in history which brings about in the world a more complete embodiment of the divine order was an integral part of the liberal Christian theology. What is often overlooked in the reaction against this doctrine is that the liberals formulated it in more than one way. Actually the conception of a cumulative achievement in our moral and religious experience is not easy to discard. Reinhold Niebuhr, for example, carefully insists that there are cumulative achievements on the plane of history.4 Paul Tillich, in his discussion of the idea of progress, distinguishes several spheres to which the idea may be related: the first is that of technical progress, the second, that of political unification, and the third, "the gradual humanization of human relationships." In these, he agrees, progress has actually taken place. But there are two areas where the idea of progress does not apply: There is no progress with respect to the creative works of culture or with respect to the morality of mankind. The first is impossible because creativity is a matter of grace, not of growth; the second is impossible because morality is a matter of free decision, and consequently not a matter of delivery and tradition.5

These distinctions are clarifying, yet if they are held without qualification they deny the truth that the liberal theology was groping for, even though it never set it free from an untenable doctrine of the progressive elimination of evil from human life. This judgment may be sustained by examining briefly some of the formulas by which liberals sought to interpret the progress of the Kingdom of God in history.

Professor Case’s The Christian Philosophy of History shows clearly the difficulties of interpreting history as the simple triumph of good men over evil men. His pattern is the liberal one:

God is working within history where he has willed that men should learn to be the efficient instruments of the divine energy. Upon their shoulders has been placed the responsibility for learning and pursuing God’s designs for bringing his Kingdom to realization on earth.6

History resolves itself into a conflict of good men with bad men. Badness is the result of a beastly strain "inherited perhaps from a Neanderthal man."7 Case does not quite say the complete eradication of evil will ever be accomplished but still "the accumulations of the years mount ever upward toward the goal of the good man’s desire."8

The moralism which makes possible such a neat separation between good and evil men, and which implies subtly that we who make the distinction are to be counted among the good cannot be refuted by argument. But once this simple removal of our own consciences from the sphere of judgment has been shaken, once we see the conflict between good and evil in its true depth in every human heart, a deeper view of history must be found if we are to have a hope based on solid foundations. Even on Case’s terms the question of the meaning of the whole process remains unsolved. What is the meaning of the life of an individual with all its suffering and frustration if it be but a stage on the way to some future consummation in an infinitely removed time? In what sense is life fulfilled now? The problem is especially acute when we recognize as Case himself does that "a closer scrutiny of the historical process shows that disasters overtake equally the righteous with the wicked."9 Christian liberalism must rewrite its philosophy of history with this fact given its full value. If we make a less simple distinction between the righteous and the wicked, and treat the problem of fulfillment in relation to the mystery of temporal flux and its relation to the abiding realities, then the Christian philosophy of history will stand upon the belief in a redemptive activity of God which wins its strange victory in spite of the continuing tragic character of the course of events.

The interpretation of cosmic progress which Whitehead offers in his Adventures of Ideas is not subject to quite the same criticism. He takes the fundamental conflict to be that between force and persuasion.

The history of ideas is a history of mistakes. But through all mistakes it is also the history of the gradual purification of conduct. When there is progress in the development of favorable order, we find conduct protected from relapse into brutalization by the increasing agency of ideas consciously entertained. In this way Plato is justified in his saying, ‘The creation of the world — that is to say, the world of civilized order — is the victory of persuasion over force."10

The progress of mankind can be measured by this yardstick. Note Whitehead’s insistence that conduct is "protected from relapse." The fact of progress was symbolized for Whitehead in the year he wrote, 1931, by the achievement of a peaceful settlement between Gandhi and the Viceroy of India.11

Waiving for the moment the far from settled question of the extent that Gandhi’s techniques of nonviolence were adapted to the particular social and cultural situation in which he found himself, we still must ask whether we can really see the vindication of hope for the higher values in a cumulative and secure achievement of orders of persuasion over brute force. Certainly the experience of the twentieth century confirms the fear that cultures of high moral sensitivity may yet relapse into incredible cruelty. Whitehead’s doctrine does not seem to square with his own view that there is an element of conflict and exploitation in the very structure of life. "Life is robbery."12 Nor does his view square with the contemplation of the tragic element in the vision of God with which his Process and Reality closes.13

The case may be put this way. If new configurations of power are always to be expected in the ongoing march of creativity, what reason have we to believe that the persuasive elements in life will not forever have to maintain a precarious existence amidst the formidable march of more ruthless powers? We must not discount the significance or worth of the "tendernesses" of life.14 We may well account them more valuable just because they are precious amidst staggering forces. Yet the evidence seems slim indeed that the history of the cosmos exhibits a universal and progressive taming of the elemental forces. Whitehead himself has called for the cleansing of dogma by the recourse to critical analysis of the evidence. His view of history has a romantic overtone which goes beyond the facts.

A similar difficulty is presented by John Macmurray’s attempt to combine a Christian-Augustinian doctrine of God’s sovereignty with a Marxist interpretation of the structure of historical development as leading inevitably toward the fulfillment of the good society. Macmurray gives content to the doctrine that man is created in the image of God by saying this means we are created for freedom and for equality. The community defined by these two concepts is what our human nature really craves, and what it must have if it is not to be in conflict with itself both within the individual and within society. Therefore, any social structure which separates men into classes produces overt conflict between classes. Out of these conflicts the more adequate order of freedom and equality must certainly emerge, for it represents the embodiment of the real structure of historical forces which possess ultimately irresistible power. In his Clue to History in 1939 Macmurray wrote:

It is the inevitable destiny of fascism to create what it intends to prevent — the socialist commonwealth of the world. The fundamental law of human nature cannot be broken. "He that saveth his life shall lose it." The will to power is self-frustrating. It is the meek who will inherit the earth."15

Macmurray himself seems to allow some sort of qualification of this determinism. He says that "unless progress can be stopped altogether" his prediction stands.16 But if stopping progress is a real possibility then the view that history is simply the carrying out of the intention of God must be restated.

All the paradoxes and difficulties of determinist views of history appear in Macmurray’s treatment of freedom. The achievement of the divine intention is inevitable; yet men are called upon to "make the effort" on which depends the future of Western civilization.17 If men must be rallied to "make an effort" in our historical period, an effort which they may fail to make, why may it not be so in every historical period? Macmurray’s interpretation of the course of history has the advantage which comes from a realistic acceptance of the fact of conflict and tragedy in history. Yet like its Marxist counterpart his view is utopian in outcome, and falls into the error of all utopianism, that of endowing some particular historical movement or group with a moral significance and purity which it does not rightfully possess. So Macmurray says:

Soviet Russia is the nearest approach to the realization of the Christian intention that the world has yet seen, for the intention of a universal community based on equality and freedom, overriding differences of nationality, race, sex, and "religion," is its explicit and conscious purpose.18

One does not have to indulge in hysterical anticommunist sentiment to detect the exaggeration and illusion in this statement.

Let us summarize the three difficulties which all theories of historical progress toward the Kingdom of God inherently involve, and at the same time try to extract from the liberal doctrine the element of truth which it certainly embodies.

There is, first, that aspect of the passage of time which makes it a threat to the enduring worth of all the particular carriers of value which we know. "Time is perpetual perishing," says Whitehead following Locke. If the worth of life is to be secured, we must find some sense in which, again in Whitehead’s words, the occasions of experience "live for evermore."19 No matter how we try to tell ourselves that each moment has its value regardless of its endurance, we cannot be indifferent to the fact that the running stream of time bears away all that we cherish. Unless religious faith faces the possibility that the human race on this earth is not a permanent fixture in the scheme of things, its hope must be forever based on concealment. The humanist Max Otto closes his survey of the human enterprise with words of ringing promise:

Oh, walk together children,

Don’t you get weary,

There’s a great Camp Meeting in the Promised Land.20

It is noteworthy that the humanist turns to the language of the religious tradition to express this conclusion. But on what basis does he hold out such a promise? We do not know what may be the fate of humanity in the course of cosmic history. The question of what may happen to life some billions of years from now is perhaps too remote to have any consequence in our thinking, except as it reminds us of the precarious situation of all life. Professor Gamow, the physicist, says our scientific knowledge gives us reason to expect that within some billions of years life will have been ended by the increasingly intense heat of the sun unless technical development may have made it possible to transport the race to some cooler portion of the universe.21 This speculation takes on grim present significance when we contemplate the possibility that humanity now may have in biological and atomic weapons the means to make earth uninhabitable.

Religious hope clings to something deeper than the continuing chance that something will turn up to keep life going. It also rests on something deeper than speculation about an infinitely prolonged life in the form of what is often meant by immortality of the soul. It depends upon the insight that the value of life is conserved by an enduring and healing fact, the fact of God. How this truth is to be expressed is indeed a perplexing problem.

Though the liberal doctrines of progress did not squarely face the fact that "nature intends to kill man," there was an element in the liberal view of the meaning of the temporal character of life which is valid. It is that the risk and adventure in the process of life is itself a meaning and a value. As Winfred E. Garrison has suggested, "being on the way" in some sense forms part of the goal of life.22

The passage of time is not wholly a sentence of death upon value; it is also the form of creative effort and moral achievement. Life in time is life in decision. Without decision there can be nothing of the spiritual stature which gives to our existence its real worth. If our life is merely an imitation of eternity then it is but a game, and of no consequence. Involvement in process is itself an enduring value. We cannot imagine any good without it. Certainly it is an error to suppose that process and progress are synonymous. But it is a valid insight to see process as integral to the spiritual character of our existence. It is significant that there are an increasing number of those who believe that God’s life itself must be conceived as having an element of adventure and movement into an open future, else we cannot conceive that He enters sympathetically into our human experience.23

The second problem in the theory of progress is involved in the fact of freedom. Reinhold Niebuhr points out the dilemma of liberal thought which has insisted on the freedom of man to guide his own life, and yet which has tried to imagine that this freedom will be progressively used only for the good. But moral freedom is freedom to rebel against the moral claim, and freedom of the spirit is freedom to rebel against God. The conclusion is inescapable that so long as man is free the risks of freedom must be admitted with all the possibilities of its misuse.

Even the most individualistic liberalism we may still say clung to an important insight in its conception of the meaning of freedom. The use of freedom is the participation of one life in the lives of others. Freedom means the opportunity to decide how one’s life shall enter into the continuum of conditions and consequences. We have no freedom to decide whether we shall "give our lives away" in the continuing social process. We are always giving them away either constructively or destructively. The meaning of life is participation in an ongoing flow of activities in which the good of all participants is either served or blocked.

In the philosophic tradition it is the idealists rather than the naturalists who have made the fullest place for this insight into the essentially social character of human existence, though contemporary naturalism as in Mead, Dewey, and Wieman has achieved a similar perspective. There is now emerging a reconciliation of the emphasis on individual freedom and the fact of the involvement of every creature in social structures. My life is not my own. It is the result of the creative activity of God in a stream of conditions and events far beyond the range of my knowledge. My conscious life is but a faint light shining out of a background of powers, processes, events, and memories. In every moment of life, I give my being back into the stream. I am actually in large measure what others can take me to be. My own self is completed only as others are affected by my being. I am passive to the social process in every moment and yet an active creator of it. Within this taking and giving the marvelous fact of free, responsible reflection and decision appears. Now this self which decides freely is not apart from the social process, but rather embedded in it. Yet in some degree it can in its own integrity freely choose what it shall accept and reject from the whole, and thus it chooses in part the way in which it shall enter into the experience of others. What I decide becomes a datum for others and the consequences of my decision a part of their objective world.

In some such fashion we can do justice to the elements of determination and freedom in our experience. Only individuals have minds, but each mind is what it is in large part because of what it has received from the group. Hence the group is something more than a collection of individuals’ minds; the group is a process in which individual minds are woven together in a dynamic pattern which tends to impose itself on each one.

The liberal gain in the interpretation of freedom can still be held. Freedom means the possibility to allow ourselves to be determined by that which is deepest in the process of life; and to relate our own lives to the ongoing whole in decisions made out of faith, hope, and love. Freedom is the opportunity to qualify the structure of life for ourselves and for others. It is the possibility of maintaining integrity by serving first the good of God and all other things second. To affirm this possibility is not to claim that in human experience it is ever perfectly actualized. But it is to recognize that our human decisions are made possible by our appropriation of the meanings, memories, hopes, and possibilities which become available to us in the history in which we live.

The judgment that there can be no progress in the moral realm is not defensible. Unless there be some cumulative and progressive development of the community of freedom, equality, and love among men it is impossible to give any adequate account of our common experience of sharing in the spirit and insight which comes to us from others. It is this sharing which makes our own moral decision possible. We are members one of another, even in moral experience. Every parent’s concern for the kind of environment in which his child grows up is testimony to this fact, even though we know that we can never guarantee the quality of life which will emerge in any free person.

The final problem for the progressive view is that of the actual fact of the persistence of evil in all the structures of human history. There are varieties of Christian experience with the evil in the self. For some the break with sin appears to be possible; for others, there is the continuing experience, "that which I would I do not, and that which I would not that I do." But in either case we cannot say that any life is beyond the power of temptation and sin. We know of no social order which does not show exploitation and injustice, none in which tragic choices do not have to be made. There is a rent in existence, and its name is evil. All that it means we cannot know. The Christian theologian, John Bennett, has powerfully stated this truth in his Christian Realism.24

While the belief in the cumulative processes of life permits us no superficial optimism, it does require the acknowledgment that the final meaning of evil cannot be known until all things are done. There is, we do know, a redemptive work of God through which past evil, while it remains evil, can enter into the creation of present good by qualifying our moral sensitivity, and deepening our valuation of life. There can be moral maturing through tragic experience bath for individuals and for whale peoples. Out of the suffering of the Hebrew people has come the moral power of the prophets and the spiritual reality of reconciliation between man and God.

Liberal theology made its contribution to theology through its affirmation of process as the most fundamental category of being. The Christian interpretation of the meaning of history becomes transformed when this conception is allowed to replace the metaphysics of static being. It should be possible to restate the Christian hope for God’s work with man in history from this new perspective without falling into the errors of those who allowed process to become too simply identified with progress.25 But before we come to our constructive statement, it is necessary to examine the alternative treatment of this problem in neoorthodox thought today.

III

An alternative to the interpretation of history as process is offered today in those Christian theologies which have been influenced by existential philosophy which has its primary source in Kierkegaard. It is argued that process metaphysics takes the measured or clock time of physics and identifies it with the time which is relevant to human decisions and to freedom. This identification is said to be untenable. The time form of freedom is another structure, related in some way to clock time, but never to be identified with the sequential order of natural processes. Nicolas Berdyaev who affirms the existential point of view summarizes the position: "There are three times: cosmic time, historical time; and existential time." Cosmic time is symbolized by the circle, it is calendar or clock time. Historical time is that of memory and prospect. It is always broken. The moments pass away and are not fulfilled. Its symbol is the line. Berdyaev says:

Existential time must not be thought of in complete isolation from cosmic and historical time, it is a break-through of one time into the other. . .Existential time may be best symbolized not by the circle or by the line but by the point. . . . This is inward time . . . not objectivized. It is the time of the world of subjectivity, not objectivity. . . . Every state of ecstasy leads out from the computation of objectivized mathematical time and leads into existential qualitative infinity.26

These distinctions appear in various forms in Kierkegaard, Cullman, Minear, Niebuhr, and Tillich, and in each case they are used for the interpretation of the Biblical world view. And in each case the history of salvation is interpreted as belonging to a superhistory which is something superimposed upon the cosmic process.

Let us try to formulate as accurately as possible what is being affirmed in this existential theory. When man confronts the question of the meaning of his life he finds that the question can only be answered if he sees that he is related to a transcendent reality, a God whose being is of a different order from that of all creatures and processes in our experience, who is the "unconditioned" ground of all being, to use Tillich’s phrase. Since the meaning of life lies in man’s relation to God so conceived, the dimension of our being with which religion is concerned involves something other than any experienced process immanent in existence. The meaning of life cannot be measured in relation to a structure of value discoverable in our existence. When we speak therefore of Creation, of God’s purposes, of the times in which God reveals Himself, and when we speak of the end of all things, the coming of the Kingdom, we use temporal terms but we are not speaking of events to which a date can be assigned. To be sure in the case of the revelation in Jesus Christ, to take the most important example, the time of salvation is intimately connected with an actual historical period and date. But we are speaking of a realm of meaning which is not bound by the categories of historical experience. We can apprehend the meaning of what we say only in the moment and in the act of decision or, as Berdyaev says, in ecstasy. The ultimate reality upon which our hope depends is therefore the eternal truth and power of God, breaking into the flow of historical events, qualifying it, transforming it, yet always to be understood as giving meaning to life through its relation to that which is beyond the time form of the world process.

So far at least I understand Kierkegaard and his followers. This standpoint represents the sharpest possible challenge to the liberal theology with its affirmation that the natural processes are the locus of God’s redemptive work; and that the meaning of life is organically involved in the emergence of orders of value in history.

This problem is so fundamental to the whole question of the nature of Christian hope and the existential analysis is so widely influential that I propose to examine Kierkegaard’s formulation more closely and to offer a criticism of it.

Soren Kierkegaard is the most important source and the magnificent genius of existential philosophy. If a reconstruction in theology which is neither liberal nor neo-orthodox is to emerge it will have to define itself against Kierkegaard even as Kierkegaard defined himself against Hegel. And it will, I believe, learn much from Kierkegaard as he learned much from the great idealist.

Hegel’s philosophy is a thoroughgoing and grandiloquent attempt to conceive the whole of world history as a process exhibiting a rational structure. It is the spirit coming to self-consciousness, God realizing Himself in human society. That Hegel badly overstated and overworked his thesis is universally recognized. He did have a profound sense of the tragic and the ironic in human affairs. He was not a naive optimist; but he did not avoid the idolatry of identifying the absolute will of God with the Prussian state in which he happened to live and work.27

Kierkegaard’s work is a sustained and passionate protest against the Hegelian system, and against what Hegel made out of human history, and out of Christianity. Where Hegel saw continuity and rational pattern, Kierkegaard saw discontinuity and paradox. Hegel and his followers felt intellectually secure in the logical structure which underlay the System. Kierkegaard attacked this complacency with savage irony and invective. When Hegelianized theology became the means of fortifying the complacencies of the established Christian Church, Kierkegaard literally poured out his life in a struggle to expose what to him was a betrayal of the Christ who suffered and died that men might repent.

For Kierkegaard the human soul is poised on the knife edge of lostness. He tried to break through Hegelian objectivity to the inwardness and suffering of personal existence. No Christian before him, and perhaps none since, has so profoundly expressed the desperation of the soul’s search for a rock of faith which will hold firm in the midst of the complete insecurity of human existence. These things Kierkegaard felt, and he said them with a penetration of the human heart and a consummate artistry rarely equaled in either philosophical or theological writing. I do not see how one can read him and remain the same person. We turn eagerly to learn the secret of that leap of faith which gains assurance of God and through which a man becomes a disciple of the Christ who is contemporary with every age.28



Just here the perplexities begin. Kierkegaard describes this movement toward God, or this being met by God, in terms which remove it from any recognizable human experience. He insists that his philosophy makes a place for real becoming where Hegel’s "becoming" is all shadow play.29 Becoming is defined by Kierkegaard as "a change in actuality brought about by freedom."30 But this becoming takes place in the moment of existential time. It is no process in the time sequence of human events. "If a decision in time is postulated then . . . the learner is in error, which is precisely what makes a beginning in the moment necessary."31 The knife of existential analysis cuts cleanly between the past and present in describing the new birth. "In the Moment man also becomes conscious of the new birth, for his antecedent state was one of non-being."32

What is this movement which takes place outside of time; which is a leap from non-Being to Being without even so much as the Hegelian dialectical logic to connect the two stages? The closest Kierkegaard comes to giving a philosophical answer is his notion of repetition. The Socratic "recollection" will not do, for that is recall of something temporally past. There must be a movement toward eternity which is movement toward realization but not in a temporal sense. This he calls repetition. This concept never received very clear definition from Kierkegaard but we are perhaps not far wrong if we say that repetition is man’s free enactment of his relationship to eternity. For example, Kierkegaard is "repeating" Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac in his renunciation of his fiancee. In any case this conception cannot be made intelligible. Kierkegaard himself says that this category is the "interest upon which metaphysics founders."33 The whole continuum of conditions and consequences in time is set aside. For the religious movement it does not exist.

Four unhappy consequences flow from Kierkegaard’s doctrine of time. They have not been escaped in the neo-orthodox movement which he has greatly influenced, though some of his exaggerations have been sharply qualified. We should consider in our time of theological ferment what price must be paid for the existential doctrine that ultimate meaning belongs only to the Moment, that is, to a time which is other than the time of the world-historical process. It is, I suggest, too high a price, both in the loss of rational coherence, and in loss of the relevance of religious faith to human problems.

The first consequence is Kierkegaard’s extreme individualism. He declared his category was "the solitary individual" and desired these words inscribed on his tomb.34 It is, to be sure, something of a relief in the midst of today’s sentimentalitics about "fellowship" to hear Kierkegaard affirm that fellowship is a lower category than the individual.35 But he overshot his mark. He practically ignored the significance of life in the social process, and in the religious community. This was not accidental. Our common-sense view of time regards it as the form of social process. It is the order which links past with future in the continuum of influences and consequences. But Kierkegaard’s "Moment" is apart from all this. In the crisis of decision a man may think of himself as freed from all external relations. So Kierkegaard apparently thinks. But this is an illusion. It is a distortion of the facts to say that "the disciple who is born anew owes nothing to any man but everything to his Divine Teacher."36 We are not solitary individuals, even in the moment of decision. What happens in the moment of choice owes much to our inheritance from the communities in which our lives are lived. Kierkegaard’s own individualism is partly explicable in relation to his experience of discovering that he was not "like the others."37

The issue here joined with existential philosophy involves much more than philosophical technicalities. It is a matter of life and death to our civilization that we recover what it means to possess freedom in community. Real freedom belongs not to the isolated individual, but to the person who can maintain his individuality and integrity even as he accepts his interdependence with other life. If theology is to illuminate the life of the human spirit it must interpret both the fact of man’s capacity to judge society from a point of view which transcends all achieved cultural values, and also the fact of that social solidarity which in the religious community makes the prophetic critic possible. Isaiah and Jeremiah spoke for their people Israel even as they spoke against them.

The second consequence is that the time-form of religious decision is divorced from the time-form of political and social effort. Kierkegaard confesses he knows and cares nothing about politics. Amusingly he says his acquaintances charge him with being politically "a nincompoop who bows seven times before everything that has a royal commission." It is not altogether a satisfactory answer that he is serving the kingdom which "would not at any price be a kingdom of this world."38 The question of responsible decision in the political order remains. To say that "there exists only one sickness, sin,"39 and to pour scorn on all political movements produces a simplification of human problems, and in some instances prophetic judgment; but it also leaves the manipulation of social and political institutions which do make and break lives of people to whatever shrewd and ruthless schemers may get social power.

A third consequence follows inevitably. Kierkegaard denies all meaning to moral progress in history. The sharpness of his analysis enables us to recognize the real problem but it also discloses the inadequacy of his answer. He holds that all ages and times stand under the same judgment of God. "Every generation has to begin all over again with Christ."40 He contrasts the idea of the Church Militant in which the Christian stands in opposition to his culture, with the idea of the Church Triumphant (on earth), in which the Christian is honored and rewarded for being a Christian. The first he believes is Christianity, the second hypocrisy.41 Therefore, "if the contemporary generation of believers found no time to triumph, neither will any later generation, for the task is always the same and faith is always militant."42

Now in one sense the task is always the same. It is to transform men who try to live life apart from God into men who begin to trust God. No human progress can change the fundamental necessity of that movement in every age and time. But it does not follow that all societies and cultures offer equally adequate contexts for making the transformation possible for more and more persons. The Church grows in a time of persecution. But we do not therefore work for the creation of a society so inhuman and unjust that any who seek justice and love will be cast into prison, tortured and killed. Let us substitute our own paradox f or Kierkegaard’s. The task of serving the Kingdom of God will always be the same. But that task includes the everlasting effort to bring decency and justice into human society. While that aspect of the task is never finished, it is not without its real successes, or its hope for greater ones.

A final consequence of Kierkegaard’s view is that it becomes inconceivable how God can share in the actual processes of human experience. "The eternal . . . has absolutely no history."43 Therefore, we can make nothing of the conception of God as patient and suffering worker. The meaning of our existence as unfinished creatures in a life which has its times of planting and its times of reaping becomes an insoluble riddle. I do not say Kierkegaard accepts this conclusion in all respects. But it is inherent in his view of time.

Many of the extreme consequences of Kierkegaard’s position are avoided by those contemporary theologians who have gone through existentialism to the reconstruction of Biblical theology, and who have sought to discover, usually with Kierkegaard’s help, the "unique time-consciousness" of the Bible.44

This assertion that there is a distinctive time-consciousness in the Biblical world view is made by Professor Paul Minear. His studies in Biblical theology show that there is in the Bible the basis for a corrective of the exaggerated individualism of Kierkegaard. The Bible grows out of historical experience and its world view involves a profound sense of the meaning of the life of peoples, their hopes and expectancies, their time of crisis, and their ultimate destiny. But Professor Minear’s interpretation of the Biblical outlook falls short just at the point where he insists on reading the Bible through the eyes of Kierkegaard.

Minear points out that the Bible speaks of time in two senses, which are usually designated by two different words, chronos and kairos.45 Chronos refers to calendar time, kairos to historical and eschatological time. The "kairos" is the "crucial stage in destiny." It is the time of decision which involves man’s ultimate destiny.

It is characteristic of the tendency of neo-orthodox thought, even when it returns to the Biblical conception of time, to make the distinction between kairos and chronos too sharp. The distinction is made in such a way that chronos, the day-by-day time which is the form of our human existence, is either treated as irrelevant to the issues of man’s salvation, or else it is regarded as the sphere of death and frustration from which we must be saved. Minear seems to be imposing a metaphysical distinction on the Bible when he says that the coming of Christ means that "the tyranny of chronos has been broken once and for all. It stands under the all-encompassing negation of God’s judgment. Its boundary has been set by the manifestation of a ‘wholly-other order of reality.’"46 But why, we ask, must chronos be negated? Is it wholly evil in God’s sight or man’s experience that there should be times and seasons? Does the Bible really separate a calendar time which is the sphere of tragic frustration from a time which is wholly different? It appears rather that the Bible views the history of the Hebrew people, the life of Jesus, and the life of the Church as sharing in one continuous working of God in which every aspect of human life and its natural environment has its necessary and fruitful role to play. There are difficulties indeed with the Biblical eschatology; but some of them arise precisely from the fact that the Biblical world view did not contemplate a distinction between two orders of time. The world, it is said, was created in six days. The end of the world is an event expected before those now living pass away. When the Apostle Paul says, "It is far on in the night the day is almost here," and when John says, "It doth not yet appear what we shall be,"47 they transcend the distinction between chronos and kairos. Both are within the sphere of God’s redemptive purpose. It is difficult to see how, if God’s relationship to the world is "wholly other" than the relation of creative spirit to its actual working in time (chronos), we can avoid discounting the Christian significance of creative effort, patient workmanship, and that careful assessment of conditions and consequences which make up so large a part of the wisdom of life.

Such an outcome which is both un-Biblical and irrational can be avoided by a restatement of the meaning of time. The concrete reality of life is the community of created beings in their individuality and their togetherness. This community moves in a continuous stream from the past into the future. God is the supreme and uncreated member of this community. We are therefore members of Him and of one another. The time structure of this interweaving of processes is duration. This is time as the order characterizing the flow of process.

Chronos, then and kairos are abstractions. They are structures which our minds can distinguish in the concrete reality for the purpose of speaking intelligibly about it. Kairos abstracts the elements of meaning, valuation, purpose, and expectation. Both terms designate something less than the full meaning of duration which escapes adequate interpretation. Yet on this view we can say that God enters into the experience of man. Both chronos and kairos have meaning for God. Professor Hartshorne’s statement of the relation of God to time saves what is intellectually and religiously meaningful in the Biblical conception.

God is the cosmic "adventure" (Whitehead integrating all real adventures as they occur, without ever failing in readiness to realize new states out of the divine potency, which is indeed "beyond number" and definite form, yet is of value only because number and form come out of it.48

It follows that one dimension of the meaning of the Christian life is our share in world-building. It means we accept the process of becoming with all the tasks of politics, education, and reconstruction, as the area where some of God’s work gets done. We may thus preserve a unity in life. Such unity is lost if we say that the time in which we prepare today for tomorrow is of another and lesser order from the time in which we encounter God.

IV

When we attempt to do justice to all aspects of the problem of the nature of progress in human history we discover we must try to hold two truths together. The first is that our life is a process. Every moment of experience enters into and qualifies the continuous stream of life in and through which God works. The second truth is that there is a cleft which runs through the whole of our existence. Possibilities remain unrealized. There is real evil, and real loss. We live on the boundary line between the actual and the potential good. We cannot see the whole, or the end. Life resembles a poem the last line of which has not been written. Yet the meaning of the whole depends upon it. We know what it is to participate in God’s cumulative victory over the chaos of existence. Yet the victory is not yet won. We know that God works creatively and redemptively to overcome all that estranges us from Him. Yet we continually cry out, How long, O Lord how long?

It is absurd to think that a simple formula can interpret the mystery of man’s pilgrimage. But the discussion so far suggests the possibility that a new Christian perspective on history may be emerging which will hold together the truth in the liberal doctrine of progress and the truth in the neo-orthodox affirmation of the judgment of God upon all existing things. We have now reached the point in our argument where the proposed synthesis can be formulated. Every interpretation of the meaning of history has its guiding image. We need a key concept with which to draw together the many strands of truth about one history. There is such a concept in the New Testament. Both liberalism and neo-orthodoxy have done it less than justice. It is the concept of our present history as proceeding under the reign of Christ. But the Christ who reigns in our history is embattled with his enemies. The Biblical source of this image is Paul’s word in the eschatological passage of I Corinthians 15. "He must reign till he hath put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."49He has already despoiled the principalities and powers in the victory of the cross yet he remains the embattled Christ, contending with all things which stand in the way of God’s fulfillment of His redemptive work.50 Professor John Knox summarizes the Biblical view of our human situation after Christ has entered our history in the life and death of Jesus:

Sin is doomed and its power is weakened, but it has not been actually destroyed: salvation has already been bestowed in Christ, but the fulfillment of that salvation awaits Christ’s return in glorious power to bring to completion his victory over sin and death and to inaugurate fully and finally the Kingdom of God.51

Biblical concepts should not be strait jackets for the mind, but wings for it. They guard in metaphorical terms the fundamental insights which have come through God’s revelation to the prophets, and through the impact of Jesus upon the world. We can use the conception of the embattled reign of Christ as a guide to a reformulation of the Christian view of history. In the end this symbolic expression can have just so much meaning for us as we can give it through specifying that in our experience which bears it out. It is a Christian symbol which can form the key to a more realistic theology than that which conceived of "building the Kingdom of God in history." It is a symbol which can be the basis for understanding between the American social gospel and the Continental insistence that God’s Kingdom cannot be identified with human schemes. It can be the basis for a realistic expression of the Christian hope. We know that we live as sinners in social structures and spiritual climates which corrupt our souls, and which plunge us toward horrible catastrophe. But we know also that these powers have not the last word. They can be broken. They have been exposed through the revelation culminating in Jesus Christ. We could not even recognize them for what they are if we were not living in the beginning of a new order where love dwells.

Let us be specific about what it means to say we live in that history which is determined by the reign of Christ in conflict with his enemies.

We mean, first, that through what God has accomplished in the events which came to their climax in the life of Jesus our human existence has been given a new structure. Creative and redemptive power has been released in it which was not wholly released before. We see a meaning in life which was not so fully discerned before. There is a new community in history. Members of that community begin to live on the basis of what has taken hold of them through the life of Jesus.

The reign of Christ, then, is that period in human history which is interpreted by Christians through what God has done in the life of Jesus to disclose the ultimate meaning of our existence. That meaning is life in the community of love. It is the logos of our being. The logos is God Himself known to us under the form of the Christ-figure.52 There is an endless variety of ways in which men respond to this disclosure of God. They may ignore it, reject it, despise the view of life to which it gave rise. Or they may begin to live life in response to the truth and power there given. What is given to us through God’s revelation includes the ethic of outgoing and forgiving love. It includes the knowledge of our radical dependence upon God’s grace which goes out to those who are not worthy of it. It includes the depth and mystery of the suffering of God known to us through the suffering of Jesus upon the cross. And it includes the new life of the Christian as the enactment of the way of love in a community of those who live in this faith. It is possible to speak of such a life only because we acknowledge that it depends wholly upon our participation in the working of God which is infinitely deeper than anything we can define or control. Only as Christ reigns can we serve one another in love.

While we affirm the release of the power of God as the meaning of the reign of Christ it must be understood that that power is no arbitrary and ruthless force. Certainly it is true that God does exercise coercive power. We cannot escape that fact when we look at the way in which the structures of life coerce us, smash our plans, seize us in the grip of their inevitabilities. God is not identical with those structures but His wrath is in them as they are related to the ultimate structure of value which is His own being. But God also works persuasively; and His supreme resource is not coercive force, but the compelling power of His revelation in the Suffering Servant of all. The Christ who reigns asserts God’s power as truly in the washing of the feet of the disciples as in the condemnation of the Pharisees. He transforms the world as he dies upon the cross, even as he transforms it in expelling the money-changers from the temple. We should not absolutize any one event in the life of Jesus as disclosing the way in which God’s love must work. The ethical implications of this position we shall shortly examine. But here it is necessary to point out that when we speak of the reigning Christ we do not mean the monarchical concept of an arbitrary exercise of power. Christ reigns supremely because he reigns from his cross.53

This conception of the reign of Christ includes the universality of his meaning for human existence. Here is the bridge between the social gospel and the neo-orthodox theology. There are not two kingdoms, one an inner kingdom of Christ related only to believers, and another a kingdom of this world which God has left to other powers, and upon which His love makes no immediate demands. That conception was destroyed long ago by the social gospel with its affirmation of the Christian concern with the structure of human society. It is also being vigorously criticized by the continental theologians today. Karl Barth himself perhaps even fell into an exaggerated identification of a political cause with the cause of Christ in some of his writings during the war.54 In any case the Christian affirmation is that the reign of Christ involves a demand for justice and freedom throughout the whole of life. Nothing less than the whole is the field of God’s redemptive work.

In the second place, to live in the reign of Christ means to share in an actual and continual victory of good over evil. It is one thing to recognize that evil is never eradicated from the self or from society. But it does not follow that good never triumphs over evil. The fact is quite the contrary. There would be no world at all, if there were not a continual realization of good. Every achievement of good is in so far a victory over evil, either over the evil of chaos and meaninglessness, or the evil of actual obstructions to the growth of the real good. Christians ought always to take heart. It is not true that there are no historical gains making for a humanity which more nearly exemplifies the image of its creator. There is always something to be done in the service of God under the reign of Christ. While we have admitted we cannot from our human point of view guarantee the permanence of any created good we know; we do know that wherever conditions of slavery, ignorance, and established privilege have been broken there is a gain which man can surrender only at the cost of denying that which is deepest in himself.

Perhaps men will deny their own will for life in community. The reign of Christ is always an embattled reign. Our third assertion is that we know nothing of the working of God in the world except in relation to real opposition. Christ’s reign is embattled in the human spirit, in the social structures, and in the Church which is his own body in the world. Protestant hope for the Church is not based upon any notion of its freedom from the corruptions of sin. It is based on the fact that in the Church among all human communities men can most directly appeal to the reigning Christ’s judgment upon the community itself. The Church is not the Kingdom of God. It is the people who live by faith in the Christ who reigns against an opposition which exists even in those who have begun to serve him.

Christ is embattled with untruth. Our perspective applies in the realm of knowledge. "Now we see through a glass darkly."55 We speak of the very essence of God’s being. We know He is love. Yet we know that all human constructions in which we try to grasp this essence are inadequate.

The struggle with evil goes on "until Christ has put death under his feet." So far as we know human history will always be the scene of contending powers. But the conception of the reign of Christ contains a hope which looks beyond all the particular victories which God continues to win. This is our fourth assertion. Our hope is that the good which comes to be is not lost, but participates in the continuing life of God and thus shares in His ultimate victory. A consummation of history in which evil is finally purged and destroyed is beyond our power even to imagine. Hope does not depend upon it, though it may include it. But we do know that it means to share in a victory of God over the world in the sense that through faith in Him and His ultimate mercy we are reconciled to the conflict in which we stand. We believe that not only our present victories but even our failures can be transmuted into good. We believe that good is everlasting in God.

The question of the ultimate outcome of history involves the meaning of the Kingdom of God. We distinguish between the reign of Christ and the Kingdom of God. God’s Kingdom is always present in history for it is His assertion of His love with power. It has come among us in Jesus Christ, whose reign is God’s reign. But the Kingdom of God is also a symbol for the fulfillment of love in all things. That fulfillment is beyond the reign of Christ. It is an eschatological concept. It symbolizes an ultimate victory which we can know only as promise and share only in hope. Thus the concept of the reign of Christ enables us to make a clear distinction between what our human works achieve in history and the community of God’s love in its perfect fulfillment. His Kingdom is always judgment upon our works, even while it is manifest in His power in our midst.

To live as a believer in the reign of Christ means to live within the battle not apart from it. It is no sham battle. But to believe that Christ reigns within the battle is to find peace. We know that God has His own strategy for bringing good out of evil. As believers we begin to live in a new history where love is accomplishing its perfect work, though this new history is never separate from the old. Again Paul’s words express both the continuing struggle and the everlasting victory:

We are pressed on every side, yet not straitened; perplexed, yet not unto despair; pursued, yet not forsaken; smitten down, yet not destroyed; always bearing about in the body the dying of Jesus, that the life also of Jesus maybe manifested in our body.56

With this interpretation of the Christian philosophy of human history we have reached the affirmation upon which our entire argument rests. Christian hope which gathers up all particular human hopes and yet is deeper than they is founded upon the fact of the present creative and redemptive working of God in human life. It remains to show what this implies for individual ethics, for social ethics, and for the progress toward spiritual maturity of the Christian.

 

NOTES:

1. Process and Reality, An Essay in Cosmology.

2. N. Berdyaev, The Destiny of Man (New York: Charles Scribners Sons, 1937), 317ff.

3. Cf. Joseph Haroutunian, Wisdom and Folly in Religion (New York: Charles Scribners Sons, 1940), 35-36.

4. Reinhold Niebuhr, The Nature and Destiny of Man, Vol. II, passim, (New York: Charles Scribners Sons, 1941).

5. The Kingdom of God and History, ed. J. H. Oldhan (Chicago: Willett, Clark, 1938), 113-114.

6. S. J. Case, The Christian Philosophy of History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1943), vi.

7. Ibid., 213-215.

8. Ibid., 218.

9. Ibid., 221.

10. Adventures of Ideas 30-31.

11. Adventures of Ideas 205.

12. Process and Reality, An Essay in Cosmology 160.

13. Ibid., "‘We are therefore left with the final opposites joy and sorrow, good and evil. . . (518). "Thus the universe is to be conceived as attaining the active self-expression of its own variety of opposites" (531).

14. For a development of this theme of Whitehead’s see B. E. Meland, Seeds of Redemption (New York: Macmillan, 1947).

15. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1939, 237.

16. Ibid., 220.

17. Ibid., xi.

18. Ibid., 206.

19. Process and Reality, An Essay in Cosmology 126, 533.

20. The Human Enterprise (New York: Appleton-Century-Crafts, 1940), 369; cf. his Natural Laws and Human Hopes (New York: Henry Holt, 1926).

21. The Birth and Death of the Sun (New York: Penguin Books, 1945), 104-105, 154.

22. "Reflections on the Goal of History," The Christian Century, LV, 2 (1938), 959.

23. This truth has been most clearly expressed in Charles Hartshorne, Man’s Vision of God.

24. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1941, Appendix.

25. This confusion seems to me patent in W. H. Sheldon, America’s Progressive Philosophy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1942).

26. Slavery and Freedom (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1944), 257, 260-261.

27. For incisive criticism see Reinhold Niebuhr, The Nature and Destiny of Man, Vol. I, 116-118.

28. Philosophical Fragments (Princeton: Princeton University Press, , 44ff.

29. Repetition (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1941), 29.

30. Philosophical Fragments, 64.

31. Ibid., 41.

32. Ibid., 15.

33. Repetition, 34.

34. Training in Christianity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1941), 57.

35. Ibid., 216.

36. Philosophical Fragments, 14.

37. The Point of View, trans. W. Loxvrie (New York: Oxford University Press, 1939), 81.

38. The Attack upon "Christendom" (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1944), 44.

39. Training in Christianity, 65.

40. Ibid., 109.

41. Ibid., 205 ff.

42. S. Kierkegaard, 91.

43. Ibid., 62.

44. Paul S. Minear, "Time and the Kingdom," The Journal of Religion, XXIV, 2 (April, 1944), p. 85. Cf. his Eyes of Faith (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1946), Oscar Cullmann, Christus und die Zeit (Zurich: 1946), and Karl Barth, Credo. For analysis of contemporary literature on the eschatological problem see Amos Wilder, "The Eschatology of the Gospels in Recent Discussion," The Journal of Religion, XXVIII, 3 (July, 1948).

45. Ibid., 81.

46. Ibid., 83.

47. I John 3:2; Romans 13:12.

48. Man’s Vision of God, 227-228.

49. I Corinthians 15:25-26.

50. Colossians 2:15.

51. Christ the Lord (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1945), 123. Cf. W. A. Visser ‘t Hooft, The Kingship of Christ (New York: Harper & Brothers. 1948).

52. John 1:1.

53. Visser ‘t Hooft, The Kingship of Christ, 17.

54. See a comment on Barth’s interpretation of the war in a letter by E. G. Homrighausen in The Christian Century, LVI (May 24, 1939), 678.

55. I Corinthians 13:12.

56. II Corinthians 4:8-12.

Chapter 23: Religion and Science by Alfred North Whitehead

Reprinted with permission of the Macmillan Company and Cambridge University Press from Science and the Modern World by Alfred North Whitehead. Copyright 1925 by The Macmillan Company; renewed 1953 by Evelyn Whitehead.

 

The difficulty in approaching the question of the relations between Religion and Science is, that its elucidation requires that we have in our minds some clear idea of what we mean by either of the terms, ‘religion’ and ‘science.’ Also I wish to speak in the most general way possible, and to keep in the background any comparison of particular creeds, scientific or religious. We have got to understand the type of connection which exists between the two spheres, and then to draw some definite conclusions respecting the existing situation which at present confronts the world.

The conflict between religion and science is what naturally occurs to our minds when we think of this subject. It seems as though, during the last half-century, the results of science and the beliefs of religion had come into a position of frank disagreement, from which there can be no escape, except by abandoning either the clear teaching of science, or the clear teaching of religion. This conclusion has been urged by controversialists on either side. Not by all controversialists, of course, but by those trenchant intellects which every controversy calls out into the open.

The distress of sensitive minds, and the zeal for truth, and the sense of the importance of the issues, must command our sincerest sympathy. When we consider what religion is for mankind, and what science is, it is no exaggeration to say that the future course of history depends upon the decision of this generation as to the relations between them. We have here the two strongest general forces (apart from the mere impulse of the various senses) which influence men, and they seem to be set one against the other — the force of our religious intuitions, and the force of our impulse to accurate observation and logical deduction.

A great English statesman once advised his countrymen to use large-scale maps, as a preservative against alarms, panics, and general misunderstanding of the true relations between nations. In the same way in dealing with the clash between permanent elements of human nature, it is well to map our history on a large scale, and to disengage ourselves from our immediate absorption in the present conflicts. Whet we do this, we immediately discover two great facts. In the first place there has always been a conflict between religion and science; and in the second place, both religion and science have always been in a state of continual development. In the early days of Christianity, there was a general belief among Christians that the world was coming to an end in the lifetime of people then living. We can make only indirect inferences as to how far this belief was authoritatively proclaimed; but it is certain that it was widely held, and that it formed an impressive part of the popular religious doctrine. The belief proved itself to be mistaken, and Christian doctrine adjusted itself to the change. Again in the early Church individual theologians very confidently deduced~ from the Bible opinions concerning the nature of the physical universe. In the year A. D. 535, a monk named Cosmas1 wrote a book which he entitled, Christian Topography. He was a traveled man who had visited India and Ethiopia; and finally he lived in a monastery at Alexandria, which was then a great centre of culture. In this book, basing himself, upon the direct meaning of Biblical texts as construed by him in a literal fashion, he denied the existence of the antipodes, and asserted that the world is a flat parallelogram whose length is double its breadth.

In the seventeenth century the doctrine of the motion of the earth was condemned by a Catholic tribunal. A hundred years ago the extension of time demanded by geological science distressed religious people, Protestant and Catholic. And today the doctrine of evolution is an equal stumbling block. These are only a few instances illustrating a general fact.

But all our ideas will be in a wrong perspective if we think that this recurring perplexity was confined to contradictions between religion and science; and that in these controversies religion was always wrong, and that science was always right. The true facts of the case are very much more complex, and refuse to be summarised in these simple terms.

Theology itself exhibits exactly the same character of gradual development, arising from an aspect of conflict between its own proper ideas. This fact is a commonplace to theologians, but is often obscured in the stress of controversy. I do not wish to overstate my case; so I will confine myself to Roman Catholic writers. In the seventeenth century a learned Jesuit, Father Petavius, showed that the theologians of the first three centuries of Christianity made use of phrases and statements which since the fifth century would be condemned as heretical. Also Cardinal Newman devoted a treatise to the discussion of the development of doctrine. He wrote it before he became a great Roman Catholic ecclesiastic; but throughout his life, it was never retracted and continually reissued.

Science is even more changeable than theology. No man of science could subscribe without qualification to Galileo’s beliefs, or to Newton’s beliefs, or to all his own scientific beliefs of ten years ago.

In both regions of thought, additions, distinctions, and modifications have been introduced. So that now, even when the same assertion is made today as was made a thousand, or fifteen hundred years ago, it is made subject to limitations or expansions of meaning, which were not contemplated at the earlier epoch. We are told by logicians that a proposition must be either true or false, and that there is no middle term. But in practice, we may know that a proposition expresses an important truth, but that it is subject to limitations and qualifications which at present remain undiscovered. It is a general feature of our knowledge, that we are insistently aware of important truths; and yet that the only formulations of these truths which we are able to make presuppose a general standpoint of conceptions which may have to be modified. I will give you two illustrations, both from science:

Galileo said that the earth moves and that the sun is fixed; the Inquisition said that the earth is fixed and the sun moves; and Newtonian astronomers, adopting an absolute theory of space, said that both the sun and the earth move. But now we say that any one of these three statements is equally true, provided that you have fixed your sense of ‘rest’ and ‘motion’ in the way required by the statement adopted. At the date of Galileo’s controversy with the Inquisition, Galileo’s way of stating the facts was, beyond question, the fruitful procedure for the sake of scientific research. But in itself it was not more true than the formulation of the Inquisition. But at that time the modern concepts of relative motion were in nobody’s mind; so that the statements were made in ignorance of the qualifications required for their more perfect truth. Yet this question of the motions of the earth and the sun expresses a real fact in the universe; and all sides had got hold of important truths concerning it. But with the knowledge of those times, the truths appeared to be inconsistent.

Again I will give you another example taken from the state of modern physical science. Since the time of Newton and Huyghens in the seventeenth century there have been two theories as to the physics nature of light. Newton’s theory was that a beam of light consists of stream of very minute particles, or corpuscles, and that we have the sensation of light when these corpuscles strike the retinas of our eyes. Huyghens theory was that light consists of very minute waves of trembling in an all-pervading ether, and that these waves are traveling along a beam of light. The two theories are contradictory. In the eighteenth century Newton’s theory was believed, in the nineteenth century Huyghens’ theory was believed. Today there is one large group of phenomena which can be explained only on the wave theory, and another large group which can be explained only on the corpuscular theory. Scientists have to leave it at that, and wait for the future, in the hope of attaining some wider vision which reconciles both.

We should apply these same principles to the questions in which there is a variance between science and religion. We would believe nothing in either sphere of thought which does not appear to us to be certified by solid reasons based upon the critical research either of ourselves or of competent authorities. But granting that we have honestly taken this precaution, a clash between the two on points of detail where they overlap should not lead us hastily to abandon doctrines for which we have solid evidence. It may be that we are more interested in one set of doctrines than in the other. But, if we have any sense of perspective and of the history of thought, we shall wait and refrain from mutual anathemas.

We should wait: but we should not wait passively, or in despair. The clash is a sign that there are wider truths and finer perspectives within which a reconciliation of a deeper religion and a more subtle science will be found.

In one sense, therefore, the conflict between science and religion is a slight matter which has been unduly emphasised. A mere logical contradiction cannot in itself point to more than the necessity of some readjustments, possibly of a very minor character on both sides. Remember the widely different aspects of events which are dealt with in science and in religion respectively. Science is concerned with the general conditions which are observed to regulate physical phenomena; whereas religion is wholly wrapped up in the contemplation of moral and aesthetic values, On the one side there is the law of gravitation, and on the other the contemplation of the beauty of holiness. What one side sees, the other misses; and vice versa.

Consider, for example, the lives of John Wesley and of Saint Francis of Assisi. For physical science you have in these lives merely ordinary examples of the operation of the principles of physiological chemistry, and of the dynamics of nervous reactions: for religion you have lives of the most profound significance in the history of the world. Can you be surprised that, in the absence of a perfect and complete phrasing of the principles of science and of the principles of religion which apply to these specific cases, the accounts of these lives from these divergent standpoints should involve discrepancies? It would be a miracle if it were not so.

It would, however, be missing the point to think that we need not trouble ourselves about the conflict between science and religion. In an intellectual age there can be no active interest which puts aside all hope of a vision of the harmony of truth. To acquiesce in discrepancy is destructive of candour, and of moral cleanliness. It belongs to the self-respect of intellect to pursue every tangle of thought to its final unravelment. If you check that impulse, you will get no religion and no science from an awakened thoughtfulness. The important question is, In what spirit are we going to face the issue? There we come to something absolutely vital.

A clash of doctrines is not a disaster — it is an opportunity. I will explain my meaning by some illustrations from science. The weight of an atom of nitrogen was well known. Also it was an established scientific doctrine that the average weight of such atoms in any considerable mass will be always the same. Two experimenters, the late Lord Rayleigh and the late Sir William Ramsay, found that if they obtained nitrogen by two different methods, each equally effective for that purpose, they always observed a persistent slight difference between the average weights of the atoms in the two cases. Now I ask you, would it have been rational of these men to have despaired because of this conflict between chemical theory and scientific observation? Suppose that for some reason the chemical doctrine had been highly prized throughout some district as the foundation of its social order — would it have been wise, would it have been candid, would it have been moral, to forbid the disclosure of the fact that the experiments produced discordant results? Or, on the other hand, should Sir William Ramsay and Lord Rayleigh have proclaimed that chemical theory was now a detected delusion? We see at once that either of these ways would have been a method of facing the issue in an entirely wrong spirit. What Rayleigh and Ramsay did was this: They at once perceived that they had hit upon a line of investigation which would disclose some subtlety of chemical theory that had hitherto eluded observation. The discrepancy was not a disaster: it was an opportunity to increase the sweep of chemical knowledge. You all know the end of the story: finally argon was discovered, a new chemical element which had lurked undetected, mixed with the nitrogen. But the story has a sequel which forms my second illustration. This discovery drew attention to the importance of observing accurately minute differences in chemical substances as obtained by different methods. Further researches of the most careful accuracy were undertaken. Finally another physicist, F. W. Astor, working in the Cavendish Laboratory at Cambridge in England, discovered that even the same element might assume two or more distinct forms, termed isotopes, and that the law of the constancy of averages atomic weight holds for each of these forms, but as between the different isotopes differs slightly. The research has effected a great stride in the power of chemical theory, far transcending in importance the discovery of argon from which it originated. The moral of these stories lies on the surface, and I will leave to you their application to the case, of religion and science.

In formal logic, a contradiction is the signal of a defeat: but in the evolution of real knowledge it marks the first step in progress towards a victory. This is one great reason for the utmost toleration of variety of opinion. Once and forever, this duty of toleration has been summed up in the words, ‘Let both grow together until the harvest.’ The failure of Christians to act up to this precept, of the highest authority, is one of the curiosities of religious history. But we have not yet exhausted the discussion of the moral temper required for the pursuit of truth. There are short cuts leading merely to an illusory success. It is easy enough to find a theory, logically harmonious and with important applications in the region of fact, provided that you are content to disregard half your evidence. Every age produces people with clear logical intellects, and the most praiseworthy grasp of the importance of some sphere of human experience, who have elaborated, or inherited, a scheme of thought which exactly fits those experiences which claim their interest. Such people are apt resolutely to ignore, or to explain away, all evidence which confuses their scheme with contradictory instances. What they cannot fit in is for them nonsense. An unflinching determination to take the whole evidence into account is the only method of preservation against the fluctuating extremes of fashionable opinion. This advice seems so easy, and is in fact so difficult to follow.

One reason for this difficulty is that we cannot think first and act afterwards. From the moment of birth we are immersed in action, and can only fitfully guide it by taking thought. We have, therefore, in various spheres of experience to adopt those ideas which seem to work within those spheres. It is absolutely necessary to trust to ideas which are generally adequate, even though we know that there are subtleties and distinctions beyond our ken. Also apart from the necessities of action, we cannot even keep before our minds the whole evidence except under the guise of doctrines which are incompletely harmonised. We cannot think in terms of an indefinite multiplicity of detail; our evidence can acquire its proper importance only if it comes before us marshalled by general ideas. These ideas we inherit — they form the tradition of our civilisation. Such traditional ideas are never static. They are either fading into meaningless formulae, or are gaining power by the new lights thrown by a more delicate apprehension. They are transformed by the urge of critical reason, by the vivid evidence of emotional experience, and by the cold certainties of scientific perception. One fact is certain, you cannot keep them still. No generation can merely reproduce its ancestors. You may preserve the life in a flux of form, or preserve the form amid an ebb of life. But you cannot permanently enclose the same life in the same mould.

The present state of religion among the European races illustrates the statements which I have been making. The phenomena are mixed. There have been reactions and revivals. But on the whole, during many generations, there has been a gradual decay of religious influence in European civilisation. Each revival touches a lower peak than its predecessor, and each period of slackness a lower depth. The average curve marks a steady fall in religious tone. In some countries the interest in religion is higher than in others. But in those countries where the interest is relatively high, it still falls as the generations pass. Religion is tending to degenerate into a decent formula wherewith to embellish a comfortable life. A great historical movement on this scale results from the convergence of many causes. I wish to suggest two of them which lie within the scope of this chapter for consideration.

In the first place for over two centuries religion has been on the defensive, and on a weak defensive. The period has been one of unprecedented intellectual progress. In this way a series of novel situations have been produced for thought. Each such occasion has found the religious thinkers unprepared. Something, which has been proclaimed to be vital, has finally, after struggle, distress, and anathema, been modified and otherwise interpreted. The next generation of religious apologists then congratulates the religious world on the deeper insight which has been gained. The result of the continued repetition of this undignified retreat, during many generations, has at last almost entirely destroyed the intellectual authority of religious thinkers. Consider this contrast: when Darwin or Einstein proclaim theories which modify our ideas, it is a triumph for science. We do not go about saying that there is another defeat for science, because its old ideas have been abandoned. We know that another step of scientific insight has been gained.

Religion will not regain its old power until it can face change in the same spirit as does science. Its principles may be eternal, but the expression of those principles requires continual development. This evolution of religion is in the main a disengagement of its own proper ideas from the adventitious notions which have crept into it by reason of the expression of its own ideas in terms of the imaginative picture of the world entertained in previous ages. Such a release of religion from the bonds of imperfect science is all to the good. It stresses its own genuine message. The great point to be kept in mind is that normally an advance in science will show that statements of various religious beliefs require some sort of modification, it may be that they have to be expanded or explained, or indeed entirely restated. If the religion is a sound expression of truth, this modification will only exhibit more adequately the exact point which is of importance. This process is a gain. In so far, therefore, as any religion has any contact with physical facts, it is to be expected that the point of view of those facts must be continually modified as scientific knowledge advances. In this way, the exact relevance of these facts for religious thought will grow more and more clear. The progress of science must result in the unceasing codification of religious thought, to the great advantage of religion.

The religious controversies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries put theologians into a most unfortunate state of mind. They were always attacking and defending. They pictured themselves as the garrison of a fort surrounded by hostile forces. All such pictures express half-truths. That is why they are so popular. But they are dangerous. This particular picture fostered a pugnacious party spirit which really expresses an ultimate lack of faith. They dared not modify, because they shirked the task of disengaging their spiritual message from the associations of a particular imagery.

Let me explain myself by an example. In the early medieval times, Heaven was in the sky, and Hell was underground; volcanoes were the jaws of Hell. I do not assert that these beliefs entered into the official formulations: but they did enter into the popular understanding of the general doctrines of Heaven and Hell. These notions were what everyone thought to be implied by the doctrine of the future state. They entered into the explanations of the influential exponents of Christian belief. For example, they occur in the Dialogues of Pope Gregory,2 the Great, a man whose high official position is surpassed only by the magnitude of his services to humanity. I am not saying what we ought to believe about the future state. But whatever be the right doctrine, in this instance the clash between religion and science, which has relegated the earth to the position of a second-rate planet attached to a second-rate sun, has been greatly to the benefit of the spirituality of religion by dispersing these medieval fancies.

Another way of looking at this question of the evolution of religious thought is to note that any verbal form of statement which has been before the world for some time discloses ambiguities; and that often such ambiguities strike at the very heart of the meaning. The effective sense in which a doctrine has been held in the past cannot be determined by the mere logical analysis of verbal statements, made in ignorance of the logical trap. You have to take into account the whole reaction of human nature to the scheme of thought. This reaction is of a mixed character, including elements of emotion derived from our lower natures. It is here that the impersonal criticism of science and of philosophy comes to the aid of religious evolution. Example after example can be given of this motive force in development. For example, the logical difficulties inherent in the doctrine of the moral cleansing of human nature by the power of religion rent Christianity in the days of Pelagius and Augustine —that is to say, at the beginning of the fifth century. Echoes of that controversy still linger in theology.

So far, my point has been this: that religion is the expression of one type of fundamental experiences of mankind: that religious thought develops into an increasing accuracy of expression, disengaged from adventitious imagery: that the interaction between religion and science is one great factor in promoting this development.

I now come to my second reason for the modern fading of interest in religion. This involves the ultimate question which I stated in my opening sentences. We have to know what we mean by religion. The churches, in their presentation of their answers to this query, have put forward aspects of religion which are expressed in terms either suited to the emotional reactions of bygone times or directed to excite modern emotional interests of nonreligious character. What I mean under the first heading is that religious appeal is directed partly to excite that instinctive fear of the wrath of a tyrant which was inbred in the unhappy populations of the arbitrary empires of the ancient world, and in particular to excite that fear of an all-powerful arbitrary tyrant behind the unknown forces of nature. This appeal to the ready instinct of brute fear is losing its force. It lacks any directness of response, because modern science and modern conditions of life have taught us to meet occasions of apprehension by a critical analysis of their causes and conditions. Religion is the reaction of human nature to its search for God. The presentation of God under the aspect of power awakens every modern instinct of critical reaction. This is fatal; for religion collapses unless its main positions command immediacy of assent. In this respect the old phraseology is at variance with the psychology of modern civilisations. This change in psychology is largely due to science, and is one of the chief ways in which the advance of science has weakened the hold of the old religious forms of expression. The non-religious motive which has entered into modern religious thought is the desire for a comfortable organisation of modern society. Religion has been presented as valuable for the ordering of life. Its claims have been rested upon its function as a sanction to right conduct. Also the purpose of right conduct quickly degenerates into the formation of pleasing social relations. We have here a subtle degradation of religious ideas, following upon their gradual purification under the influence of keener ethical intuitions. Conduct is a by-product of religion — an inevitable by-product, but not the main point. Every great religious teacher has revolted against the presentation of religion as a mere sanction of rules of conduct. Saint Paul denounced the Law, and Puritan divines spoke of the filthy rags of righteousness. The insistence upon rules of conduct marks the ebb of religious fervour. Above and beyond all things, the religious life is not a research after comfort. I must now state, in all diffidence, what I conceive to be the essential character of the religious spirit.

Religion is the vision of something which stands beyond, behind, and within, the passing flux of immediate things; something which is real, and yet waiting to be realised; something which is a remote possibility, and yet the greatest of present facts; something that gives meaning to all that passes, and yet eludes apprehension; something whose possession is the final good, and yet is beyond all reach; something which is the ultimate ideal, and the hopeless quest.

The immediate reaction of human nature to the religious vision is worship. Religion has emerged into human experience mixed with the crudest fancies of barbaric imagination. Gradually, slowly, steadily the vision recurs in history under nobler form and with clearer expression. It is the one element in human experience which persistently shows an upward trend. It fades and then recurs. But when it renews its force, it recurs with an added richness and purity of content. The fact of the religious vision, and its history of persistent expansion, is our one ground for optimism. Apart from it, human life is a flash of occasional enjoyments lighting up a mass of pain and misery, a bagatelle of transient experience.

The vision claims nothing but worship; and worship is a surrender to the claim for assimilation, urged with the motive force of mutual love. The vision never overrules. It is always there, and it has the power of love presenting the one purpose whose fulfillment is eternal harmony. Such order as we find in nature is never force — it presents itself as the one harmonious adjustment of complex detail. Evil is the brute motive force of fragmentary purpose, disregarding the eternal vision. Evil is overruling, retarding, hurting. The power of God is the worship He inspires. That religion is strong which in its ritual and its modes of thought evokes an apprehension of the commanding vision. The worship of God is not a rule of safety — it is an adventure of the spirit, a flight after the unattainable. The death of religion comes with the repression of the high hope of adventure.

 

NOTES:

1. William E. H. Lecky, The History of the Rise and Influence of the Spirit of Rationalism in Europe (London: Longmans, Green, 1910), Chap. III.

2. Cf. P. A. Gregorovius, History of Rome in the Middle Ages (London: G. Bell & Sons, 1894), Book III, Ch. III, Vol. II, English trans. by Annie Hamilton.

Chapter 22: Evolution and Religious Thought: from Darwin to Whitehead by Bernard E. Meland

From Bernard E. Meland, The Realities of Faith, Chapter Four. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1962). Used by permission of Bernard E. Meland. Bernard E. Meland, educated at the University of Chicago, was Professor of Constructive Theology at the Divinity School for eighteen years prior to his retirement in 1964.

 

In the spring of 1926 an incident occurred at the University of Chicago which may well be considered symbolic of the shift in perspective about which I am to speak in this chapter. Whitehead’s book, Religion in the Making, had just appeared. From the title of the book and its chapter headings one had every reason to assume that it would speak directly to the concerns of any student or scholar in the field of religion for whom the evolutionary point of view had become basic. Yet, to the dismay and irritation of many who were then with the Divinity School of the University of Chicago, including such students of the history and development of religious doctrine and institutions as Shailer Mathews, Edward Scribner Ames, and Shirley Jackson Case, this book was wholly unintelligible. Shailer Mathews was heard to remark, "It is infuriating, and I must say, embarrassing as well, to read page after page of relatively familiar words without understanding a single sentence." The fact that other members of the Divinity faculty and their colleagues in other theological schools who had read the book felt likewise lessened the embarrassment, but it hardly lessened the irritation. Shirley Jackson Case was able to set the book aside as being another instance of a metaphysically burdened philosopher stumbling through unfamiliar terrain, creating problems and giving explanations where no real problems existed. Shailer Mathews, however, was less inclined to dismiss it so readily. At one moment he would bristle with indignation at being put in such a predicament; but then as the humor of the situation seized him his face would light up with a marvelous smile and he would say, "Of course, ‘the fault could be in ourselves.’ Whitehead may be telling us something we ought to know about."

It was this hunch that led Mathews to invite Henry Nelson Wieman to the Chicago campus to interpret Whitehead’s book. Wieman had just broken into the field of philosophy of religion with an equally startling book, Religious Experience and Scientific Method. He had been attentive to Whitehead’s writing long before the latter had addressed himself to problems of religion or metaphysics. He had read Whitehead’s Inquiry into Principles of Natural Knowledge (1919), and The Concept of Nature (1920), and through these and other works1 had become acquainted with what was occurring in the new physics. He had adopted the principles of Gestalt psychology as being especially relevant to current issues and problems in religion. He was aware also of the theories in emergent evolution that were then appearing,2 and considered these to be of a piece with the configurative thinking which the new physics and modern metaphysics were employing. In short, Wieman was attuned to the very notions which had been shaping the imagery of Whitehead’s thought, and thus words which appeared to be mere abstractions, or awkward combinations of otherwise familiar words to some readers, conveyed significant new depth of meaning which Whitehead was at pains to present to his readers.

The occasion of Wieman’s interpretation was a meeting of the Theology Club of the Divinity School in the Swift Common Room. Edward Scribner Ames, Shirley Jackson Case, Gerald Birney Smith, and Shailer Mathews, and their colleagues were all there, most of them in the front row, and behind them a packed audience extended to the rear of the room, all awaiting the miracle of interpreting "this book." The miracle was performed. With deftness and patience, and with occasional sallies in poetic imagination, Wieman took the key phrases and their basic concepts and translated them into the more familiar imagery of the pragmatic Chicago school. It was as if shuttered windows in one’s own household had been swung open, revealing vistas of which one had hitherto been unmindful. Needless to say the act of interpretation in this context was impressive, and the response of the audience was equally so.

I

Now it is what underlies this memorable occasion that is my concern at the moment. I would venture to say that it marked the coming together of two distinct eras of imagery and their consequent perspectives. The Chicago School of Mathews, Ames, and Case was essentially shaped, both in imagery and interest, by the biological notions that had come into general usage through the stimulus of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species. In fact, one may say that the issue between science and religion had been posed for these men within the ethos of thought which Darwinian evolution had largely created. Not that they depended in any immediate sense upon biological science for their concepts or method, or that they had any conscious concern with Darwin, but the modernism," "environmentalism," and ‘functionalism" that were explicit in their methodology and emphasis had been implicitly derived from the Darwinian theory of natural selection. For while, to the popular mind, natural selection conveyed a sanctioning of competitiveness and assertiveness in the interest of survival, to the more specialized mind in psychology and sociology and in the study of religion, it revealed the decisive role of environment and the importance of functional adaptation. Modernism can be understood best, I think, as a blanket term covering the gamut of functional adaptations in response to the demands of a changing environment and the forward-moving perspective consequent to it. And I would claim that modernism, in the technical sense of that term, began with Darwin. Or perhaps one should say that Darwin’s theory of evolution gave it its essential impetus precisely in the way that Rousseau sparked the romanticist era and Descartes and Newton launched seventeenth-century rationalism.

To be sure, it took more than a biological theory to set in motion all the cultural forces which were beginning to reshape the ethos of the West in the mid-nineteenth century. The industrial age was in the ascendancy, ready to take full advantage of technical contributions from the physical sciences then coming into their maturity. Through the creation of "invention factories," of which Thomas Edison’s laboratory was the precursor, scientific invention was being consciously correlated with industrial needs. The opportunities, both for industrial and for scientific advance, were of such magnitude that nothing, not even the surviving sensibilities of an idealistic age and a mature artistic sense (in retrospect, least of all, these), could restrain the accelerating drive to bend human energy to the task of meeting the immediate demands for adaptation in the service of function, either elicited by opportunities of a changing environment or imposed by current demands. The times were ripe for precisely what did happen in Europe and America in 1859. Darwin’s theory did not create the era; it provided it with the rationale that enabled it to give ‘full speed ahead" to the process of adaptation, accentuating the concern with practical demands and function. It brought to fruition, or at least to a period of full growth, the bent of mind which had been initiated by Francis Bacon,3 directing inquiry as well as cultural effort to the idea of achieving mastery over the forces of nature, and turning the concern for knowledge into a zest for power. Pragmatism was to be the philosophy best suited to serve this awakening power culture, and it can be said to have been evoked by the issues which were brought to light by its problems. Similarly, functional psychology was the mode of inquiry into human behavior calculated to yield understanding of the human response to environmental demands, replacing introspective or subjective psychology whose interests were more internal and even mystical. The earlier Chicago School of Theology availed itself of both pragmatism and functional psychology and made these determining factors in its methodology.

Harry Overstreet has said that "there are two kinds of challenge that life makes to us, the challenge of needs and the challenge of the unknown."4 The imagery of thought provided by the era of modernism, following from the stimulus of Darwinism, clearly expressed a response to the challenge of needs. It would be misleading to say that the challenge of the unknown was wholly absent from this modernistic mode of thought. Even in the Darwinian theory of evolution something of this challenge was acknowledged. In nineteenth-century philosophies elaborating the evolutionary theory it appears as an overtone of agnosticism, as in Herbert Spencer’s reference to the Unknowable.5 Even in modernist theologies like that of Shailer Mathews one senses this agnostic note accompanying the formulation of its practical or functional rationale, as when he wrote,

Like a vast parabola, the personality-evolving activities of the cosmos touch our little circle of experience. We know not whence they come or whither they go; but we cannot evade them. We set up relations with them similar to those which we set up with persons. And thus we derive new strength and courage and moral motive for facing the tasks of life.6

The modernist, whether scientist, philosopher, or theologian, was content to confine observation and inquiry to the immediate data at hand and to offer judgment based upon experimentation within these limits. All concern with ultimates was to be excluded from such inquiry, for these lay outside the scope of the method.

This understanding of the limited scope of scientific method had been generally accepted since Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason (1781); but in nineteenth-century evolutionary parlance it took on the specific meaning that "all beginnings and endings are lost in mystery," a phrase that became commonplace in the sciences and social sciences as a way of dismissing or circumventing probing questions that sought to assess the larger implications or consequences of scientific analysis. What this meant was that, as long as the sciences or any related form of inquiry attended to the immediacies of nature or experience, no ultimate question need intrude or be considered. One can see now that this was a judgment dictated by the modernistic imagery which a confirmed trust in evolution provided. Sanguine modernists could accept this dismissal of ultimate questions because their faith in the evolutionary process was such that they need have no fear of its implications. Usually in such instances there was imported into the scientific view something of the ethos or sensibilities of modern idealism. The mode of thought described as "theistic evolution"7 which came into prominence in America during the late nineteenth century simultaneously with a resurgence of Hegelianism, spoke of evolution as "God’s way of doing things." This was tantamount to identifying God and evolution, which had the effect of insulating the man of faith from whatever dire effects might seem to follow from the scientist’s study of the process in the immediate data at hand. Certain scientists, too, were ready to adopt this assumption as an "over-belief," either as men of faith or simply as scientists at work, only too glad to subscribe to whatever might keep the issue between science and religion in a state of quiescence. For many other scientists, however, and for people of a modernistic bent of mind who saw in the sciences "a new messiah," or at least a directive of life displacing both religion and philosophy, this preoccupation with the immediacies to the exclusion of ultimates meant frankly a secularizing of life, that is, a relinquishing of all ideal or transcendent aspects which hope and wonder might evoke. Preoccupation with practical problems and present needs, as science and industry pursued them, offered a way of life that provided incentive and zest enough. This, I should say, is the true meaning of secularism — living shorn of its ultimate dimension and sensibilities. It would not be too farfetched or inaccurate to say that Darwinism in its deeper and persistent effects, as these became manifest in science and industry of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and, through them, in other cultural disciplines and activities, contributed to, if in fact it did not create, a new ethos in Western society, dedicated to the task of dealing with the immediacies of existence in their practical aspect.

II

Now the shift in mode of thought and sensibilities which has marked our recent thinking as a post-Darwinian era has to do chiefly with the reconception of this preoccupation with immediacies. I am not concerned here with detailing corrections and modifications of the Darwinian theory of evolution. There have been many such changes,8 so significant, in fact, that one wonders if Darwin must not be regarded, even by the biologists themselves, more as a precursor of developments leading to present-day evolutionary thinking rather than as a continuing historical source of our scientific understanding of man. But this may be putting the matter in the extreme. However that may be, it is Darwinism as the scientific sanction of the modernistic ethos with which I am now concerned. The shift in thought and sensibilities to which I refer reveals, not an abandonment of immediacies, but a reconception of them. In this reconception ultimacy and immediacy are seen to be inseparable, as inseparable as space and time. Ultimacy is seen to be in the immediacies of existence, not a remote aspect which is to be designated by the mystery of beginnings or endings. This is what is meant by the much-used phrase in our present discourse, "the dimension of depth." For many of our day, of course, this phrase has only the connotation of a mystifying irrationalism. Actually, however, it stems from serious renovations in the mode and structure of modern thinking.

It all began with modern physics, we are wont to say. In large measure this is true. That is, it is true for many of our most influential thinkers such as Einstein, Planck, Eddington, Millikan, Whitehead, and others. The discoveries and scientific creations of recent years in the field of nuclear energy, transforming our period into a new power age, are directly traceable to the discoveries of radioactive elements by Becquerel and the Curies, inaugurating the new physics.9 A new depth of relations and energy revealed in both earlier and more recent experiments has routed the world-view of mechanism which Newton and his followers through the nineteenth century had come to take for granted. Writing in 1927, Robert A. Millikan reported:

I was present in Berlin on Christmas Eve, 1895, when Professor Roentgen presented to the German Physical Society his first X-ray photographs. Some of them were of the bones of the hand, others of coins and keys photographed through the opaque walls of a leather pocket-book, all clearly demonstrating that he had found some strange new rays which had the amazing property of penetrating as opaque an object as the human body and revealing on a photographic plate the skeleton of a living person.

Here was a completely new phenomenon a qualititatively new discovery and one having nothing to do with the principles of exact measurement. As I listened and as the world listened, we all began to see that the nineteenth century physicists had taken themselves a little too seriously, that we had not come quite as near sounding the depths of the universe, even in the matter of fundamental physical principles, as we thought we had.10

But while physics has been the most formidable source of this sense of depth, developments in other areas of modern thought have also contributed to the new ethos. At the very time that Roentgen and Becquerel were bringing to a close the Newtonian era in science, Henri Bergson and William James were introducing, into philosophy and psychology respectively, the notion of relations as being internal and experienceable; and this was to alter radically the terms of philosophy laid down by Descartes, Kant, and Hegel.

Bergson has often been dismissed by scientists11 and philosophers12 alike, possibly for different reasons; but in most instances he has been criticized for his irrationalism and his vitalism. In my judgment both these criticisms have been overdone to the point of neglecting what Bergson was really about. I shall not delay the discussion here to defend Bergson against his critics, except to point out that what is frequently termed "irrationalism" in Bergson is precisely what he has in common with all modern disciplines that take the dimension of depth seriously. Concern with internal relations means, not that one disavows structured meaning to which intelligible inquiry can address itself, but that, to attend to it with any sense of reality, one must employ a mode of inquiry that is appropriate and adequate to deal with structure that is living, that is, dynamic in an organic sense. Bergson distrusted intellect as it was commonly conceived and employed in scientific and philosophical circles precisely because of its abstractive procedure in forming any cognitive judgment. What he was seeking for was a way of apprehending any fact within the living situation so as to capture what was wholly its reality in that living situation. That he chose intuition as a mode of apprehension best calculated to seize such true images of things as they are in their living context simply meant that, of the tools available, this, in his judgment, was best suited to accomplish the intellectual task in its most realistic and vital sense. He was vulnerable at many points, as we are now able to see; for the art of thinking forward, as we live forward,13 or of perceiving holistically, or relationally, not only was as yet undeveloped but hardly acknowledged as being legitimate in Western thought during Bergson’s earlier years when he wrote Creative Evolution (1911). What has since become commonplace in modern psychology as field theory under the influence of the Gestalt school and subsequent modes of holistic psychology, and in the new metaphysics since Whitehead,14 was scarcely manageable or even definable, except as one associated it with the intuitive act.

It must be said, of course, in order not to blur the fallacy in Bergson’s method, that he chose intuition as being a mode of apprehension most appropriate to a concern with internal relations precisely because he failed to note or to acknowledge the structural or contextual character of such relations as an external pattern of existence as well. His insistence that that which defied abstraction was simply internal within the living experience precluded a satisfactory conception of the thought process and led him to employ what was available as the antithesis to abstractive cognition, namely, intuition, or, as it is sometimes put, imagism. William James, who sensed the importance of Bergson’s effort and shared his impatience with abstract metaphysics and scientism, saw the problem with more proportion. For him relations were experienceable in a way that could make them designative as well, as in speaking of an experience of transition, or the flux of experience.15 A persisting positivism in his thinking, however, prevented James from doing full justice to the rich perceptions he had, in his effort to convey the "thickness of experience." What he and Bergson failed to do, Whitehead undertook to accomplish through his method of rational empiricism. However, Whitehead was brought to his metaphysics of relations through the revolution in the new physics; this fact has given to his thought, in designating the nexus of events, more externality than he really means to convey, or should imply. Nevertheless, a close study of his doctrine of prehension will reveal that he is really struggling with the same problem that challenged and excited Bergson and James in their insistence upon relations being experienceable. In Whitehead, the sense of structured meaning in the creative flow or living situation is more marked, and thus less suspect of being a detour into mysticism. One needs the corrective of Bergson and James at times in reading Whitehead, however, lest the formative notions of the new physics implicit in his imagery render one’s understanding of this creative nexus more external and rationalistic than it actually can be. There is a depth in the living situation that resists formulation. It was this that Bergson knew well and meant to take with the utmost seriousness and realism. The followers of Whitehead who take his imagery literally without pondering this important insight are inclined to be more rationalistic than Whitehead intended, and than the method of rational empiricism requires.

Again, to speak of another criticism which modern biologists often make of Bergson, I think that we are not to take his formulation of élan vital simply as a statement of a vital principle to explain the history of life, as George Gaylord Simpson seems to assume.’16 It is his way, not only of depicting the evolutionary character of all existence, but of accentuating the dynamic context in which all existence is cast, in contrast to the mechanical space-time imagery of pre-evolutionary science and philosophy. It is, as George Herbert Mead has said, a way of "taking time seriously"17 to the point that no definable space in the mechanistic sense can be designated, or fixed, except as a supposition for purposes which require one to arrest the process, which is to assume that time does not matter or that it does not exist. Bergson’s term "duration" is a space-time notion which implies that space can be conceived only in the context of time; and this means that every point of space is in process of passing into a subsequent point, etc. Elan vital, then, is no catchall phrase to explain evolution, in Simpson’s sense of that term, but a notion lighting up the dynamic or process character of reality.

The notion of depth as a dimension of the living situation resisting abstract thought, or at least qualifying its relevance to every situation, which we find so dominant in Bergson and in subsequent forms of organismic thinking, is traceable also to other anti-Hegelian developments. The one that has received most attention in our time is that stemming from Soren Kierkegaard and issuing in modern existentialism.18 I shall not develop this point beyond suggesting that here, too, concern with the ultimate import of the immediate situation associates ultimacy with immediacy in its concreteness. In existentialism the living situation is no mere center of practicality, shorn of ultimate concern. It is the vivid arena of decision and act, carrying the risks and burden of their ultimate meaning. Although the mode of thinking here is radically different from that of modern metaphysics, by following the lead of the new physics, it converges toward the latter in countering the positivism and the practically oriented modernism following from Darwinian evolution, with its stress upon "environmentalism" and "functionalism" as modes of adaptation within a secularized immediacy, an immediacy shorn of depth and ultimacy.

III

There is yet a further aspect to be noted in contrasting creative evolution, as it has taken form within the newer ethos, with evolutionism in its Darwinian and modernistic meaning. Darwin was in every respect identified with what is now designated nineteenth-century science. Now nineteenth-century science is to be understood as the summit of the scientific movement which had begun in the seventeenth century, fulfilling its vision of a mechanistic world order and its dream of the human conquest of nature through measurement and predictability. The success with which physicists particularly had been able to expand, verify, and utilize the image of a world machine provided by Newton led more and more to an assumption of a dependable mechanism underlying every natural phenomenon including man and society. The notion of orderliness in nature had become a dogma. And this at once gave assurance of a wholly rational interpretation of its processes and the growing conviction that mechanism and materialism as a final reading of the nature of reality were indisputable. Darwin’s theory certainly followed within this tradition. In fact it was said to exemplify it decisively in the human realm.

We have already noted what happened in physics late in the nineteenth century to upset this dogma of orderliness and to shatter the imagery of mechanism as a controlling notion. "The childish mechanical conceptions of the nineteenth century," declared Millikan in recalling his eyewitness account of Roentgen’s report on his experiments, "are now grotesquely inadequate."19

The new vision of science to which modern physics was forced to come was not to be universally accepted throughout the sciences. The imagery of mechanism proved to be useful to sciences, such as biology in the late nineteenth century, which were only beginning to achieve measurability and predictability. The younger sciences, bent on attaining precision in these matters, were reluctant to give up the very facilities that assured them such results. It must be said in their defense that often the kind of problem being investigated could be well served by assuming an imagery of mechanism. Modern physics abandoned this imagery precisely because it no longer enabled this science to explore the kind of problem that presented itself, once radioactivity was envisaged. Nevertheless, the lag between other sciences and physics in these matters and the persistence of (the) mechanistic imagery in psychology and the social sciences have been real obstacles to taking this revolution in fundamental notions seriously throughout the various disciplines.

Such a notion as emergence, for example, which is closely allied with the principle of indeterminacy and uncertainty and which was later to develop in physics, actually assumed more credence in physics before it took root in biology and psychology; yet it has more significant implications for the data of the organic and social sciences than for physics. But here again measurement and prediction were at issue. When biologists could see that emergence and structure go together, that the one is present wherever the other appears, there were grounds for seeing that emergence did not preclude measurability, though predictability was to a degree radically lessened. Yet the notion of emergence opened the way for biology really to take the living character of its data seriously.

Harry Overstreet wrote in The Enduring Quest:

Professor Jennings has hailed the doctrine of emergent evolution as "the declaration of independence of biology." It is not difficult to understand why. As long as biology was headed for a complete predictability, it was necessary to believe that "the only method of learning about the organic is to study the inorganic." In short, biology was forced to become physics. Every living creature had to be studied, not in terms of its own unique configuration, but in terms of its constituent physicochemical parts.20

IV

The contrast between Darwinian evolution and the creative or emergent evolution of recent years may be sharpened if we look more closely at the decisive notions which are seen to be formative in each case. It was common in the nineteenth century and even later to set Darwin over against Lamarck or vice versa, and by this means to point up the contrast between the inner and the outer orientation of evolutionary thinking. Lamarck was supposed to have ascribed to the internal condition of the organism itself, its inheritable side, a good deal of the initiative in the variations observed. Thus evolution could be said to be inherent in the organisms of life themselves. Environmental conditions could be said to be the occasions of change in the activities of the organism; but the decisive thrust of evolutionary change was internal process of a sort. One can see how vitalism could draw upon such an orientation and why Bergson preferred Lamarck to Darwin. Lamarck believed in a single life process which expressed itself in many forms. Organisms behaved in certain ways under the pressure of circumstances in the environment. Every activity of the organism, as Mead has observed, "altered the form of itself, and the form then handed on the change to the next generation.21 The effort of the organism to adapt itself to these circumstances may, as Bergson has said, be simply mechanical and external; but it may also involve consciousness and will. Thus Bergson was moved to say that "Neo-Lamarckism is therefore, of all later forms of evolutionism, the only one capable of admitting an internal and psychological principle of development, although it is not bound to do so."22

Darwin, on the other hand, tended to look solely at the external phenomenon of the organism’s response to conditions in the environment and to ascribe to such response the initiation of change or variation in the species. All internal factors were set aside, for these presumably, according to Darwin, played no significant role in the evolutionary process.

The issue between these two orientations was not so much discussed as acted upon. The scientist assumed one or the other stance, and, accordingly, moved in the direction of a mechanistic naturalism or in the direction of a more organic view of evolution, often veering toward mysticism or vitalism.

The orientation which best describes the stance of emergent evolution is neither internal nor external but a subtle interplay of both aspects; but this can make sense only if one takes into account the whole discussion of form and structure which has dominated the holistic thinking of those who speak of emergence and field theory. The imagery of organism in relation to environment seems altogether too simple and external to express what is envisaged in these various formulations of a dimension of depth. As Boodin has said, the new intellectual renaissance into which physics has led us in the twentieth century is marked, not only by the emancipation from mechanism, but "the discovery of form or structure as fundamental in reality."23 In this context, variation, or let us say emergence, is no mere chance response to a condition in environment, as if miscellaneous parts were going their own way, conditioned only by incidental or accidental factors in environment. To quote Boodin again, "Nature is not a mere random collection of parts, but a whole-making activity is manifest in nature."24 Thus it is emergence with structure.

Now this, I should say, points up the basic difference between the way evolution was conceived in Darwinism and the way in which it is understood by the emergent evolutionist. In Alexander’s words, it is nature as a whole that manifests the "nisus toward deity,"25 deity here being simply the level beyond any presently established structure, and thus the lure toward which the evolutionary thrust is directed. In less metaphysically motivated disciplines the nisus, or the movement toward novelty, is simply expressive of the Gestalt itself. This is a way of saying that relationships carry within themselves a potency that is creative of new situations. They yield a "More," in William James’s words, that is not the sum of the parts but a new creation, an emergent quality or character.

Here one will see that the external and the internal have merged, as it were. Or one may say that mechanism has yielded to organism, to the creativity of relationships which are at once internal and external, yet neither one nor the other at any one given moment of time.

V

The implications of this shift in perspective for theology are quite marked. Darwinian evolution, we noted earlier, created a serious problem for all religious inquiry in the nineteenth century, and, to some extent, continued to do so beyond the turn of the century. A perusal of the literature in religious and theological journals following 1859 throughout the ‘sixties will reveal a resounding sense of despair and denunciation. The linkage of man with an animal heritage on grounds of variation dictated simply by his response to environmental changes introduced a dominance of physical influences which could in no way be squared with the Christian doctrine of man. What ultimately turned the tide in a direction which could accommodate theological thinking to the evolutionary view was a resurgence of personal idealism which purported to see the entire process of evolution, animal as well as human, in the context of a cosmic drama presupposing a Creator God. Hermann Lotze’s philosophy in Microcosm,26 provided many a theologian and churchman of this period with the key to resolve the issue between religion and evolution. For while he took mechanism seriously as a physical base for all phenomena, including man and society, he was able to show that even the formation of this physical base in each instance took place within the cosmic ground of a higher purpose. Thus the material was a function of the spiritual and, to a degree, a manifestation of it, not its ultimate ground or directive.

It would be difficult to find any one individual of the nineteenth century whose thought proved more basic in resolving the issue between evolutionism and religion than Hermann Lotze. In philosophical circles, especially in nineteenth-century America, the resurgence of Hegelian idealism was to have wider influence in dealing with this problem. Among theologians, however, Lotze’s thought, either directly or as mediated through the Ritschlians and the personalists, had the greater impact. Lotze, in placing emphasis upon the disclosure of the spiritual reality in its effects, cut a path between a mechanistic science and an abstract metaphysics and thus was more immediately available to the religiously motivated mind of the period, say from 1880 to the early nineteen twenties. He was the basic source for the American personalist movement founded by Borden P. Bowne; and the frequency with which he was quoted in the writings of other liberal theologians would indicate that his influence was pervasive. I would even claim that the procedure by which Shailer Mathews resolved the issue between evolution and religion, in which he conceived evolution to be a personality-producing activity in the universe continually making the world more personal, partakes of this personal idealistic vein. Mathew’s "Noble Lectures," published under the title The Spiritual Interpretation of History, were an eloquent account of the march of human history toward this personal end. And in his "Ingersoll Lectures," Immortality and the Cosmic Process, he saw this movement of life toward the personal continuing beyond death. Immortality was itself another stage in the fulfillment of personality.

Edward Scribner Ames was more cautious than Mathews about injecting so tenuous a metaphysical notion as "personality-producing activities" into the empirical discussion of religion. He was willing to settle for what he called "practical absolutes,"27 that is, visions of the mind or idealizations which, at any given time, had the value of an ultimate directive in decision or action, but which were clearly to be understood as being a piece with man’s own nature and experience. It was man acting with full commitment to idealized dimensions of his experience. One will see, even here, the shadow of idealism. And this was generally true of the pragmatist when he expressed himself even tentatively in the ontological vein. For it must be said that, while the pragmatist considered himself to be departing from Hegel and from any explicit ontology, it was generally the abstract, universal notions from which he was departing. The process of idealization remained intact at the empirical level. Thus pragmatism must be seen as a truncated idealism. The superstructure of the Absolute or of a personal God may have been relinquished, but the idealization of the human equation, consonant with such a superstructure, was as decisive as ever. This was as evident in Dewey as it was in Ames and Mathews.

The Chicago School of Theology made much of its opposition to philosophical idealism; but its strategy of thought in transmuting evolution into something other than mechanistic naturalism was actually dictated and directed by the vestigial remains of its own personal idealism. It could hardly be otherwise, with "environmentalism" and "functionalism" playing so large a role in the formulation of its critical method. There was nothing in the method itself to justify a religious or a Christian resolution of problems that emerged. Some recourse to idealism, as a counterpart or corrective of the mechanism implied in its environmental and functional method, was demanded, whether implicitly or explicitly employed.

The change that has come about in theologies that partake of creative and emergent evolution can be described in this way: since mechanism is no longer the base of their evolutionary thinking, idealism is no longer essential as a strategy of thought in resolving the tension between science and faith. The relinquishment of the dichotomy implied in the issue between mechanism and idealism has been followed by a reformulation of the meaning of man and nature. Whether one speaks of this as a new naturalism or a religious naturalism, or abandons these terms altogether, choosing to see the world of reality in its dynamic and creative character as being "dimensional," and expressive of many stages of creative emergence, the correlation of man and nature, in contrast to their antithesis in earlier evolutionary and idealistic thinking, seems evident.

The notion of dimensions or levels of reality within nature has introduced into this later mode of evolutionary thinking qualitative distinctions which alter one’s understanding of the conditions under which evolution occurs; such a concept also alters the implications of the notion itself. To put it sharply, discontinuities appear between levels or structures by reason of the something new that has occurred to create the one level which transcends the other. "Emergence with structure" thus implies structural change and qualitative innovations which, as it were, set the one apart from the other, even as their continuity in nature is acknowledged. The novel event is never reducible to its antecedents, once emergence has occurred; it is not simply the sum of its parts, but real innovation. Spirit, personality, community individuality, psychical qualities, organic processes, each in its own way manifests a More, a novelty in quality and in structure by which it transcends its antecedents. Yet transcendence is never separation or alienation, for the higher subsumes the lower. Thus dimensional thinking provides a context of continuity within which discontinuities are constantly occurring.

This more complex evolutionary picture reduces mechanism and fixity to the minimum, yet retains them in forms appropriate to the level or dimension of emergence. It accentuates the role of freedom, thus extending the range of flexibility; yet it sees all freedom and flexibility as being within a field or structure of relationships.

Such a complexity at once alters the fundamental imagery from which implications or consequent meanings are formed. For example, the notion of automatic progress, which seemed to follow rather naturally from nineteenth-century evolutionism, cannot be deduced so readily from this context. The simultaneity of continuity and discontinuity within any dimension or level, of mechanism and freedom, of moral and rational qualities of personality and the grace and forgiveness of spirit, of individuality and community, bring to each event or existing situation the tension and contradiction inherent in the complexity of each structure. What Kant perceived as "radical evil," rendering the freedom of man subservient to the mechanisms of nature that persisted in him, takes on an even darker and more subtle turn in this emergent situation. For the issue is not simply between freedom and mechanism, as in the Kantian view, or between the personal and man’s vestigial animal heritage, as nineteenth-century personal idealists viewed it. Rather, it is a variation of these along with the demonry of personality itself, of man’s moral and rational capacities in tension with the sensitivities of spirit as a higher dimension of freedom and goodness which grasp him as a novelty of grace within his human structure, judging him, yet summoning him to that which is beyond his own human order of good.

This sense of tension and contradiction is not of necessity a movement onward and upward. ft is fraught more with frustration, dissipation, pride, and pretension, and the anxiety which must inevitably ensue from these human failings demanding resolution in a doctrine of redemption.

Or again, it does not follow from this emergent reading of the human situation that the structure of man, that is, "personality," is dominant and sovereign in value. Moral and rational good, expressive of man’s ideal aspects and thus characteristic of this human dimension, stands under the judgment of a sensitivity more consonant with the freedom of spirit, a structure of sensitivity and grace transcending man’s level. The grace of the spirit evident in acts of love and forgiveness, though present in the human structure, is not to be subsumed under its category. Thus any idealization of the human equation or projection of it as an absolute or ultimate good becomes a voluntary act of illusion, making absolute a level of reality which is patently relative and thus insulating the characteristically human structure of personality from its sensitive frontier where it might otherwise encounter the dimension of spirit, expressive within its own structure, yet not of it.

The Darwinian theory of evolution took form in a period of history when individuality was itself at a premium. It was often expressed as the "primacy of the person," a dictum which had been affirmed since the time of Descartes. Obviously, some of the qualitative overtones of this liberal dictum were seriously threatened by the evolutionary theory, principally because its ideal aspects appeared to be dissipated under the disclosure of man’s animal antecedents. Furthermore, in its concern with the species, the priority of the individual person tended inevitably to be obscured. Nevertheless, the virtues of individuality as such were enhanced. Individualism, in fact, gained a new status, encouraging aggressiveness, if not ruthlessness, in the pursuit of individual enterprise as adaptability and the competitiveness it entailed. What natural science stimulated, industry furthered in the very mode of activity it promoted and the ethos it tended to generate within communities and within culture as a whole.

What has followed from the creative evolution of emergence and the accompanying notion of field theory, on the other hand, is a radically different view of individuality and of human fulfillment. It would be a mistake to say that it reverses matters, setting up community in opposition to individuality. To some extent this has followed; though when it occurs, it represents an exaggeration or even a perversion of what is implied in this newer image of man. For while relations are real and can be experienced, forming the context of man’s being and providing resources of energy and power which are greater and other than he, himself, can effect, they are also expressive of what he, in himself, represents. The truer imagery is the one formulated by Whitehead, in saying that the topic of religion is individual in community,28 which is to see individual values empowered through relationships, and the community expressive of freedom and qualitative differences. In this context the meaning of men enlarges because selfhood itself widens and deepens its bounds. Freedom also changes in meaning. In addition to connoting a measure of independent judgment or decision as well as flexibility, it means, in this context, freedom to have relations, freedom to avail one’s self of the grace and power which relationships can bestow. The atomism of the autonomous self thus gives way to a sound sense of the community of being and the responsibility, as well as the opportunity, of being fulfilled within such a creative nexus.

One can see, then, that the theological significance of this reorientation of evolutionary thinking could be considerable. However, the relevance of the imagery provided by such notions as emergence and field theory to the theological task will be judged variously. Those theologians who are persuaded by present discussions in analytical philosophy will insist that even a consideration of the problem of their relevance to theology is misguided; for this is to confuse two different areas of discourse, the scientific and the religious. Others, open to the suggestion that some interrelation between discourses is permissible, will object to intruding these particular notions into current theological thinking on the grounds that they are not significant or even legitimate notions in the biological sciences themselves. Again, theologians who are persuaded of their usefulness in conveying theological meaning to the contemporary mind may have gone so far as to claim emergent evolution to be a theological symbol by which biblical events of history as well as subsequent doctrinal formulations may be explicated. This view was implicit in the theological writings of the late Archbishop William Temple, particularly in his volume on Nature, Man, and God. It has been explicitly set forth by another British theologian, L. S. Thornton, in his trilogy on The Form of the Servant 29in which he virtually equates the terms "emergence" and ‘revelation." A more recent exposition of this position appears in a paper by John Hayward entitled "Evolution as a Theological Symbol."

The problem of how scientific, philosophical, or even commonsense notions are to be employed in bringing intelligibility to the Christian faith intrudes here. I would venture to suggest that to apply them so directly and completely as to subsume all theological meaning under these notions is to make too much of them. They are at best analogies that can help the modern mind to take such Christian concepts as "revelation," "grace," and "spirit" more seriously than is possible within the monolithic discourse which our contemporary disciplines provide. This applies particularly to many of our time who have been schooled in the thought of Western culture, say from the period of the enlightenment through nineteenth-century philosophy and science. The imagery of thought provided by this period literally closed the modern mind to dimensions of meaning which such terms as "revelation," ‘spirit," and "grace" convey. The aversion to supernaturalism or to any appearance of dualism that seemed to threaten or to undo the assumption of "one-world order of meaning" has rendered the modern consciousness peculiarly insensitive to the great themes of Christian faith that have meant to point beyond man’s own human powers and resources. And with no imagery available, other than that of supernaturalism, to suggest such nuances or sensitive ground for pointing toward dimensions of grace or spirit, Christian faith could mean for the modern consciousness only confidence in the resources of man’s moral idealism. The radical turn of Protestant thought in recent years, motivated largely by a rediscovery of Kierkegaard’s critique of modern idealism, represents one serious reaction within Western culture against this impasse and self-enclosure. But the protest extends beyond specifically theological literature. For example, what has come about in the shift of imagery exemplified in the new physics and in emergent thinking generally represents not so much a reaction as a radical reconception of fundamental notions, altering the modern consciousness itself. Insofar as one partakes of this deepened mode of modern consciousness, one is made aware of depths and nuances in the complexities of man’s existence which at once sober one with the limits of man’s reason and perceptive powers, and awaken one to the very dimensions of experience to which the themes of the Christian faith bear witness.

It is quite possible that, when one has been awakened to the import of the Christian witness through a distinctive imagery, partaking of specific philosophical or scientific notions, these notions will affect one’s speech and even condition one’s understanding of the witness to faith. It was so with Augustine, for whom Neoplatinism served such a role, enabling him to take the Gospels seriously, whereas previously they had offended his disciplined taste. But it does not follow that one is necessarily subjected to these thought-forms in his effort to understand the witness to faith. Insofar as they are assumed to be "instruments of vision," lighting up realities of the spirit which would otherwise remain obscure, or even nonexistent, they will be understood to be subservient to the realities disclosed. What is thus seen and heard within this more sensitive stance will bring its own occasion of judgment and understanding.

To speak specifically on this point, the fact that form and relationship have been restored to the current image of man, both in the new metaphysics and in the sciences of man, enables us to be more understanding in our anthropology of what is being conveyed in such historically biblical notions as the Covenant and the Imago Dei. Care needs to be exercised, lest we make the correlation between these biblical notions and contemporary ideas too complete and simple. There are differences to be noted, respected, and seriously pondered. Nevertheless, the recovery of these valued notions in the current discourse is a decided gain. Where the dialogue between this newer modern consciousness and the biblical witness is sensitively pursued, it can yield the kind of critical insight into our understanding of man which we desperately need in this age of yearning and conflict.

 

NOTES:

1. Notably Principia Mathematica (with Bertrand Russell), 3 vols. (Cambridge University Press, 19101913); The Principle of Relativity (Cambridge University Press, 1922); Science end the Modern World (Macmillan, 1925).

2. Alexander, Space, Time, and Deity (Macmillan, 1920), and C. Lloyd Morgan, Emergent Evolution (Henry Holt, 1923). In 1926 three more significant studies in emergent evolution were to appear: C. Lloyd Morgan, Life, Mind, and Spirit; J. C. Smuts, Holism and Evolution, and Edmund Noble, Purposive Evolution. Behind these works and underlying their organismic philosophy were Bergson’s Creative Evolution, which had made a deep impression on Wieman, and the radical empirical writings of William James, especially Pluralistic Universe and Essays in Radical Empiricism.

3. Cf. The Advancement of Learning, 1605.

4. The Enduring Quest (Chautauqua Press, 1931], vii.

5. Cf. his First Principles. (Appleton, 1862).

6. Growth of the idea of God (Macmillan, 1931), 230.

7. John Fiske was one of the earliest exponents of this view. His most substantial work was Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy (1874), though smaller works such as The Destiny of Man (1884), The Idea of God (1885), and Through Nature to God (1899), were more influential. Other works contributing to this view were Newman Smyth, Old Faiths in New Light (1879), Henry Drummond, Natural Law in the Spiritual World (1883), and Lyman Abbott, The Theology of on Evolutionist (1897).

8. These revisions of the Darwinian theory of evolution have been interestingly summarized for the general reader in George Gaylord Simpson’s The Meaning of Evolution (Yale University Press, 1949), and in 1958 published as a Mentor Book in a paper-bound edition.

9. A full account of these developments leading to the new physics is given in Ernst Zimmer, The Revolution in Physics (Harcourt, Brace, 1936), and C. D. Broad, Scientific Thought (Routledge & Kegan Paul), 1923. See also Max Planck, The Universe in the Light of Modern Physics (W. W. Norton, 1931); Albert Einstein, Essays in Science (Philosophical Library, 1934); and Albert Einstein and Leopold Infeld, The Evolution of Physics (Simon & Schuster, 1936). Readable accounts of the general situation leading to these developments are given in J. E. Boodin, Three Interpretations of the Universe (Macmillan, 1934), 144ff., and in W. C. Dampier, A History of Science and Its Relations with Philosophy and Religion., 3rd ed. (Macmillan, 1946).

10. Evolution in Science and Religion (Yale University Press, 1927), 7ff.

11. Cf. George Gaylord Simpson, 131.

12. Cf. W. T. Jones, A History of Western Philosophy (Harcourt, Brace, 1952).

13. This observation that we live forward but think backward was first made by Kierkegaard, and quoted by Harold Hoffding in an article in The Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods., II (1905), 85-92. James took up this notion of Kierkegaard’s and advanced the notion of thinking forward as we live forward in his Essays on Radical Empiricism, p. 238.

14. Cf. also Dorothy Emmet, The Nature of Metaphysical Thinking (Macmillan, 1945), and Function, Purpose and Powers (Macmillan, 1958); Susanne Langer, Philosophy in a New Key (Harvard University Press, 1958).

15. Cf. his Psychology, Vol. I., esp. chap. IX, and chap. VII, and Essays in Radical Empiricism. Chap. VI.

16. Op. cit., 131.

17. George Herbert Mead, Movements of Thought in the Nineteenth Century. Merritt H. Moore, ed. (University of Chicago Press, 1936), 311ff.

18. Important as Kierkegaard is in the recent history of Western thought, especially in theological thought, it is a mistake, I think, to single him out exclusively as if he alone stemmed the tide of abstract thought and opened the way for the "existential" stance. This is to exaggerate his role. The critics of Hegel were legion, and their contributions look a variety of directions. The scope of this variety can be indicated by the mere mention of the names of men who figured in this historical revolution in fundamental notions, far example, Schelling, Herbart (a contemporary of Schelling), Schopenhauer, Feuerbach, Marx, Hartmann, Nietzsche, Freud, Bergson, and William James.

19. Evolution in Science and Religion (Yale University Press, 1927).

20. 0p. cit., 61-62.

21. Movements of Thought in the Nineteenth Century (University of Chicago Press, 1936), 159.

22. Henri Bergson, Creative Evolution (Henry Holt 1911), 77.

23. Op. cit., 178.

24. Ibid.

25. Op. cit. Vol. II, Book IV.

26. ‘Rudolf Hermann Lotze, Microcosm, 3 vols. (Leipzig, Verlag von G. Hirzel, 1872). (This work was actually written between the years 1856-1864.) Eng. trans. 1884. Lotze’s work was in medicine before he turned to philosophy, and in these writings as well as in the early volumes of Microcosm he actually anticipated Darwin’s theory.

27. Cf. his "Religious Values and the Practical Absolute," International Journal of Ethics, XXX (1922), 347-365.

28. Religion in the Making. Whitehead, in using this phrase, was reaffirming a notion well known in classical Christian thinking, as expressed in the Covenant and in the Imago Dei. But his metaphysics sets forth a new rationale for it, giving it added contemporary force.

29. This trilogy includes I, Revelation and the Modern World, 1950; II, The Dominion of Christ, 1952; and III, Christ and the Church, 1956).

19101

Chapter 21: Process Cosmology and Theological Particularity by Ralph E. James, Jr.

Ralph E. James, Jr. attended Emory and Drew Universities. He is Associate Professor of Philosophy and Religion at North Carolina Wesleyan College.



Current theological interest in process philosophy sets the stage for a new confrontation between what might be called the cosmological perspective of philosophy and the historical perspective of theology. The cosmological perspective derives, at least in part, from the philosopher’s determination to be comprehensive; the historical perspective arises out of the theologian’s conviction that it is his task to elucidate and defend one unique particular, namely, the event of Jesus Christ. Of course the degree to which philosophies are cosmological and theologies historical, varies. The present confrontation is sharpened because process philosophy is highly cosmological in its perspective as is suggested by the title of Whitehead’s key work, Process and Reality, An Essay in Cosmology. Theological interest in this "essay in cosmology" comes at a time when theological writing is markedly historical in perspective. Ironically, the confrontation between process cosmology and theological historicity appears at a time when theologians are noticing the compatibility between process thought and historical thinking. Whitehead’s metaphysical system pictures dynamic occurrences, and historically minded theologians like to speak of dynamic events. The confrontation is, therefore, not over dynamics, change, or becoming. Rather, the confrontation is between the general cosmic process and one particular historical event.

Obviously the cosmological vision available to modern man transcends any one metaphysical description. Moreover, what is described is constantly enriched and "filled in." When Loren Eiseley describes the process of evolution of plant and animal life struggling through the hot, red winds of the young earth, and when space shots send back data from the Moon and Mars, our cosmic vision expands. Paleontological and astronomical findings daily stretch the horizons of human imagination beyond former boundaries. The term cosmos itself fails to be satisfactory as a way of describing recent findings. The original Greek word, kosmos, meant order of harmony and could hardly encompass the post-enlightenment discovery of oceans of cosmic dust and debris floating randomly in space. In the present discussion the term cosmology will signify not only Whitehead’s philosophical vision but a vision of a process enriched by very recent discoveries in the physical sciences.

Whitehead himself was quite explicit about cosmology: "The theme of Cosmology, which is the basis of all religions, is the story of the dynamic effort of the World passing into everlasting unity, and of the static majesty of God’s vision, accomplishing its purpose of completion by absorption of the World’s multiplicity of effort."1 In a sense, the "historical captivity" of Christianity means theology has abandoned cosmology as "the basis of all religions." Process theology may well provide a way to return theology to a cosmic basis: a modern cosmological theology, a post-historical theology, that is nevertheless aware "of the dynamic effort of the World passing into everlasting unity."

I think the present confrontation between Whiteheadian cosmology and Christian theology can be best focused in terms of the traditional problem of particularity. In this context the problem of particularity is two problems in one: it is the problem of the relationship between one historical event, the event of Jesus Christ, and all other particulars in the universe; it is also the question of the relationship between human history and the cosmic process in general. The latter form of the problem emerges with the space age; the former has surfaced before in the argument about "the two natures of Christ" and in the more recent "scandal of particularity" (it is scandalous to think God is uniquely incarnate in Jesus, but nevertheless true). The problem is renewed by theological appropriation of process philosophy because of theological interest in the preservation of the uniqueness of one historical particular in the general scheme of unique particulars. A process theology true to the cosmic scope of Whitehead’s philosophy must be a cosmological theology embracing both history and nature. Indeed, the distinction between history and nature as a methodological device loses force in process ontology. Rejection of the history/nature dichotomy ushers the question of the particularity of theology’s subject to the fore. Process theology assigns uniqueness to every finite particular but special uniqueness to none.

The practical importance of an inclusive cosmological theology for the future increases in proportion to growing cosmic awareness. Two thousand years of Christian history become decreasingly venerable when confronted by the findings of radioactivity dating techniques which date the hardened crust of the earth at three billion years. Even Professor Leakey’s recent extension of possible humanoid remains as far back as 2,000,000 B. C. leaves man (if this be man) with but a brief history compared to earth time, to say nothing of the general cosmic process. The relative size of the earth and the significance of the human race shrinks before extragalactic distances exceeding a billion light years. The reach of the cosmos now measurable by radio astronomy exceeds the wildest dreams of those who formulated traditional Christian beliefs in terms of the particularity of Christ and human history. In their way, for example in the logos theology of John, early Christians also attempted to relate Jesus to the cosmos, but the sheer scope of this undertaking is now vastly enlarged.

I do not intend to argue that truth claims based upon historical particulars cannot logically be cosmic in scope. Rather, the issue is whether theology expressed in the particular form of one historical perspective is more convincing than a general cosmic perspective. Whitehead’s cosmological orientation seems to offer some hope as a way to pose a theological alternative to the historical tendency in Western theology just because it is not limited to one particular, though it may be found to do justice to that particular within a cosmic context. There are several areas for discussion in developing such an alternative:

History and Metaphysics. Since the Kierkegaardian and Nietzschian revolts against the Absolute with its component metaphysical difficulties, theologians have preferred the meaningfulness of personal subjective experience to abstract and dehumanizing metaphysics. Historical thinking has been distinguished from metaphysical thinking in order to preserve the personal and unique content of faith. Neo-reformation theologians (with the exception of Paul Tillich) have been particularly gratified by the belief that historical thinking somehow restored the uniqueness that had been so viciously attacked by nineteenth century skepticism, rationalism, liberalism and historicism. At least in the earlier decades of the twentieth century the split between theology and philosophy, the problem of hermeneutics and the problem of language, emerging from christological historical thinking, seemed a fair price to pay for protecting the uniqueness of the theological subject. But with the intensification of the later problems in the second half of this century the price of historical thinking has risen.2

It is against the background of increasingly costly historical thinking that process theology appears as a solution to current theological difficulties. Basically, it approaches the problems associated with historical thinking by rejecting the existential historical (and positivistic) attitude toward metaphysics that helped to bring these problems to their present form. An example of how one might employ the process rejection of the dichotomy between history and metaphysics can be found by looking at the methodology of the contemporary theologian, Friedrich Gogarten. Gogarten holds that the Christian faith is historical "and not to be harmonized with traditional metaphysical thinking — an impossible task!"3 Of course, process thinkers can agree with the rejection of traditional metaphysics. But Gogarten seems to imply that historical thinking somehow escapes being metaphysical in any sense. He argues that reality, experienced through faith, is "that to which man’s freedom for God and his independence toward the world correspond."4

Presumably such a claim about reality is not metaphysical, but is this true? Does knowledge of reality, whether experienced through faith or not, fail to give us a specific metaphysical description of reality? Describing Gogarten’s position, Theodore Runyon writes, "faith is itself a kind of relativity, man relative to God in every moment."5 Since the process theologian makes the definite claim that God is also relative to man, is it not true that this becomes an argument between two kinds of religious metaphysical positions?

Contrast Gogarten’s understanding of metaphysics with that of Charles Hartshorne who thinks of metaphysics as a "descriptive science" which, among other functions, aids one’s understanding of his participation in the love of God. Hartshorne’s understanding of God can be communicated through abstract, relatively nonhistorical metaphysical symbols. This does not mean such symbols do not characterize history. By rejecting such an understanding of metaphysics, Gogarten leaves himself at a strategic disadvantage in attempting to elucidate his theological subject. One suspects that Gogarten would more clearly see the problem of the particularity of his subject if he admitted that he takes a metaphysical position if only by implication. An implicit metaphysic is just as real as an explicit one, but its very implicit character hides metaphysical problems.

Wolfhart Pannenberg evidences more concern for the problem of the particularity of his theological subject by basing his theology in historical revelation as universal. (See Offenbarung als Geschichte.) But how universal is Pannenberg’s understanding of universal history when he speaks of "the Kingdom of God in which alone human destiny can find its ultimate fulfillment"?6 The test from the perspective of a Whiteheadian cosmology is how much such ultimate fulfillment is dependent upon one contingent historical event. This is the question of the relationship between the general cosmic process and one finite particular. Pannenberg’s answer to the crucial question is clear: "The eschatological event of the appearance of Christ is the summation of the universe from its end in that this event has consummating power in the fullness of time."7 I see no logical conflict between Pannenberg’s claim that one event is the summation of the universe and Whitehead’s metaphysics so long as existential language is employed, i.e. "consummating power," "fullness of time." The question is the ontological status of the finite particular upon which he bases his existentially worded case. If, in reality, all power is in one particular, all other particulars cease to have power. If not, how are we to take Pannenberg’s language?

Pannenberg’s failure to clarify the ontological status of the finite particular which he claims consummates the whole universe is only part of the problem. The deeper question is how intuitively convincing is this claim when confronted by the fact that the whole earth is one fleeting speck in the observable space-time continuum of the cosmic process? Is not Pannenberg’s universal history unnecessarily restricted by finite historical thinking centered in his desire for salvation through Jesus Christ? Certainly theology cannot escape finitude in its perspective, but I am convinced that it could now broaden its perspective (1) by admitting the metaphysical implications of its "historical" claims, (2) by thinking through the ontological status of the particular upon which it rests its case, and (3) by placing its historical thinking in cosmic perspective.

Anthropology and particularity. A second area that should be explored in the confrontation between Whiteheadian cosmology and historical particularity is the doctrine of man. Process theology is well known as a determined program to rethink the doctrine of God so that the understanding of God is not limited to ontological categories of being. Process theologians insist that God is dipolar; both eternal and temporal, absolute and relative, necessary and contingent. Since God is in part temporal, relative, and contingent, man can actually change reality through his finite decisions — his existence has ontological significance.

Such an emphasis upon the role of man with the rejection of the monopolar classical understanding of God, means that process theology has much in common with the theological intention of Thomas J. J. Altizer’s radical theology. Process theology differs sharply, however, from radical theology’s solution to the problem of God and its eschatological and apocalyptic view of man. Altizer writes, "A new humanity is created by the death of God in Jesus, a humanity that is a direct contrary of the natural man who is isolated in his own selfhood and imprisoned by the brute contingency of time."8 In effect, such a new humanity involves movement from contingency to noncontingency so that noncontingency (God is all in all) becomes the triumphal status. Radical theology’s "new forms of faith may be seen to have an apocalyptic form: the new humanity that they proclaim dawns only at the end of all that we have known as history; its triumph is inseparable from the disintegration of the cosmos created by historical man, and it calls for the reversal of all moral law and the collapse of all historical religion."9

Again, process theology can applaud "disintegration of the cosmos created by historical man." Certainly process theology is open to a possible reversal of moral law, perhaps even the collapse of historical religions. But noncontingent existence in the time of triumph for the new man is another matter. Eschatological visions (such as Altizer’s) are challenged by the question of the meaning of basic beliefs such as non-contingent times of triumph, which seems to require the end of cosmic process. A few years ago a bitterly satirical movie, The Victors, suggested the hollowness of the meaning of military victory in modern warfare. The notion of victory in warfare, like the ideas of an apocalyptic triumph, seems to have meaning only within the historical contexts which produce them. Thus, it is not surprising to find apocalyptic thinking decreasingly adequate for modern life. This becomes especially evident as the doctrine of the second coming of Christ continually wanes as a cultural force. The interim before the Kingdom, the time of triumph proclaimed by Jesus, stretches itself until the ongoing process becomes more meaningful than the postponed Kingdom.

Apocalyptic thought implies an epoch, a period of time, before the triumph. What then? Perhaps this is an unfair question because "then" is a time word. Nevertheless, what if the universe as an ongoing process will continue forever? Without giving up its doctrine of God or man, process theology appears to imply that the process simply continues as both necessary and contingent in different respects. The notion of an expected future eschaton gives way to the satisfactions of particular occasions before an immediate vision of God. The reference point of satisfaction is not necessarily tied to one past holy event pointing to human salvation. Releasing a tradition or a man from a particular reference point in time may well have a salutary effect upon that tradition or individual. The process alternative seems better equipped to accomplish such a release from human particularity, indeed, Whitehead once defined religion as that which "is directed to the end of stretching individual interest beyond its self-defeating particularity."10

Evolution and God. A third area in which the confrontation between process cosmology and theological particularity arises is the relationship between evolution and God. Largely due to the influence of Teilhard de Chardin, Catholic theologians have recently done considerable work in this area.11 Under the influence of Whitehead, process theology holds out a parallel promise within but not limited to Protestantism or even Christianity. One can make a historical case that Whitehead’s metaphysic is in some sense a systematic metaphysical description of evolution. Whitehead’s philosophy would certainly be less intelligible if the idea of evolution were not generally known and accepted. Of course this does not mean that non-Whiteheadian concepts such as determinism, sometimes associated with evolution, are required by process philosophy.

One reason process theology harmonizes well with evolution is that in process theology God himself evolves in one aspect of his nature. Being in one respect relative, contingent and free, God can relate to and include the universe in process. Emphasis upon history in recent theology salvaged something of evolving process, but failure to work out the ontological relationship between history and God has been a serious problem. Theologians have attempted to protect the special uniqueness of one historical event, but have not satisfactorily shown how that event relates to general evolution or to God. Process theology offers an alternative by insisting on real process in God. This means that every particular contributes its uniqueness (not special uniqueness) to the becoming of cosmic evolution. Evolving particulars become the dynamic events of time. God is literally "timeful."

Process and Hope. In proposing a Christian theology of hope Jurgen Moltmann agrees that theology cannot live with the Parmenidean god of being who renders the reality of time empty. "The contemplation of this god does not make a meaningful experience of history possible, but only the meaningful negation of history. The logos of this being liberates and raises us out of the power of history into the eternal present."12 Moltmann sees that the loss of an open future removes the basis of hope. From the perspectives of both Whitehead and Moltmann one can notice more than casual connections between Greek philosophy of being and the Greek sense of tragedy, despair and fate.

Whitehead and Moltmann are in agreement in assigning ontological primacy to temporal history instead of eternal being; each accepts the basic premise of evolution in God. But even when there is agreement that hope requires an open future, the question of the basis for hope remains unsettled. For Whitehead hope is grounded in the continuing process of reality toward its potentialities in God. Such process includes human history but includes also the dim past studied by the paleontologist and the distant space of the astronomer. Dinosaurs, men, and stars participate in the cosmic process as the basis of life and hope for creatures in all possible limes and galaxies. Moltmann, on the other hand, insists that the only basis of true hope for the future is a particular event in history: ‘This realm of the future which lies before us cannot be turned into mere ‘futurity’ by reflecting solely on its relation to existence, but it is the future of Jesus Christ and can therefore be inferred only from the knowledge and recognition of that historic event of the resurrection of Christ which is the making of history and the key to it."13 Utilizing this particular event as the criterion of all true hope, Moltmann rejects romantic and Marxist utopian ideas for attempting to establish hope in human community. These, he thinks, are false hopes. Process theology can, however, produce a doctrine of hope that avoids both romantic and Marxist utopianism and the problem produced by founding hope in one particular historical event. Whitehead’s metaphysic could describe a third kind of utopia, just as one can declare one event in human history final for the universe. Nevertheless, in process theology, it is not necessary to take either of these steps in order to have a useful doctrine of hope. Hope can be based upon components of process itself: (1) the generally available vision of God; (2) the openness of the future; (3) the everlastingness of the past in the memory of God; (4) freedom to create novel experience at all levels of the cosmic process; (5) aesthetic enjoyment of existence, and (6) the possibility of a better society through intelligent use of the first five elements.

Obviously, because of the reality of freedom, these elements can also function to produce evil and despair. In the sense that process theology may not operate under the "necessity" of hope founded by the Christ event, it is less hopeful than the theology of hope. But in the sense in which it is more universal, and not necessarily tied to a particular event, it is more hopeful. If world society is ever to evolve, and social evolution is at least as important to man as biological, it will require a common base such as "being-before-the-cosmos," i.e., a cosmic common denominator. Social evolution, like biological evolution, is checked by the compartmentalization of traditions. Recent research on the human brain indicates how much more adequately the flexible young brain is able to cope with problems than the more compartmentalized older one.14 Similarly, transcending traditional compartmentalization with the cosmic vision may be just what is required to give fresh life to human society. What Whitehead might call adventure may be reborn just because evolution speeds out of its present forms, forms inadequate for the novelty of the future.

Hope for the future includes but does not depend upon one event or one tradition alone. A vision of cosmic process raises human horizons above traditional divisions based in the particulars of history, and above divisions based in the absolutization of many kinds of particulars in addition to theological ones. In this vision, hope begins with a declaration that men are immediately together before one unifying vision and potentially brothers in a future that is really open. I think such a vision will endure beyond the epochs of revised traditional theology through which we are now rapidly passing. Just as Copernicus lifted us out of Ptolemaic anthropocentricism, process cosmology may help us beyond the particularity of the religious traditions of our time. It is especially well equipped to do this as A Natural Theology for Our Time (Hartshorne);15 it will take much longer as A Christian Natural Theology (Cobb).16 Our hope lies in the general cosmic process Hartshorne described when he wrote, "God is the cosmic ‘adventure’ (Whitehead) integrating all real adventures as they occur, without ever failing in readiness to realize new states out of the divine potency.. . ."17

 

NOTES:

1. Process and Reality, An Essay in Cosmology 529-530.

2. One series of volumes particularly relevant to the problem of history is New Frontiers in Theology, Discussions Among Continental and American Theologians, Vol. I; The Later Heidegger and Theology (1963), Vol. II; The New Hermeneutic (1964), Vol. III; Theology as History (1967). Edited by James M. Robinson and John B. Cobb, Jr. (New York: Harper and Row). The latter volume focuses most sharply upon the present discussion, but the first two volumes illuminate the development of the problem of history in recant theology.

3. The Reality of Faith, trans. Carl Michalson and others. (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1959), 24. The significance of this distinction between historical and metaphysical thinking in Gogarten’s theology of secularization is glimpsed in its influence on the theologies of Harvey Cox, Carl Michalson, Gehard Ebeling, and Ernest Fuchs. See Larry Shiner, The Secularization of History, An Introduction to the Theology of Friedrich Gogarten. (Nashville and New York: Abingdon, 1966), 18-19.

4. The Reality of Faith, 111.

5. Gogarten, A Handbook of Christian Theologians. eds. Martin E. Marty and Dean G. Peerman (Cleveland and New York: World, 1965), 430-431.

6. Jesus — God and Man. trans. Lewis L. Wilkins and Duane Priebe (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1968) 377.

7. Ibid., 388.

8. The Gospel of Christian Atheism (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1966), 72.

9. "Theology and the Contemporary Sensibility," America and the Future of Theology, ed. William A. Beardslee (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1967), 23.

10. Process and Reality, An Essay in Cosmology 8.

11. See , for example, Christopher F. Mooney, Teilhard de Chardin and the Mystery of Christ. (New York: Harper and Row, 1966).

12. Theology of Hope, On the Ground and the Implication of a Christian Eschatology (New York: Harper and Row, 1965), 29.

13. Ibid.

14. Eric H. Lenneberg, Biological Foundations of Language (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1967), 142ff.

15. LaSalle, Ill.: Open Court, 1966.

16. Philadelphia: Westminster, 1965.

17. Hartshorne, Man’s Vision of God and the Logic of Theism (New York: Harper & Row, 1951; Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1964).