Insights on Reforming Fundamentalism: 6

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6) Defining Evangelicalism: Open or Closed?

Another issue the book raised in my thinking relates to evangelical identity.  Should we define evangelicalism by what it is for or what it is against?  Or, as Al Mohler puts it in his 1989 dissertation on evangelical appropriation of Barth, should evangelicalism be a boundaried or centered set of theological convictions?  Should its identity be forged positively, from the center, or negatively, at the fringes?  Marsden continually highlights how both tendencies have played themselves out in fundamentalist-evangelical history, with very different results.  From the introduction: “(the evangelical) heritage pointed in two conflicting directions.  Part of it, more clearly anticipated in the New School tradition, was open and expansive, emphasizing positive evangelism.  Another part, shaped by fundamentalist wars against modernism, was closed, cautious, and defensive” (7).

The dangers of an entirely negative sense of identity, which is constantly drawing new lines and retreating into itself, are obvious.  I want my identity to be fundamentally positive, rooted in the gospel, leaning towards, not away from, other orthodox Christians.  At the same time, reading Reforming Fundamentalism made me more aware of the danger of losing all negative identity markers.  An identity established exclusively in positive categories can be in danger of minimizing important differences within a larger concern for unity and influence.  Sometimes sharp lines of distinction are necessary to clarify the truth, to convict of sin, to guard the gospel, and to protect the sheep.  The gospel, it seems to me, calls for both denunciation as well as affirmation.

So how do we establish an identity that is both fundamentally positive and appropriately negative?  What can we do to avoid imbalance?  Its so hard not to veer too far to one side or the other.  5 distinctions that I think are helpful to make:

(1) We must distinguish between the gospel and secondary points of doctrine.  Our fundamental sense of loyalty should be all who love the gospel, not just those in our particular denomination, church, network, or circle.  We should strive to make the gospel the most important emotional factor in how we regard other Christians.

(2) Among secondary, non-gospel issues, we must distinguish between differing levels of importance for different doctrines, and different ways in which those issues are important.  Some issues are just plain unimportant.  Others are always important.  Others are important in some respects and unimportant in other respects.  For example, ecclesiological issues like baptism and church membership will be less important among those planting a seminary together than among those planting a church together, because they will effect how the church operates day to day, but not the seminary.  And so on with various different issues.  We must constantly be asking not only, “is this true?” but “how much does this matter?”

(3) We must distinguish between doctrinal issues and various political, cultural, attitudinal, or applicational issues.  So often what divides Christians is not so much different positions as different mindsets – a different stance toward a controversial church leader, a different posture towards drinking alcohol or reading Harry Potter, a different perspective on a political issue or candidate, etc.  I saw this again and again in Marsden’s history.  Huge amounts of convictional overlap can be drowned out amidst such differences.  We must strive to be objective about our own mindsets and policies, and submit them continually to Scripture where we have gone beyond what is written.

(4) We must distinguish between different kinds of unity and partnership.  Serving together as elders in a local congregation is one kind of partnership.  Speaking at the same conference is another.  Participating in a pro-life rally is yet another.  My standards of unity are going to be fairly strict for the first; fairly loose for the second; and extremely loose for the third.  If we don’t make these distinctions, we’ll approach very distinct shades of gray (the complexities of life in a diverse world) through a black-and-white grid (“are they on my team or the other team?”).

(5) We must distinguish between helpful and unhelpful aspects of our own traditions and histories.  For example, both inerrancy and premillennialism were identity markers for fundamentalism and early evangelicalism.  They were both symbolically important, but they are very different in terms of theological importance, for much more is at stake with inerrancy (as least in my view).  We need to be willing to submit our own traditions to criticism and drop those aspects of it that are unhelpful without losing those aspects of it that are helpful.  I think a greater depth of knowledge outside our own tradition is the best aid for getting more objectivity and perspective.  That relates to my interest in doing doctoral work in Anselm.  More on the role of pre-millennialism in #8….

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Who is the “annointed one” of Habakkuk 3:13?

O. Palmer Robertson interestingly suggests Cyrus!  Corporate Israel and the future Davidic ruler (the technical meaning of “messiah”) are the other major options.  Hmmm.  I have no idea, but I want to explore this.

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Habakkuk 3:2 –> 3:3-15

I finished translating through the theophanic vision of God in 3:3-15 this morning, and suddenly it hit me how vital this section is in the larger context.  I used to view it as a very dramatic portrayal of God’s coming in judgment and salvation, but somewhat random in terms of how it fits into the larger message of Habakkuk, and especially how it relates to Habakkuk’s prayer in 3:2 and declaration of joy in 3:16-19.  But today I realized that Habakkuk’s vision of God here in 3:3-15 is drawing from God’s saving deeds in Israel’s history, especially in the Exodus and conquest of Canaan.  There are numerous similarities to the songs of Moses, Deborah, and David.  Its not just a timeless vision of God in action, but a sort of collage of Israel’s past experiences of God’s salvation.  For example, “Teman” and “Mount Paran” in verse 3 recall the journey in the wilderness to the promised land.  The flashing rays of verse 4 recall God’s visitation at Mount Sinai.  The torrents of water in verse 10 probably recall the drowning of the Egyptians.  The stopping of the sun and moon in verse 11, according to most commentators, recalls the cataclysmic events in Joshua 10.

Therefore, the vision very appropriately follows from 3:2, where Habakkuk asks God to renew his deeds of old: “LORD, I have heard of your fame; I stand in awe of your deeds, O LORD. Renew them in our day, in our time make them known; in wrath remember mercy.”  Roberston, 222: “Habakkuk recalls Israel’s past experience as a means of anticipating the intervention of the Lord in the future.”  In other words, what Habakkuk is saying is: “God, work another Exodus today.  Come in salvation now like you came back then.”

Why don’t we pray like this more often?

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Take Aways from Habakkuk

Seven “take aways” from my recent study on Habakkuk:

1) The commentaries by O. Palmer Robertson (NICOT) and Peter C. Craigie (DSBS) are very helpful.  I differ with Robertson on how to interpret 3:2, and Craigie is extremely brief, but they are both insightful commentators with good theological sense.  Their different interests and level of depth also complement each other well.

2) I’m convinced from the larger flow of thought and the reference to torah in 1:4 that 1:2-4 is best taken as describing apostate Judah rather than Assyria in decline or rising Babylon.  The best timeframe is sometime during the late seventh century B.C., possibly during the early reign of Jehoiakim, somewhere around 610-605.

3) God is sovereign over evil, but God is not the author of evil. This is a key sentence for me.

God is sovereign over evil: “I am raising up the Chaldeans, that ruthless and impetuous people” (1:6).

God is not the author of evil: “You who are of purer eyes than to see evil
and cannot look at wrong” (1:13).

I don’t think we can slice off either half of this sentence, despite the intellectual tension it leaves us in, without losing the power of Habakkuk’s vision.  When we are suffering evil, we need a God who is both powerful and good.

4) Emunah is 2:4 is best translated as steadfastness or faithfulness (cf. Robertson: “steadfast trust”) in its own literary context.  I don’t think that this impugns Paul’s usage of this verse in Romans 1:17 and Galatians 3:11, but I do think this should broaden our understanding of what “faith” means in Paul’s thought.  The faith of Habakkuk, of whom Paul was a thoughtful exegete, is a faith that clings to God even when unbelievable catastrophe strikes (1:5-11), a faith that finds joy in God even amidst desolation (3:17-19).  While Paul uses this verse for his own purposes, in a context concerned with justification, he and Habakkuk are both describing the same reality: a posture of steadfast trust in and reliance upon God alone.  This is what it means to be righteous.  It is how the righteous live in all things – and if it is how the righteous live, it makes sense that it is also how they become righteous in the first place.  All Paul does is apply this principle to one particular instance of the life of faith, namely, its inception, the moment at which one becomes righteous.  The faith-righteousness connection in Genesis 15:6 corroborates this interpretation (and Robertson interestingly see 2:4 as a commentary on Genesis 15:6, which, if true, means that Romans 1:17 is a commentary on a commentary).

There is a ton to keep exploring here, especially when you throw into the mix the text-critical issues involved in 2:4 and Hebrews 10:38-39′s quote of the LXX.  NT use of Habakkuk 2:4 would make a good doctoral dissertation if I were interested in doing New Testament.

5) The evidence that chapter 3 is an integral part of the book, not a later addition, is very strong.  Robertson’s list of the internal evidence (p. 213) was especially helpful.  He shows how chapter 3 completes the Lord’s answer in 2:2-2:20: without Habakkuk’s prayer for revival (3:2), the vision of God (3:3-3:15), and Habakkuk declaration of joy and confidence amidst desolation (3:16-19), we would be left in the dark as to how Habakkuk and the faithful remnant in Judah responded to the Lord’s declarations of woe to Babylon.  The declaration of judgment on Babylon in chapter 2 is the crucial part of God’s response to Habakkuk; but the prayer, vision, and declaration in chapter 3 are Habakkuk’s response to God.  Both are necessary to the book’s message as a whole.

6) My summary of the five woe oracles of 2:2-2:20:

2:6-8: the repayment of evil to the evil-doer

2:9-11: the insecurity of wicked gain

2:12-14: the futility of opposition to God

2:15-17: the reciprocity of shameful treatment of others

2:18-2:20: the folly of idolatry

Roberton is helpful in bringing out the high irony and the numerous literary devices at play throughout this section.

7) What I see as the ultimate message of the book is the call to walk by faith even in the darkest days, when all hope seems to have gone out – even when God seems to have undone his very promises, as it must have appeared during the destruction of Jerusalem and the temple during the Babylonian exile.  Biblical faith trusts in God even during unthinkable suffering (1:5-11, 2:4), it finds joy and strength in God even amidst utterly desolate circumstances (3:17-19).  It could not be further from mere intellectual assent, or the prosperity gospel, or a vague optimism about life.  Biblical faith glorifies God.

“Faithfulness requires a continuation in the relationship with God, even when experience outstrips faith and the purpose in continuing to believe is called into question.  The life of faith does not require reason and knowledge to be abandoned, as Habakkuk’s persistent questioning makes clear.  But the life of faith may require continuing belief, even though reason and knowledge have long since been exhausted” (Cragie, 93).

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Insights from Reforming Fundamentalism: 3-5

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3) Inerrancy as a battle front

I was continually struck by the role that the doctrine of biblical inerrancy has played in separating fundamentalists and evangelicals from various other movements.  This doctrine is not merely a theological issue, but a boundary marker, an identity indicator, a sort of litmus test for “who is on our team.”  With the rise of higher biblical criticism and the B.B. Warfield vs. Charles Briggs debates of the 1880′s and 1890′s, inerrancy became a battle line between conservatives and liberals, and it has continued to function in this way through 20th century American evangelicalism.  It was inerrancy around which the FTS faculty split into two camps in 1962, with Dan Fuller’s comments on this issue on “Black Saturday” (December 1, 1962, a crucial turning point in the power shift at FTS) serving as the catalyst.  And inerrancy continued to be a focal point for controversy even after the departure of the conservative FTS faculty, in the Winona scandal, or in the 1970′s “battle for the Bible,” in which the opposing sides were largely made up of former FTS faculty like Harold Lindsell (then editor of Christianity Today) versus current FTS faculty.

This larger historical backdrop has made more intelligible something that has always puzzled me, namely, the elevation among many evangelicals of the doctrine of biblical inerrancy to the role of a criterion for orthodoxy.  Make no mistake, I believe that its worth fighting for the integrity of Scripture.  But from the way evangelicals regularly talk, you’d think to reject inerrancy is to reject the gospel itself, or at least to become untrustworthy, unsafe, unworthy of alliance, “on the other side.”  An interesting exception would be C.S. Lewis, who is loved by almost all evangelicals despite not holding to inerrancy.  I appreciate Carl Henry’s more moderate position that inerrancy is a test of evangelical consistency, rather than Harold Lindsell’s view that inerrancy is a test of evangelical identity.  I think this perspective allows biblical inerrancy to retain an important distinguishing role without placing non-inerrantists such as C.S. Lewis, Lesslie Newbigin, etc. outside of orthodoxy or unworthy of partnership.

4) The Uneasy Conscience both ancient and modern

I am struck by the relevance of Carl Henry’s 1947 The Uneasy Conscience of Modern Fundamentalism to issues of how social justice and evangelism relate, and what roles they play in the fulfillment of the church’s mission.  This issue is not new to our generation!  We are rehashing the debates of yesterday.  I’d like to read this book, and I’d also like to read Carl Henry’s autobiography.  I like him.

5) Suppress partisanship?

Perhaps my macro-disagreement with Marsden is with his philosophy of history-telling, as he outlines it his preface to the first edition:

“I work from a particular Christian commitment that makes me generally sympathetic to what Fuller Seminary has been trying to do since its inception.  At the same time, I have also tried to step aside from my sympathies.  I think the primary justification for having historians these days is that they can provide critical perspectives, especially on traditions that they take seriously.  Partisanship, then, although to some degree inevitable, is to be suppressed for the purposes of such historical understanding” (xxi).

I am grateful for Marsden’s superb historical work, and I appreciate the attempt at fairness and openness, but I disagree with the idea that partisanship and sound historical narration are at odds.  It seems to me implicit in a Christian worldview that good and evil are real categories across the plain of human history, and that faithful historical narration is wholly consistent with loyalty to the good and opposition to the bad.  Yes, there are ambiguities in distinguishing between good and evil, as he says in the next paragraph, and simplistic interpretations in which the “good guys” have no bad and the “bad guys” have no good are to be rejected.  Nevertheless, I am not convinced that the moral ambiguities of history require us to step outside our loyalties: they might make us more cautious in where we assign that loyalty, but they should not make us suppress that loyalty.  Nor do I think Marsden’s interpretation of FTS’ history, in a more general sense of the term, any less partisan: to step outside of an interpretative standpoint of loyalty to a particular cause is not to step into objectivity, but into loyalty to some other interpretative standpoint.

I do not think that every change at FTS over the years has been a negative one.  As examples, I would see its racial diversification, its loss of an exclusively premillennial eschatology, and its movement away from the complete prohibition of alcohol all as positive developments.  But the general drift at FTS, from my vantage point, has been away from the hard edges of the gospel, away from the distinctiveness of the church from the culture, away from the courageous affirmation of the offensive aspects of biblical truth, away even from academic rigor in classical theology (cf. the M.Div. curriculum in the 1950′s to today – note the differences in Bible and biblical languages!).  My concluding question is why does this so often happen at evangelical academic institutions?  What is the cause of this inexorable tendency, repeated in countless examples throughout the 20th century?  And related: how do establish evangelical academic institutions in such a way as to safeguard against both fundamentalist close-mindedness and the drift toward liberalism and doctrinal laxity?  How do we not only steer the ship between the Scylla of fundamentalist defensiveness and the Charybdis of liberal openness, but also set up the next generation to continue in this track? More on this on #7….

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Insights from Reforming Fundamentalism: 1-2

Over the past several weeks I’ve been giving a slow and thoughtful read to George Marsden’s Reforming Fundamentalism: Fuller Seminary and the New Evangelicalism (Eerdmans 1987), which is a history of the controversial first two decades of Fuller Theological Seminary (1947-1967), written with a special view as to how this history interfaces with the larger story of evangelicalism.  With the epilogue, sequel, and appendix, Marsden also fills out much of Fuller’s later history, up till the time of the book’s publication (1987), which sheds further light upon the significance of the early years. Its a fascinating book, well-researched and well-written, with thoughtful analysis and challenging implications.  For me, the main benefit of the book was simply to learn more about evangelicalism.  The events at Fuller (hereafter FTS) provide a helpful window through which to see the larger evangelical landscape, and Marsden does a great job telling the story and making the connections.

Over the next several posts I am going to publish 12 insights that I will take away from the book.  Here are my first 2.

1) The gradual emergence of evangelicalism: 1942-1956/7

One of Marsden’s main arguments, evident in book’s title, is that evangelicalism and fundamentalism were not yet clearly distinct movements when FTS was founded in 1947.  As Carl Henry put it, “in the 1930′s we were all fundamentalists” (quoted on p. 10).  As early as 1942 the seeds of separation were present, with the founding of the National Association of Evangelicals (NAE) under the leadership of Harold John Ockenga as distinct from the American Council of Christian Church (ACCC) under the leadership of Carl McIntire.  Nevertheless, evangelicalism was not yet viewed as a separate entity, but rather as a reform movement within fundamentalism.  The definitive split became apparent by the mid/late 1950′s with the founding of Christianity Today in 1956, Billy Graham’s disassociation with his earlier fundamentalist supporters during his spring 1957 New York crusade, and Harold John Ockenga’s December 1957 press release distinguishing “neo-evangelicalism” from liberalism, neo-orthodoxy, and fundamentalism.

Prior to this, the terms evangelicalism and fundamentalism had different connotations and represented different leanings, but did not refer to two separate groups.  Its interesting to note, for example, that such fundamentalists as Bob Jones, Sr. and John R. Rice were originally part of the NAE, along with Ockenga, Charles Fuller, and others.  The differences that would emerge between them had not yet crystallized.  Thus FTS at its founding could properly be called a “fundamentalist” school, and had in its early years several stereotypically “fundamentalist” faculty members, such as Wilber Smith and Charles Woodbridge.  As Marsden says of the founding of FTS, “the unmistakable intention was, not a break from fundamentalism, but a reform from within” (3).

My thought: to what extent do different leanings and emphases within contemporary evangelicalism foreshadow more definitive splits further down the road, just as the different leanings of those associated with FTS and those more squarely in the fundamentalist camp eventually erupted into a clear split?  Since evangelicalism is a multi-generational movement, like the Puritan effort, and since it already has a history of fragmentation, I wonder how we can prepare for our future by looking back at our origins.  And as we see the seeds of further disintegration, how can we re-center ourselves around the gospel alone?  To what extent should we seek to regather all who claim the name evangelical, and to what extent must new lines of identity be drawn?

2) The issue of separatism: when to divide?

Marsden highlights the significance of the question of when to separate from particular churches and denominations and institutions and shows how important this question was for the developing identity of evangelicalism as distinct from fundamentalism (e.g., pp. 6-7, 36-38, 41-44, 63-67). Since fidelity to the gospel requires both separation from apostasy and some degree of willingness to work within differences, the issue becomes, where do we draw the lines?  How much difference of conviction is acceptable?  When should we form new institutions and denominations, and when should we stay in the old institutions and denomination and seek to be an agent of reform among them?  Evangelicals and fundamentalists answered these questions differently, with the latter being less willing to associate with those who remained in the mainline denominations.  It seems to me, however, that separatism was not only a dividing issue between evangelicalism and fundamentalism, but also within evangelicalism, as in, e.g., the Stott vs. Lloyd-Jones controversy in 1967, or Machen’s loss of support even among conservatives during his struggle with the Presbyterian church over missions in 1933-1936.  How much should we separate? is a question that has divided even very close allies.

Reforming Fundamentalism highlights the dangers not only of a “cooperation at all costs” mentality which almost never separates, but also of a knee-jerk separatism which separates too quickly.  An example of this latter error, in my opinion, would be what Marsden calls “second-degree separationism,” i.e., the disassociation of some fundamentalists not only from liberals but also from conservatives and moderates who themselves do not separate from liberals (cf. 286ff.).  When this mentality takes over, the question shifts from “what does he believe?” to “whom does he hang out with?” and anyone can become suspicious at any time. In extreme forms, this tendency can become cultic and abusive.

When do we pull away?  When do we stay and fight?  It seems to me that our history teaches us to answer these questions very, very carefully, for great minds have been divided over them and the errors in both directions have proven dangerous.

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The Purpose of Hatred

Listening to Perelandra this week.  My favorite part is when Ransom and the Un-man fight.  I especially love this scene, where Lewis describes the evil of the Un-man (the devil), and then Ransom finds new strength by discovering the purpose of hatred:

“Then an experience that perhaps no good man can ever have in our world came over (Ransom) – a torrent of perfectly unmixed and lawful hatred came over him.  The energy of hating, never before felt without some guilt, without some dim knowledge that he was failing to distinguish the sinner from the sin, rose into his arms and legs till he felt they were pillars of burning blood. What was before him appeared no longer a creature of corrupted will. It was corruption itself to which will was attached only as an instrument. Ages ago it had been a Person: but the ruins of personality now survived in it only at the disposal of a furious self-exiled negation. It is perhaps difficult to understand why this filled Ransom not with horror but with a kind of joy. The joy came from finding at last what hatred was made for.  As a boy with an axe rejoices on finding a tree, or a boy with a box of coloured chalks rejoices on finding a pile of perfectly white paper, so he rejoiced in the perfect congruity between his emotion and its object. Bleeding and trembling with weariness as he was, he felt that nothing was beyond his power, and when he flung himself upon the living Death, the eternal Surd in the universal mathematic, he was astonished, and yet (on a deeper level) not astonished at all, at his own strength. His arms seemed to move quicker than his thought. His hands taught him terrible things. He felt its ribs break, he heard its jaw-bone crack. The whole creature seemed to be cracking and splitting under his blows. His own pains, where it tore him, failed to matter.

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Sanctification Questions

Questions the Lord is teaching me to ask these days in my journey following Christ:

1) What do I look to more than Jesus to feel worth and identity?

2) What competes with knowing God as the greatest joy and fulfillment in my life?

3) What areas of my life are fractionally, rather than fully, yielded to God?

4) Where have I have not sold out on biblical doctrine?  Where am I hesitant when the Bible is bold?

5) In what ways is my perspective on life skewed because being conformed to the image of Jesus is not the mega-goal underneath all other goals?

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Faith in Habakkuk

Lighter posting this week, as I am devoting my mornings to preparation for a sermon this Sunday on Habakkuk 2:4, “the righteous shall live by faith.”  I am going to examine the meaning of of “faith” (Hebrew emunah, steadfastness, fidelity), which I refer to as “steadfast trust,” in light of the rest of the book, and in light of the New Testament’s usage of this verse (Romans 1:17, Galatians 3:11, Hebrews 10:38-39).  I have three points:

1) Faith trusts in God even when the unthinkable happens (chapter 1-2, especially 1:5-11).

2) Faith finds joy in God, not circumstances (3:16b-19).

3) Faith looks to God, not achievement, for justification (2:4; cf. Romans 1:17).

In other words, biblical faith, defined as steadfast trust and reliance in God, is the means by which the righteous seek understanding amidst confusion, joy amidst suffering, and a righteous status before God.  Its a new, counter-intuitive orientation to the fundamental things which all humans seek: knowledge, happiness, righteousness.

Something interesting I learned this past week during my study is that Jewish rabbis, as well as the writers of the New Testament, regarded Habakkuk 2:4 as a particularly important verse within the Old Testament.  A Palestinian Rabbi in the 3rd century A.D. once addressed the question of how many rules the Hebrew Bible required:

“Moses received 613 precepts; David reduced them to eleven (Psalm 15) but Isaiah reduced them to six (Isaiah 33:15-16) but Micah reduced them to three (Micah 6:8) … but Amos reduced them to two (Amos 5:5)….”

Then Habakkuk 2:4 is cited as reducing all of Old Testament to religion to one commandment (Cf. Francis I. Anderson, Habakkuk [Doubleday, 2001], 216).  So not only for the authors of the New Testament, but among Jewish rabbis, Habakkuk 2:4 was taken as a kind of summary statement of the essence of true religion.  More posts to come on this, hopefully on issues surrounding Paul’s usage of the verse and the meaning of emunah…

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Chesterton Quotes (7): On Facts and Joy

Finished G.K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy today.  Loved it.  Well worth the time.  Would like to read The Everlasting Man sometime, too – C.S. Lewis called it the best popular apologetic for Christianity he knew – but will probably wait for a while.  The final chapter of Orthodoxy, “Authority and the Adventurer,” outlines Chesterton’s case for Christian doctrines and dogmas, which he claims have not been overturned by modern science and thought.  Here’s a great sample:

My own case for Christianity is rational; but it is not simple. It is an accumulation of varied facts, like the attitude of the ordinary agnostic. But the ordinary agnostic has got his facts all wrong.  He is a non-believer for a multitude of reasons; but they are untrue reasons. He doubts because the Middle Ages were barbaric, but they weren’t; because Darwinism is demonstrated, but it isn’t; because miracles do not happen, but they do; because monks were lazy, but they were very industrious; because nuns are unhappy, but they are particularly cheerful; because Christian art was sad and pale, but it was picked out in peculiarly bright colours and gay with gold; because modern science is moving away from the supernatural, but it isn’t, it is moving towards the supernatural with the rapidity of a railway train.

And here is one more quote from the very end of the book, perhaps my favorite quote from the book, on the centrality of joy in a Christian worldview:

Man is more himself, man is more manlike, when joy is the fundamental thing in him, and grief the superficial. Melancholy should be an innocent interlude, a tender and fugitive frame of mind; praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul. Pessimism is at best an emotional half-holiday; joy is the uproarious labour by which all things live…. The vault above us is not deaf because the universe is an idiot; the silence is not the heartless silence of an endless and aimless world. Rather the silence around us is a small and pitiful stillness like the prompt stillness in a sick-room. We are perhaps permitted tragedy as a sort of merciful comedy: because the frantic energy of divine things would knock us down like a drunken farce. We can take our own tears more lightly than we could take the tremendous levities of the angels. So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear.

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