Barth and Evangelicals

The theologian I’ve been engaging in 2011 is Karl Barth, and I’ve been chipping away at the Study Edition of Church Dogmatics off and on over the year. I’ve also finished his book on Anselm, which in places I found to be obscure to the point of raising questions of honesty. I’ve not been as bogged down by a book since I had to slough through Hegel’s Science of Logic for a college class. Without claiming to speak to Barth’s motives or intentions, I can’t help but detect the presence of a certain elusive cleverness, a sort of theological hipness which does not face every question squarely. I’m considering my Barth 2011 project done now, with the following exception.

Over the past few days I’ve been reading Karl Barth and American Evangelicalism, edited by Bruce McCormack and Clifford Anderson at Princeton (Eerdmans, 2011), which consists almost entirely of essays that were first papers delivered at the 2007 Barth conference in Princeton. I found this a fascinating book because many of the essays deal with Van Til’s criticism of Barth, something I’ve studied a bit in the past. In fact, the first two articles, by George Harinck and D.G. Hart, I’d ordered and listened to back in 2008 in connection with research I was doing on that topic. I was surprised at how much more I was able to pick up by reading them than listening to them, even though I’d listened to both of them many times. Both essays deal with the historical context of Van Til’s critique of Barth and give further credence to the (now quite common) attempt to understand Van Til’s attack in relation to his ecclesial context at Westminster Theological Seminary and in the Orthodox Presbyterian Church. But each go further than this. Hart shows how after the 1929 split others in the WTS-OPC circle joined in with Van Til’s critique (e.g., New Testament professor Ned B. Stonehouse, librarian Leslie W. Sloat, Old Testament professor Edward J. Young) – and each intertwined their criticisms from Barth with criticisms of developments at Princeton (e.g., new 1937 president John A. Mackay, visiting professors Otto Piper and Emil Brunner, Christian education professor Elmer George Homrighausen). Hart draws attention to the fact that no one wrote against Barth prior to 1929 – in fact, Machen was surprisingly sympathetic to Barth during the 1920′s. But in the post-1929 tensions within Presbyterianism, Barth became a battle front, and where one stood in relation to him became an identity issue. As Hart puts it: “the Van Til-and-company critique of Barth … was bound up with the Presbyterian controversy of the 1920′s and 1930′s that saw Princeton lose its reputation as the American beacon of Reformed orthodoxy” (58-59).

Harinck also emphasizes the role of the Presbyterian struggle, but he also shows how certain important factors had already set in before 1929, highlighting in particular the influence of Van Til’s Dutch background. Van Til, of course, had been born in the Netherlands and lived there for the first 10 years of his life before emigrating to the Mid-western United States. Van Til had visited his native country in the summer of 1927, where Barth was much “in the air” from two recent visits to the Netherlands of his own. From Klaas Schilder, a pastor to his aunt and uncle in Oegstgeest, Van Til became aware of Barth’s theology and importance, and he absorbed some of his Schilder’s initial concerns. Van Til continued to be influenced by Schilder over the years, as well as other Dutch theologians such as Herman Dooyeweerd and D.H.Th. Vollenhoven – and it all came to him through the developing Neo-Calvinist vs. Barthian dynamics at Free University of Amsterdam. The significance of this is, as Harinck puts it: “(Van Til’s) first acquaintance and his first impressions of Karl Barth were not received in the United States but in the Netherlands, and therein lies the main reason for his early recognition of Barth’s importance” (17). In other words, before Barth ever came into developments at Princeton, he was already a battle figure in Dutch neo-Calvinist circles, and thus – as is apparent in his pre-1929 letter correspondence with Schilder – Van Til’s guard was already up against Barth before anything happened at Princeton. Harinck then highlights how this Dutch background and the American Presbyterian struggle fit together for Van Til. His conclusion: “Van Til’s opposition to the theology of Karl Barth at the same time became a rationale for the existence of Westminster Seminary. Barth was much more to Van Til than just a theological opponent. He became a paradigm for all that the Westminster tradition was opposed to within American Presbyterianism” (31).

I haven’t finished the book. Jason A. Springs’ “But Did it Really Happen? Frei, Henry, and Barth on Historical Reference and Critical Realism” is up next, and looks good. But the essays I’ve read so far are top notch quality. Michael Horton’s essay on Barth Christology as erudite as any evangelical critique of Barth I have read. Interestingly, Horton delves a bit into the McCormack/Molnar-Hunsinger-van Driel debate, and gives some gentle criticisms of McCormack’s (too radical) disjunction of actualism and essentialism. I agree with this. I think McCormack’s Karl Barth’s Critically Realistic Dialectical Theology is a paradigm of what a good analysis of theological development can be, and an example of how satisfying it is for a thesis that rings with truth and common sense to really make a dent in the scholarship. I think McCormack is right on to insist on fundamental continuity in Barth’s thought from 1915, over and against the von Balthasar 3-stage paradigm, and I also think McCormack has many legitimate insights into the nature of Barth’s post-1915 development (the Christological redirection after the discovery of the an-hypostatic/en-hypostatic distinction in classic Reformed Christology in 1924, the influence of Pierre Maury’s 1936 lecture on his doctrine of election, etc.). However, I think of several of McCormack’s more recent writings push Barth’s development into actualism a bit too rigidly, with the result that the overall portrait is skewed and Barth is made to be more of a revisionist than I think he intended to be.

What is fascinating – and this emerges in the book’s afterword, which is McCormack’s treatment of Van Til on Barth – is that at the end of the day McCormack’s portrait of Barth (or at least the post-1936 Barth) has a great deal of resemblance to Van Til’s portrait of Barth. There are key differences, and McCormack is of course critical of Van Til – but surprisingly mildly so. Both McCormack and Van Til portray Barth as an essential revisionist, seeking to overturn a classical and allegedly outdated doctrine of God. If McCormack’s emphasis on actualism and Van Til’s charge of activism are actually quite different claims, the former referring to a particular ontology, and the latter defined on page 3 of The New Modernism as a kind of revelation in which God is wholly given over to humans, one is nevertheless not surprised when the terms are confused and conflated. Little wonder that McCormack and Anderson state in the book’s Introduction that “Van Til did not get everything wrong. Many of his observations have something to them”  (4). Still less wonder if contemporary WTS-affiliated defenders of Van Til’s critique of Barth portray McCormack’s scholarship as the vindication of Van Til. At the end of the day, I think Hunsinger and van Driel are right to interpret even the post-1936 Barth as operating within more classic doctrine of God. I don’t think Barth was functioning as consciously within an actualist vs. essentialist framework as McCormack (with Cassidy) would suggest, or that he was consistent in his statements even after 1936.

Since I’m on the subject, let me mention two other collections of articles on topics related to evangelical appropriation of Barth. Karl Barth and Evangelical Theology: Convergences and Divergences (edited by Sung Wook Chung, Baker Academic 2006) has some helpful essays, but seems to me to be a bit more hit or miss in quality. I thoroughly enjoyed Vanhoozer’s article, and I’m sure Blocher’s is good. Several others, however, did not in my opinion match the quality of these two. Also, weirdly, the book lacks an index, which is annoying. Far better is the more recent Engaging with Barth: Contemporary Evangelical Critiques (edited by David Gibson and Daniel Strange, T&T Clark, 2008). Man, this is a book to wrestle with. Any of these articles could be struggled with for days. I thought Blocher’s “Karl Barth’s Christocentric Method” was alone worth buying the book for. Macleod was also great, and Thompson. Then perhaps Horton and Ovey. All in all this is perhaps the best single book for diving into evangelical engagements with Barth – better quality overall than Chung’s book, and more general than Karl Barth and American Evangelicalism.

I look forward to continuing to engage with Barth as appropriate in my Anselm studies – but for now my focus will be elsewhere. For the rest of 2011, I simply want to prepare for the GRE, keep working at my article on Christ’s intercession, listen to The Hobbit on my Iphone, and read a few more fun books. The one I’m looking forward to the most is Peter Kreeft’s The Philosophy of Tolkien: The Worldview Behind The Lord of the Rings.

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A Joyful Monday

Esther and I had a great time in Grand Rapids, Michigan over the weekend. Its a beautiful city in late September as the weather is cool and the leaves are just starting to change, and just being away for a few days after a very demanding fall kick-off was so refreshing. The best part, of course, was getting to celebrate with Jake and Ruth (Esther’s sister) at their wedding. Saturday was one of the most joyful days I’ve had in a long time – watching them take their vows, connecting with old friends and family, and then dancing with Esther at the reception. The whole weekend was awesome and I’m so refreshed. I’ve been thinking about it as a significant personal milestone, because it marks not only my first time officiating a wedding, but also the completion of my first year here in Sierra Madre, and the launching of our fall programs. The rest of the fall should be a great season. I’m excited about what we’ll be going through in the ministry this fall, and I’ve got a few other projects I want to finish up: studying for and taking the GRE (part of my application to Fuller seminary for a Phd – I will start taking classes in historical theology next fall on a part-time basis if I get in), a few final books on my 2011 reading list, and one article on Christ’s intercession I’ve been slowly chipping away at.

This morning I’ve been preparing for our next Sunday morning series, based on Colossians. Its called “Christ is Better” and we are going to look at how the book presents us with Christ’s sufficiency for every situation in life, and then walk through various “false/rival Christs” and examine what it means to find Christ as “good news” in replacement of them. I had an awesome time reading through Doug Moo’s helpful commentary about the background situation in Colosse. My takeaway is that just as the Colossians were being damaged by false teaching which detracted from Christ’s sole sufficiency and supremacy, so can we – but in our case its probably not angel worship, asceticism, holy days, etc. It could be anything that offers a rival sufficiency to that of Christ – whether it be popularity and human approval, a relationship, an identity, a hobby, an achievement, performance in a certain area of life, an experience, etc.

I like Colossians because it helps us think about Christ-centeredness in new categories – categories that I think will connect with the teens to whom I am ministering. It presents us with the same gospel as Romans and Galatians, but less in terms of law/grace, and more in terms of the sufficiency of Christ for everyday living. (I don’t see that as a difference of theology, but as a difference of focus or emphasis, in line with different pastoral challenges.)

Christ is not merely sufficient for all of life, but the end of all other false or rival forms of sufficiency. He is fullness and joy, and just because He is so is the end of all idols and their inevitable emptiness. He is better.

This morning I’m just grateful for the weekend, and the milestone it represents, and now looking forward to the fall as the adventure of life continues yet again into a new season.

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A Review of Orwell’s Review of That Hideous Strength

On August 16, 1945, just days after the United States dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, George Orwell, author of the dystopian novel 1984, wrote a review of C.S. Lewis’ similarly dystopian novel That Hideous Strength. He acknowledges various admirable qualities of the book and – interestingly – the plausibility of the plot Lewis envisages. “There is nothing outrageously improbable in such a conspiracy. Indeed, at a moment when a single atomic bomb – of a type already pronounced ‘obsolete’ – has just blown probably three hundred thousand people to fragments, it sounds all too topical.” Orwell faults the book, however, for its supernaturalism: “one could recommend this book unreservedly if Mr. Lewis had succeeded in keeping it all on a single level. Unfortunately, the supernatural keeps breaking in, and it does so in rather confusing, undisciplined ways.”

This sounds almost like Bultmann’s demythologization project, but applied to a piece of literature instead of the New Testament: that is, one can appreciate the narrative kernel of the story (with its ethical application), but one must discard the supernatural husk in which it is delivered. Orwell continues: “Mr. Lewis appears to believe in the existence of such [evil] spirits, and of benevolent ones as well. He is entitled to his beliefs, but they weaken his story, not only because they offend the average reader’s sense of probability but because in effect they decide the issue in advance. When one is told that God and the Devil are in conflict one always knows which side is going to win. The whole drama of the struggle against evil lies in the fact that one does not have supernatural aid” (italics mine).

This is an interesting criticism, and it raises a profound theological question: if God’s victory is inevitable, is there any real drama to the struggle between good and evil? In addition to various responses one might give to this idea from a theological angle, I submit that this critique does not ring true even at the literary level. To speak from my own experience, in no case has knowing that a book has a happy ending ever reduced my excitement at the struggle of the plot. I begin virtually any story with the presupposition that it will come to a successful resolution at its end because this is the basic structure of all stories. In order to really enjoy a story and find the struggle of good against evil meaningful, I don’t have to discard this presupposition. Nor do I think this is unique to stories that have supernatural elements. Whether the good character is God, Orwell’s protagonist Winston Smith, or television’s Greg House, one enters virtually every story expecting good to win in the end.

The deeper question to my mind is, why do we always expect good to win? What is it that guides every human story to this constantly recurring structure, the eventual triumph of good over evil after struggle and suffering? To that question I submit Lewis’ worldview, with its supernaturalism, has a better answer than Orwell’s.

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The dry and choking places

Picking up in my previous post, here’s a crucial passage in the depiction of Mark’s redemption. Its such a creative literary presentation of the conviction of sin:

There were no moral considerations at this moment in Mark’s mind. He looked back on his life, not with shame but with a kind of disgust at its dreariness. He saw himself as a little boy in short trousers, hidden in the shrubbery beside the paling to overhear Myrtle’s conversation with Pamela, and trying to ignore the fact that it was not at all interesting when overheard. He saw himself making believe that he enjoyed those Sunday afternoons with the athletic heroes of Grip, while all the time (as he now saw) he was almost homesick for one of the old walks with Pearson—Pearson whom he had taken such pains to leave behind. He saw himself in his teens laboriously reading rubbishy grown-up novels and drinking beer when he really enjoyed John Buchan and stone ginger. The hours that he had spent learning the slang of each new circle, the assumption of interest in things he found dull and of knowledge he did not possess, the sacrifice of nearly every person and thing he actually enjoyed, the miserable attempt to pretend that one could enjoy Grip, or the Progressive Element, or the N.I.C.E.—all this came over him with a kind of heartbreak. When had he ever done what he wanted? Mixed with the people whom he liked? Or even eaten and drunk what took his fancy? The concentrated insipidity of it all filled him with self-pity. In his normal condition, explanations that laid on impersonal forces outside himself the responsibility for all this life of dust and broken bottles would have occurred at once to his mind and been at once accepted. None of these occurred to him now. He was aware that it was he himself who had chosen the dust and broken bottles, the heap of old tin cans, the dry and choking places.

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Hugeness

One of my favorite things to do these days is to go on a long hike in the mountains with Sophia and listen to either That Hideous Strength or Till We Have Faces on my iPhone, my two favorite C.S. Lewis books. I especially love That Hideous Strength these days -  I come back to it again and again. I think people don’t like it as much because its so different from the first two books of the Space Trilogy, but on its own its such a great story. I love the way both Mark and Jane experience redemption in the book. Mark’s greatest fear is exclusion from “the inner circle,” and Jane’s greatest fear is being “taken in” by some external party – throughout the events of the novel, both sort of come to their senses and in the most beautiful way see their need for salvation. Though the main point of the book seems to be a social warning, as in The Abolition of Man, what I love most about it is Lewis’ psychological insight and his literary skill. It would be fun to do more research on it someday. Some things I’d like to explore are its relation to the Tower of Babel story in Genesis 11, the influence of Charles Williams on the book, the role of the Merlin story in the overall plot, Lewis’ views on gender complementarity in this and Perelandra, and how its dystopian “mood” (you can tell it was written in the thick of World War II) fit together with Lewis’ overall view of history.

This quotes comes right at the end of a conversation between Jane and Elwin Ransom. Its one of the crucial stages of the dismantling of Jane’s fierce independence and opposition any kind of submission.

At the same moment a new thought came into Jane’s mind; an odd one. She was thinking of hugeness. Or rather, she was not thinking of it. She was, in some strange fashion, experiencing it. Something intolerably big, something from Brobdingnag, was pressing on her, was approaching, was almost in the room. She felt herself shrinking, suffocated, emptied of all power and virtue. She darted a glance at the Director which was really a cry for help, and that glance, in some inexplicable way, revealed him as being, like herself, a very small object. The whole room was a tiny place, a mouse’s hole, and it seemed to her to be tilted aslant — as though the insupportable mass and splendour of this formless hugeness, in approaching, had knocked it askew.

….

During her homeward journey Jane was so divided that one might say there were three, if not four, Janes in the compartment. The first was a Jane simply receptive of the Director, recalling every word and every look, and delighting in them — a Jane taken utterly off her guard and swept away on the flood-tide of an experience which she could not control. For she was trying to control it; that was the function of the second Jane. This second Jane regarded the first with disgust, as the kind of woman whom she had always particularly despised. To have surrendered without terms at the mere voice and look of this stranger, to have abandoned that prim little grasp on her own destiny, that perpetual reservation … the thing was degrading, uncivilised.

The third Jane was a new and unexpected visitant. Risen from some unknown region of grace or heredity, it uttered things which Jane had often heard before but which had never seemed to be connected with real life. If it had told her that her feelings about the Director were wrong, she would not have been very surprised. But it did not. It blamed her for not having similar feelings about Mark. It was Mark who had made the fatal mistake; she must be “nice” to Mark. The Director insisted on it. At the moment when her mind was most filled with another man there arose a resolution to give Mark much more than she had ever given him before, and a feeling that in so doing she would be really giving it to the Director. And this produced such a confusion of sensations that the whole inner debate became indistinct and flowed over into the larger experience of the fourth Jane, who was Jane herself.

This fourth and supreme Jane was simply in the state of joy. The other three had no power upon her, for she was in the sphere of Jove, amid light and music and festal pomp, brimmed with life and radiant in health, jocund and clothed in shining garments. She reflected with surprise how long it was since music had played any part in her life, and resolved to listen to many chorales by Bach on the gramophone that evening. She rejoiced also in her hunger and thirst and decided that she would make herself buttered toast for tea — a great deal of buttered toast. And she rejoiced also in the consciousness of her own beauty; for she had the sensation — it may have been false in fact, but it had nothing to do with vanity — that it was growing and expanding like a magic flower with every minute that passed.”

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Straw

I’ve been dabbling a bit in Frederick Coppleston’s book on Aquinas, which is really interesting.  I just want to get a bit more of a feel for Aquinas (and Coppleston), and then Augustine later in the fall, by way of contrast before (Lord willing) narrowing in on Anselm in the future.  One of the things I find most gripping about Aquinas is the mystical experience he had while taking Mass on December 6th, 1273. According to tradition, Aquinas stopped all writing on this day, even though he was not yet 50 and in the middle of his Summa Theologica. When asked about it, he said, ”everything that I have written seems like straw to me compared to those things that I have seen and have been revealed to me.”

I don’t know fully what to do with this – whether its fully true, or how sympathetically to interpret it. But there is something in my own experience that helps me relate to it – times I have engaged in theological study without it feeding into my personal union with Christ, times I’ve divorced thinking from day to day life, times I have sought from intellectualism what I should only seek in Jesus. I’m convicted at how often in the past I’ve measured a day by how much I’m learning rather than how much I’m growing to be more like Jesus, or filled so much free time with reading and so little with prayer or service to others. This quote makes me long for Christ to consistently be the greatest pursuit of my life, and the Lord of my thinking and my study, so that studying apart from Christ seems like straw.  Lord, let me taste more and more “the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord,” and in gaining Him lose all things.

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Courage

I read The Hobbit as a kid (hoping to re-read it before the movie), but even now I still remember this passage where Bilbo is in the tunnel going down to meet Smaug. This would make an awesome sermon illustration about courage:

It was at this point that Bilbo stopped. Going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. The tremendous things that happened afterwards were as nothing compared to it. He fought the real battle in the tunnel alone, before he ever saw the vast danger that lay in wait.

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