He noted that one may easily have a false belief about what one believes, and he noted that there can be strong social pressures to believe that one has beliefs one doesn’t (and that one lacks beliefs one in fact has). As an example, he noted that every Biola University employee’s continuing employment requires that they yearly affirm, I assume in writing, Biola’s doctrinal statement.

As an aside, here’s the core part of their statement on the Trinity:

There is one God, eternally existing and manifesting Himself to us in three Persons: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

This sounds like an expression of modalism - one great self, with three aspects or personalities (“Persons”), and yet Biola’s statement  goes on to describe Jesus as a man, and surely no man is a mode of anything, but is instead an entity/substance, and no mode is a substance or vice versa. Surely, they’re assuming the identity of the second member of the Trinity (the Son) with Jesus. So, it looks paradoxical.

But that isn’t what concerns me here. In our recent debate coverage, we noted that  most evangelicals assert that Jesus is God. And by that, it seems that most mean that Jesus and God are numerically one being, one magnificent self, one divine person. They confess and assert this. But do they believe it?

I wonder (seriously – I really wonder – this is not a sarcastic pseudo-question). See, I assume that most hold the two to qualitatively differ. How they differ depends on one’s views on the Trinity. God has three persons, or centers of consciousness, or rational faculties in him. Jesus doesn’t. God has never not been omniscient; Jesus has. God sent his Son. Jesus didn’t. God is like a loving community, Jesus is not. So, when it is time to confess, they say “Jesus is God”. But their actions – specifically, the way they talk about Jesus and God in various non-argumentative contexts – show that they don’t believe that. Or do they?

Is this self deception (falsely believing yourself to believe Jesus to be God) or is it inconsistent belief (you believe they are one, and that they are two)? Or does it vary by person?

Here’s one angle on it. Consider these three claims:

1. Jesus and God are numerically one.
2. Numerically one things can’t differ.
3. Some things are true of Jesus which are not true of God, and vice-versa.

If you believe all 3, you have inconsistent beliefs. I would guess that a lot of evangelicals hold 1 as a central belief, don’t notice too often that they also believe 3, and actively ignore 2. I think that’s were I stood, before I started reading the recent philosophical literature on the Trinity.

But how does one tell three inconsistent beliefs from two consistent ones and an imaginary third (which is inconsistent with the conjunction of the first two)?

Go back to Gregg’s example of the old lady who falsely believes that she believes all races to be equal. That she’s self-deceived is one interpretation of what we observe.

But maybe in church she thinks that, but out about town, she doesn’t. If a belief is a tendency to think a certain way, maybe she believes both that blacks are inferior and that blacks are as good as whites – but different circumstances trigger each tendency in her, and she conveniently ignores the obvious inconsistency of the resulting thoughts and claims. (It helps that everyone at her church is white.)

But back to 1 – Could it be that many believe both 2 and 3, and believe that they believe 1, even though they do not?  Given that they know 2 and 3, they’re also aware at some level that 1 is false. And yet there is tremendous social pressure to verbally affirm the words of 1.

Imagined train of thought:

But of course I believe 1 – anything less is denying Christ. And I don’t deny Christ. I believe him, and in him. If were a Christ-denier, I wouldn’t be a Christian, but I am. And I’d be going to Hell – but I’m not. So, surely I do believe 1. How could I not?

Christian philosophers (philosophy PhDs), interestingly, are different. They’re trained to ferret out inconsistencies – at least, to expunge inconsistencies from their statements and thoughts. (But I reckon we’re about as prone to self-deception about our beliefs as people generally.) A good many, I would guess most conservative Christian philosophers, deny 1. (In fact, while I was an undergraduate at Biola I distinctly remember a philosophy professor clearly and firmly denying 1 in class.) This is surprising, but I think they are able to do this because they continue to say the words “Jesus is God” meaning something other than 1. (But, disconcertingly, they are aware that others understand those words as 1.) Others deny 2. I think the average evangelical pew-dweller would be befuddled by this, but at least on the surface, it is consistent (accepting 1 and 3 while denying 2.) I’m not aware of any who deny 3; both the Bible and the catholic tradition imply it.

In any case, for those of you who like me are offspring of the American evangelical world – are either of my diagnoses above accurate,when it comes to evangelicals in the pew, in your experience? I confessed to having had inconsistent beliefs (having believed 1-3 above), but I suspect that some more mature, more reflective evangelicals are forced into self-deception as described above.

(Commenters: If you comment anonymously, I will respect your anonymity. I don’t have the slightest interest in endangering jobs or reputations.)

While you’re thinking about it, here’s some more gratuitous Styx.

I’ve been reading I Told Me So (review) by Gregg Ten Elshof, a USC PhD who who teaches and chairs the Philosophy Department at my undergraduate alma mater. He’s been thinking about this topic for a long time (part 2) and so far, I really like the book. It is clearly written, insightful, and he trains his guns on self-deceptions by Christians in particular. Some of it is directly relevant to things we’ve been discussing here.

One point he makes in chapter one is that we can easily deceive ourselves about what we believe. He gives the plausible example – many of us have actually known people like this – of a respectable, elderly Christian woman who believes that she believes all people to be equal in God’s eyes, and yet her behavior clearly shows that she considers black people inferior to white people. (pp. 18-19) It’s hard to admit you’re an Archie Bunker when you’re part of a social group where it is unacceptable to be such.

But what might this have to do with theological beliefs? Ten Elshoff says,

Every year, I’m given a fairly detailed statement of Biola University’s doctrinal position. Each year, my continued employment is contingent upon my re-affirming belief in these various doctrines. I’ve got three small kids and a mortgage. Laurel, my wife, is a stay-at-home mom right now, and the job market in philosophy is atrocious. Of course I still believe all of this stuff! Imagine the stomach it would take to admit to myself and others that I don’t believe these things anymore! It would mean the immediate forgoing of economic stability – not to mention a kind of alienation from a significant chunk of my social group.  (p. 19, link added)

Mind you, he’s not confessing hypocrisy here. Rather, his point is that there are strong non-rational pressures on him to think and believe that he believes those things, whether or not he actually does. This is a real, and significant price that institutions like Biola pay for their apparent (and mostly real?) doctrinal uniformity, and Gregg has the guts to point out this somewhat uncomfortable fact.

Next time: Do evangelicals believe that Jesus is God?

Update: Finished the book, still liking it. It is very Willardite (Willardian? Willardesque?), and I mean that in a good way. (I can forgive the social trinitarian flourishes.) It is a great example of popular, applied philosophy, and you can confidently give it to any Christian friend. The writing was superb – not an ugly sentence in it – and it is spiced with interesting examples from literature and elsewhere. It is insightful about the human condition, and promotes both a proper understanding of and a proper pity for humanity. And, it is short. I can see occasionally re-reading this one, and I don’t normally do that.

Look at the bottom case, and how the love arrows combine; this seems to be what Richard is imagining (see the quote in the last post). I don’t think it’s coherent, really – affections, or individual love-acts can’t literally fuse. Nor do I understand any non-literal way they can be said to “fuse”.

Still, I’m inclined to agree with Joseph and with Richard Swinburne that there is a unique value in lovers cooperating to love a third party. This is something we recognize, I think, in Mom and Dad’s love for junior, or even in “best friends” graciously including an excluded girl within their circle.

Further, I think Richard of St. Victor is right that there is a relational harmony and cooperation in such cases, and a unique sort of pleasure all around.

Whether this value would provide a perfect person with a compelling reason to create mysteriously originate at least two other divine persons is a further matter.

In chapter 20, Richard makes clear that my chart here is too simple – there should be a complex combined arrow connecting each pair to the third; where my chart has one (I got lazy, OK?) it ought to have three – one pointing at each person. But there are more love-fusions than what we’ve mentioned so far.

If the creation is considered, there the cord of love is tripled so that where suspicion concerning a defect of love could arise more easily, certitude is made more firm by greater confederation. (ch. 20, p. 393)

So in their love for the cosmos, imagine three love arrows coming out of the persons, and sort of twisting together to make one thicker, three-strand love arrow. I don’t follow his point here, though I understand the fusion he’s imagining. At the end chapter, he lamely suggests that one unconvinced by all of this would seem to be insane.

1. If one person loves another and only he loves only her, there is love but not shared love.
2. If two mutually love only each other (if the affection of each goes out to the other), again there is love but not shared love.
3. Shared love exists only if a third person is loved by two persons jointly:

“Shared love is properly said to exist when a third person is loved by two persons harmoniously and in community, and the affection of the two persons is fused into one affection by the flame of love for the third.” (Richard of St. Victor, On the Trinity, p.392)

(This is as close as we ever get to a characterization of shared love.)

So, in divinity, if there is shared love, there are at least three persons. So supreme shared love requires at least three divine persons. Supreme shared love is of a kind that no creature could merit it or be worthy of it from its divine creator.

Next (B) consider further the nature of shared loved as a virtue:

1. Supreme benevolence is supremely great. Supreme harmony is also supremely great. Each such virtue is of great value.
2. Any virtue that results from the combination of each such virtue is also supremely great.
3. But supreme shared love results from the combination of supreme benevolence and harmony. Such a virtue can’t be lacking in what is perfectly good. And supreme shared love can’t exist without at least three persons.

Therefore, in divinity, if there is at least one person, there are at least three persons.

There’s a lot here. Much of it we have in effect already seen. I want to make only one comment about (A1). This doesn’t exactly say what Richard wants to say here. If one person loves another and only the first loves the second, then no one else loves the second. And if, in addition, the first loves only the second, then the first loves no one else. But it’s clear that Richard wants an example of unrequited love to contrast with his second example of mutual love between two persons alone.

For what it’s worth, I think there’s something deeply insightful here about the value of shared love. And even if we don’t think something like the following. The fact that any perfect being is essentially perfectly good is a reason to think that it must be that if there is some perfect being, then there is also another perfect being or even just some created being. Even if we don’t think this, so I say, perhaps we can agree that if there were three divine persons, there would be a distinctive kind of goodness in the world because of the existence of supreme shared love, one which wouldn’t exist if there were only two divine persons or even only one. If so, that is something for a Christian to recognize and celebrate.

That’s it for me on this series. Next up is Dale, who will bring us home: blogging on chs.20-25.

It might seem that supreme goodness can exist where one person supremely loves and receives nothing in return from the other person for full happiness. But in fact such supreme goodness can’t even exist where only two persons mutually love each other. Suppose that, in divinity, there are only two persons. Then each gives and receives love, and each gives and receives the pleasure that such love brings. If each is alone, neither receives such love nor such pleasure. So supreme generosity requires three persons. If, in divinity, there are only two, neither shares such pleasure. But each divine person, being perfect, is supremely generous. Therefore, supreme goodness requires that if there are at least two divine persons, there are at least three persons.

Note that the first sentence seems out of place and does no work here. Really the argument here only begins with the third sentence. The only new thing here is the mention of supreme generosity. Supreme generosity requires that each of two divine persons have a third divine person with whom to share love and the pleausre such love brings. Not so to share would be less than supremely generous. But I don’t see that we really have a new argument here for at least three divine persons (if God exists). So that’s ch.18. Next up will be ch.19, which will be my final post for the series.

Supreme happiness requires that if there is at least one divine person, there are at least two divine persons. Suppose, in divinity, there is only one person. Then (1) this person gives supreme love to no one and receives supreme love from no one. (2) Such a person lacks the pleasure of love that one draws from another. (3) But nothing is better than such pleasure. So such a person, who lacks such supreme pleasure, isn’t supremely happy. (4) But any divine person, being perfect, is supremely happy. Therefore, supreme happiness requires that if there is at least one divine person, there are at least two divine persons.

A few comments:

Re (1): This assumes again that with a divine person supreme love is only between divine persons, who are equally perfect.

Re (2): This assumes again that the pleasure of love requires love.

Re (3) and (4): I wonder what exactly Richard means by happiness. My guess is that he means something like Aristotle’s eudamonia where someone is happy only if overall they are a success in life. Richard seems to think that supreme happiness includes supreme pleasure so that someone who has supreme happiness couldn’t have more pleasure. Is that right? I believe that God has pleasure: just because many of his desires are satisfied. But I’m also inclined to think that God suffers, not in the sense that he is affected by things contrary to his will. But rather God suffers in the sense that some of his desires are frustrated, e.g. because we freely do things or things occur as a result of such, that God desires we didn’t do or that didn’t occur. Now just because God suffers doesn’t mean he doesn’t have supreme pleasure. But I can’t help wondering whether if things had gone differently with some of our choices and their results, God might have had more pleausure than he actually does. But I’m also pretty sure that Richard needn’t base the claim that God has the pleasure love brings on the claim that God has supreme pleasure. Couldn’t he get that from the claims that God is supremely good and that the pleasure love brings is a supreme good that God needn’t forego for some contrary good that is equally good?

That’s it. After this, ch.18. Notice again we are building our way up to three divine persons. In ch.16 we had an argument about one divine person. In ch.17 we have an argument for at least two divine persons (if God exists). And in chs.18-19 we will have an argument for at least three divine persons (if God exists).

1. Full wisdom and power can exist in only one person. If, per impossibile, there is only one divine person, he can still have fullness of wisdom and power.
2. The pleasures of wisdom and love differ. The pleasure of wisdom can be drawn from oneself. The pleasure of love must be drawn from another. Anyone who loves and desires to be so loved but doesn’t receive such love is displeased. But the pleasure of wisdom is even better when one derives it from oneself.
3. If, in divinity, there is only one person, such a person can have full wisdom. Full wisdom and full power can’t exist without each other. For suppose someone lacks omnipotence. If she doesn’t know how to obtain what she so lacks, then she lacks full wisdom. And anyone who unwillingly suffers some defect of wisdom lacks full power.  Therefore, if, in divinity, there is only one person, such a person can also have full power.

Re 1: I like the implicit distinction here between what is a real and only a conceptual possibility. There can’t really be only one divine person. For, as Richard is trying to demonstrate, there must be at least three divine persons. But the concepts of full wisdom and power don’t conceptually imply the concept of more than one divine person.

Re 2: Wisdom brings pleasure. If you desire wisdom and you have it and believe you have it, then you have the pleasure wisdom brings. And love also brings pleasure. If you desire love and you have it and believe you have it, then you have the pleasure love brings. That’s what you might think Richard would say. But he doesn’t say this exactly. Rather he says this. When you have the pleasure of wisdom, the object of your pleasure is not wisdom but rather yourself under the aspect of being wise. And when you have the pleasure of love, the object of your pleasure is not love but rather your beloved under the aspect of loving you. I like the implicit claim here that there is a kind of pleasure that is factive. If you have a certain kind of pleasure of wisdom, you must exist and be wise in order for you to have such pleasure. Anyone who had an intrinsically identical pleasure-state but was not wise would lack this kind of pleasure. And if you have a certain kind of pleasure of love, your beloved must exist and love you in order for you to have such pleasure. And anyone who had an intrinsically identical pleasure-state but had no beloved or had a beloved who did not love her would lack this kind of pleasure.

Re 3: This is a very interesting section. Do full wisdom and power imply each other? Does full wisdom imply full power? Richard seems to include in full wisdom knowing how to obtain what you lack. Let’s grant this. But Richard seems to assume, without argument, that if one lacks full power that can only be because one doesn’t know how to obtain it. On this assumption, it can’t be that one knows how to obtain full power but doesn’t choose to obtain it or even chooses not to obtain it. That’s not obvious. Does full power imply full wisdom? Again, Richard seems to assume, without argument, that anyone who suffers anything unwillingly lacks full power. Or to put it the other way around: anyone who has full power doesn’t suffer anything unwillingly. Arguably, full power includes irrestible will: so that it must be that what one wills is so. So, arguably, nothing is contrary to what one who has full power wills. But it’s consistent with this that something is so that one who has full power doesn’t will. One might have less than full wisdom, but not will that one have full wisdom. That’s just the kind of thing you’d expect if one really did suffer a defect of wisdom. After all, it’s not obvious that full power implies willing everything that is so. So it still might be that one who has full power suffers something unwillingly, not in the sense that it happens contrary to what he wills, but in the absence of any willing on his part concerning the matter.

Well, that’s enough on ch.16. Next is ch.17.

Richard has already argued in various ways that if there is so much as one divine person, there are at least three divine persons. But the arguments have all been a bit here and there. So to make the reasons even more evident, he plans to gather them all up into one. So here it is:

Suppose there is only one divine person: P.

1)      Then P doesn’t share his greatness.

2)      Compare two situations. In the first, P is the only divine person. In the second, P is not the only divine person; there is another: Q. In the second situation, P and Q love each other and P has the pleasure that love brings. So in the first situation, P lacks in eternity not only such love but also such pleasure.

3)      Anyone supremely good shares her greatness. (Not so to share is to retain something greedily. But anyone supremely good does nothing greedily.)

4)      Anyone supremely happy has such pleasure. (Not to have such pleasure is not to have an abundance of pleasure. But anyone supremely happy has an abundance of pleasure.)

5)      P is supremely good and happy.

So if there is at least one divine person, there are at least two divine persons.

Suppose there are only two divine persons: P and Q.

6)      Then P shares greatness. But P doesn’t share love or the pleasure that such love brings. (Only a person who has a partner and a beloved in the love shown him has the pleasure of love.)

7)      Anyone supremely happy shares love and the pleasure of love. (Nothing brings more pleasure than love.)

8)      P is supremely happy.

So if there are at least two divine persons, there are at least three divine persons.

Therefore, if there is at least one divine person, there are at least three divine persons.

There are two parts here. Let’s just briefly look at each in turn. So first let’s look at the section that aims to show that if there is at least one, there are at least two divine persons. Here I note only one thing: there’s an ambiguity in (2). It could mean that if there is only one divine person: P, then P doesn’t always love another, i.e sometimes P doesn’t love another. But it’s not clear this is right. This assumes that any creature begins to exist and so is not always around for P to love. But even if any creature does begin to exist, it still doesn’t follow that P doesn’t always love another. For it could be that at every time there is a creature that exists then and so there is someone around for P to love even if every creature begins to exist. It could also mean that if there is only one divine person: P, then P always lacks love of another divine person. This is true, in which case, Richard is not just speaking of love of another, but love of another divine person and so is relying on previous arguments for why the supreme love a divine person has includes love of another divine person.

Secondly, let’s look at the section that aims to show that if there is at least two, there are at least three divine persons. Here I comment on only one matter: a point of interpretation to do with (6). We have seen before Richard’s idea that love always involves a second person and sharing love always involves a third person. And here he seems to rely on what he said previously. I can see that, by Richard’s lights, P doesn’t love and so have the pleasure love brings unless there is a second P loves. And I can also see that, by Richard’s lights, P doesn’t share love unless there is, not only a second (Q) P loves but, a third with whom P shares his love of Q. But Richard says: “He alone possesses the sweetness of such delights who has a partner and a loved one in the love that has been shown to Him”. It’s not clear which of these two things Richard is saying. First, he is saying that P alone has such pleasure who has another to love, in which case the partner is the loved one, and then he later makes the point that to share love involves a third person. Secondly, he is saying that P alone has such pleasure who has a second to love and a third to love, in which case the partner is not the loved one. The problem with the first interpretation is that it makes the statement seem out of place coming as it does right after the claim that if there are only two divine persons, there’s no sharing of the pleasure of love. The problem with the second interpretation is that it makes the statement seem wrong by Richard’s own lights.

Well, this is enough to be getting on with for chapter 14. Next up chapter 15 on the claim that two divine persons must seek out a third divine person with equal desire and for a similar reason.

FAITH LACKING UNDERSTANDING: THEOLOGY ‘THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY’. By Randal Rauser. Colorado Springs, CO: Paternoster, 2008.

This rausing little book is a work of popular philosophical theology which exhibits uncommon intellectual honesty, courage, humor, clarity, and insight. Each chapter but the first is devoted to a doctrine of the Apostles’ Creed: Trinity, Creation, Incarnation, Atonement, Ascension, and Final Judgment (heaven and hell).

In sometimes dense but riveting, concise, and clearly written prose, Rauser explores serious difficulties facing various ways of understanding these doctrines, arguing that “every one of these doctrines violates the basic dictates of logic, our our moral sense, or minimal plausibility in light of our scientific understanding of the world.” These “provide a serious cumulative challenge to Christianity.” No chapter contains a resounding resolution of difficulties; instead, we are reminded that theology is a realm of mysteries, and that a relationship with God is compatible with this admission.

The book demands a response from the reader. Some will explore other construals of various doctrine, others will revise or deny them, and yet others will agree to settle for mysteries. While Rauser puts much weight on mystery appeals, he’s far from being a mindless mystery-monger; he would prefer doctrines not beset by the above problems. It just that he can’t find such theories. The book is widely informed by recent literature in theology, philosophy of religion, and science-and-religion. Though accessible to the general reader, would provide high-octane discussion fuel for a graduate seminary course or an advanced undergraduate course at a Christian institution.

Maria Rosa Antognazza teaches at King’s College London, where she also directs the Centre for the History of Philosophical Theology. She has written a highly praised forthcoming intellectual biography of the great Leibniz. After the break is my review of her book pictured above. The review is forthcoming in Religious Studies. Bottom line: Leibniz employs positive and negative mysterian moves, as well as rational reconstruction of the Trinity doctrine, in my view not very convincingly. I’m most bothered by his complacency about Bible interpretation. This is a very well done book, whatever the ultimate verdict is on Leibniz’s views.

Review of Maria Rosa Antognazza, Leibniz on the Trinity and the Incarnation: Reason and
Revelation in the Seventeenth Century. Trans. Gerald Parks. (London: Yale University Press,
2007). Pp. xxv+322. £ 35.00 Hbk. 978­0­300­10074­7.

This rich and welcome book is an English translation, by the late Gerald Parks, of a revised
version of Antognazza’s Trinità e Incarnazione: Il rapporto tra filosofia e teologia rivelata nel
pensiero di Liebniz (Vita e Pensiero: Milan, 1999). It is a historical­philosophical account of
Leibniz’s writings on the Trinity and Incarnation doctrines, including his mostly unpublished
comments on the controversial writings of others. The approach is historical rather than
topical, which introduces some repetition; those interested in pursuing specific arguments or
topics in detail will find themselves flipping around a lot, and frequently diving into the copious
endnotes. Those interested in the historical angle will appreciate these endnotes (occupying
112 of the book’s 322 pages), the fruits of countless hours chasing down and translating
obscure manuscripts. And those who only (or primarily) read English will appreciate her broad
scholarship, which draws on recent German, French, and Italian secondary literature. The
book sports a solid index, and is clearly written and organized. The main audience will be
those interested in historical philosophical theology, particularly readers of Leibniz’s
‘Preliminary Discourse on the Conformity of Faith with Reason’ which begins his Theodicy.
Readers of Dixon’s 2003 book Nice and Hot Disputes will be interested as well, as she also
expounds Leibniz’s thoughts on the fascinating trinitarian controversy among Anglicans in the
1690s.

Antognazza reveals a Leibniz who is a confident, but careful and tolerant apologist for
traditional Christianity. Not unlike present­day Christian analytic philosopher­apologists,
Leibniz never tires of claiming that these doctrines haven’t been proven contradictory, taking
this to be the main point of unorthodox interlocutors – that they are demonstrably
contradictory.

In the face of sophisticated objections, he’s quick with the logical judo, in a way which
is not always convincing. As an example, Leibniz considers this argument by Polish Socinian
Andrew Wissowatius (a.k.a. Andrew Wiszowaty) (1608-­1678):

The one most high GOD is that Father from whom all things come. The son of GOD
JESUS CHRIST is not that Father from whom all things come. Therefore the Son of
GOD JESUS CHRIST is not the one most high God. (22)
A natural way (at least, to most present­day philosophers) to analyze this argument is as
follows:

1. Fg (Fx means ‘x is that Father from whom all things come’)
2. ~Fc (g names God, and c names Christ)
3. Therefore, g ≠ c.

If something is true of God that isn’t true of Christ (or vice­versa), then it follows (by Leibniz’s
Law – that is, by the indiscernibility of identicals) that God and Christ are not numerically
identical. Alternately, we might read the premises as identity statements:

1. g = f
2. s ≠ f
3. Therefore, s ≠ g.

Here 3 follows by the transitivity of identity, a necessary truth on which Leibniz often and
rightly insists. Both arguments are valid. But Leibniz doesn’t admit either analysis. He urges
that Wissowatius’s argument should be read like this:

1. Everyone who is the one most high God is that Father from whom all things come.
2. The Son of God Jesus Christ is not that Father from whom all things come.
3. Therefore, the Son of God Jesus Christ is not the one who is the one most high God.
(25)

This argument seems valid as well. But Leibniz thinks that this formulation reveals an
ambiguity in premise 1, concerning the scope of the universal quantifier (Latin: omnia – all or
everything), which enables him to claim the argument is valid but turns out unsound however
the ambiguity is resolved. If by omnia we mean only the creatures (and thus, not the Son, who
is eternal and uncreated), Leibniz denies 2. (The Son is the source or ‘father of’ all creatures.)
But if omnia includes the Son as well, he denies 1. (The Son is the one God but isn’t the
source off all things including himself; rather, he comes from the Father.) Antognazza
observes that ‘Leibniz’s ultimate aim seems to be the denial of [premise 1]’. (26) As he says in
a later text,

…in the Trinity there is a difference between these two: to be God the father, and to
be he who is God the father. For God the son is not God the father, and yet he is the
same one who is God the father, that is, the one most high God. (26)

So the Son is not God the Father (some things are true of each, which are not true of the
other), and yet the Son is ‘the same one who’ is the Father. In short, Son and Father can be
the same being (even the same ‘who’, the same person?) without being identical. If this is his
strategy, Leibniz could simply admit either of my two analyses above as sound, but consistent
with the doctrine of the Trinity. But I wonder if Leibniz here isn’t simply failing to engage his
opponents, who probably assume there’s no difference between being the same being, and
being numerically identical.

Leibniz considers the Trinity and incarnation doctrines ‘mysteries’, which means that
they are (one or more of these): (1) not completely understandable by humans, (2) apparently
(but not really) contradictory, (3) claims the meaning of which we have but the smallest grasp,
(4) not provable or demonstrable, (5) unexplainable, (6) contrary to common notions, (7)
improbable. (It is often unclear precisely what Leibniz means by calling a claim
‘incomprehensible’ or ‘a mystery’.) The Christian theologian needn’t be embarrassed by these
mysteries, for nearly everything in the natural world is a mystery (i.e. it or its essence isn’t
completely understandable by humans in this life). Unlike some fans of mystery, Leibniz is
sensitive to the point that one cannot believe that P (at least, in the sense in which believers
should aspire to believe important revealed truths) unless one at least to some degree
understands the meaning of P. His solution is to suggest that humans may have ‘confused
knowledge’ (as he sometimes puts it, clear but not distinct knowledge, or an ‘analogical
understanding’) of the meaning of the terms occurring in these doctrines. This ought not
distress us – many philosophical terms are equally poorly understood. (56) At his most
conservative, Leibniz seems disinclined to explicate the meaning of ‘divine person’ at all. An
explication ‘of the Mysteries of religion is not necessary’, Leibniz says at one point, and ‘the
safest thing is to stay with the terms of the scriptures and of the church.’ (105)

However, the metaphysician in Leibniz will not be repressed. For one thing, one may
seek for ‘images’ of these realities in the human mind. (107­110) And in bolder moods Leibniz
will sometimes (again, like many recent philosophical theologians) suggest a seemingly
consistent rational reconstruction, interpretation, or explication (he and Antognazza often say
‘explanation’) of the doctrine of the Trinity. His favorite such move is the claim that the
doctrine posits three ‘relative substances’ (or ‘relative beings’) but only one ‘absolute
substance’ (‘absolute being’). Yet he seems to back off from this formulation, saying that only
the latter is properly called a substance, and three ‘persons’ are ‘understood through
incommunicable relative modes of subsisting’ (79), and are ‘constituted’ by their relations to
one another. (118) Then there is the undeveloped suggestion that the ‘persons’ of the Trinity
are not substances (at all?) but rather ‘active principles’ which in some sense compose the
one divine substance. (158, 110) This reader has the impression that by the time of his
mature ‘Preliminary Dissertation’, Leibniz had lost some of his enthusiasm for such
‘explanations’ (i.e. plausible metaphysical accounts of) the Trinity and incarnation doctrines,
as there he sticks almost entirely to his mysterian defenses.

How does his mysterian defense of the rationality of the Trinity and the incarnation
work? Leibniz admits in various places that these doctrines are barely understood, apparently
contradictory, contrary to appearances and to ‘common notions’, and (antecedently?)
improbable. Despite all this, Leibniz’s main strategy, in both his ‘Preliminary Dissertation’ and
in many fragmentary previous writings, is to urge that these doctrines are reasonably believed
unless demonstrated to be contradictory.

If this is the game the apologist is playing, he’ll find it relatively easy to win, for (as is
now widely agreed) there are few demonstrations (roughly, arguments which no sane and
unbiased adult human who understands them can doubt to be valid and sound) in philosophy
or theology. For nearly any alleged demonstration, one can find a doubtable premise, thus
showing the argument to not be a demonstration, even if the argument is in fact sound and
indeed convincing to many.

In any case, the above factors constitute prima facie evidence against the doctrines in
question. Leibniz accepts this, but holds this evidence to be outweighed by superior evidence
to the contrary. He thinks that atheism needn’t worry us, for the existence and perfection of
God are demonstrable. Further, there are arguments for the truth of Christianity which, while
not demonstrations, can be called ‘proofs’, as they give us ‘moral certainty’ of truth of
Christianity. A demonstration that, say, the Trinity was contradictory would outweigh any such
‘proof’, but happily there are no such demonstrations. These undefeated proofs ‘justify, once
and for all, the authority of Holy Scripture before the tribunal of reason, so that reason in
consequence gives way before it… and sacrifices thereto all its probabilities.’ (‘Preliminary
Dissertation’ s. 29) In short, these arguments are ‘incomparably stronger’ than any the
dastardly Socinians (etc.) will ever suggest. (s. 37)

His whole mysterian defense, then, rests on apologetic arguments for the inspiration of
Scripture, something like an argument from indirect testimony (to the ministry­-validating
miracles of Jesus and others). One fears that Leibniz was a better logician than
epistemologist. But even if he’s right about the strength of those arguments, does the Bible in
fact teach the (traditional, creedal) Trinity and incarnation doctrines? Many of Leibniz’s
contemporaries had argued in depth about this, notably Stephen Nye in his A Brief History of
the Socinians (1687, 1691), but Leibniz rests his case on what Antognazza calls ‘the
argument from providence’ ­ that a good God simply wouldn’t let his church go astray on
matters as central to human salvation as these. (75)

One wonders whether a Protestant like Leibniz can consistently affirm such tight
providential oversight of (mainstream or widespread) Christian teaching. But the deeper point
is that Antognazza’s book reveals a lost opportunity. Leibniz was so firmly entrenched in his
traditional apologist’s defenses that he seems to not have understood the perspective of
(usually spatially and/or temporally distant) unitarian opponents. They held the Trinity and
incarnation to be underivable from the Bible, and this was not solely because they (usually)
held the those doctrines to be contradictory, but rather because of the language and doctrines
of the New Testament considered as a whole. The English unitarians in which Leibniz was
interested (91­-110) repeatedly insist that they’re not against mysteries (in any of the above
senses) per se, but rather against mysteries which are of merely human origin. Nor did they
neglect tradition; they were eager to show their views to be compatible with elements of both
patristic and (at least some) modern theology. Leibniz does half­heartedly venture a few
conventional exegetical arguments but these would and should not have impressed his
opponents. (115­-116)

A minor complaint about the book is that Antognazza, perhaps sticking too closely to
her role in reporting Leibniz’s views, sometimes passes on his contentious, misleading, or
false claims about various ‘antitrinitarians’. For example: the Socinians are revivers of ancient
Arianism, who stupidly confuse ‘above reason’ with ‘against reason’ and incomprehensibility
with inconsistency, think that impossibility follows from improbability, and cavalierly dismiss as
textual corruptions biblical passages which affirm the creedal doctrines.

On the whole, though, Antognazza’s sympathy for Leibniz’s project helps her to
present his case with clarity and thoroughness, revealing him to be one of the greatest early
modern apologists and philosophical theologians. When push comes to shove, she and
Leibniz do carefully present unitarian inconsistency objections to the Trinity and incarnation
based on considerations about identity, omniscience, aseity, and so on. Those interested in
either metaphysical or mysterian defenses of these doctrines would do well to read this
unique and well-­crafted study.

Dale Tuggy
SUNY Fredonia

Technorati Tags: Leibniz, Trinity, Incarnation, relative substance, absolute substance, apologetics, Nye, Wissowatius, Antognazza, mystery, mysterian, positive mysterianism, negative mysterianism, providence, unitarian, Dixon

MACRUE!… Gesundheit

Man, this is getting to be a long series.

This installment is a book review I’ve written of philosophical theologian James Anderson’s Paradox in Christian Theology: An Analysis of Its Presence, Character, and Epistemic Status. It is forthcoming in the philosophy journal Faith & Philosophy, and is posted by the kind permission of its book review editor Charles Taliaferro.

The review is after the fold. Sorry – it’s written more for philosophy profs than for a general audience. I’ll expand on some of my objections to mysterianism later in this series.

As far as I know, this book is is the all-time most sophisticated, well developed, and plausible defense of the idea that Christians may rationally believe and know apparently contradictory doctrines. Theological literature on “mysteries” is too often marred with unclarity, epistemic carelessness and confusion, and even mystery-mongering, that is, perverse delight in inconsistency (apparent and/or real). In contrast, this book by a philosophically informed and capable young theologian sparkles with Plantingian clarity, sobriety, intellectual honesty, originality, and analytic power (and also, with a lot of Plantingian epistemology, as we’ll see.)

Anderson’s ambitious project cuts against the grain of most contemporary philosophical theology. Consider the following inconsistent triad:

C: If some claim appears after careful reflection to be contradictory I shouldn’t believe it.

O: The orthodox Christian doctrine of X appears after careful reflection to be contradictory.

B: I should believe the orthodox Christian doctrine of X.

What to do in the face of such a conundrum? There are three popular responses.

Most current-day philosophical theologians – or at any rate, many of the most prominent among them – habitually reject O (while affirming C and B), offering some plausible interpretation of X on which X comes out apparently consistent. Anderson, along with probably many theologians and other believers outside the profession of philosophy, rejects this move, as he holds that the reinterpreted X is in fact always out of line with (1) the mainstream of the historic Christian tradition, (2) the ecumenical creeds, rightly interpreted according to the intentions of their framers, and (3) the Bible itself.

A second response is to reject the Orthodox version of doctrine X; that is, reject B (keeping C and O). Theology is inherently conservative, and in keeping with this tendency, Anderson will have none of it, equating it with an abandonment of Christianity.

The third response is to reject C (keeping B and O); this is Anderson’s position, which for lack of a better term I call “mysterian” stance. He attributes adherence to C to “rationalism”, to a prideful preference for our own intuitions over against the clear deliverances of scripture. What is surprising and refreshing is the epistemological sophistication he brings to play in developing and defending this mysterian stance.

The book proceeds as follows. A “paradox” is an apparently contradictory claim. (5-6) The orthodox doctrines of the Trinity and the Incarnation, according to Anderson, are paradoxes. In the second and third chapters he recounts the development of these doctrines in the 4th and 5th centuries, and relentlessly swats away recent attempts to render these doctrines seemingly consistent, by the likes of Barth, Rahner, Cornelius Plantinga, Swinburne, Brown, Martinich, Rea, Brower, Feenstra, Davis, and Morris. He argues that “those interpretations purporting to avoid both paradox and heterodoxy inevitably fail on at least one of the two counts.” (105)

In the fourth chapter he convincingly argues against several alternatives to his mysterian stance: theological anti-realism, anti-deductivism (i.e. qualifying the laws of logic), dialetheism, doctrinal revisionism (i.e. my second response to the inconsistent triad above), what he calls semantic minimalism (claiming that the content of the doctrine in question is too vague to be even apparently contradictory), and the science-inspired theory of “complementarity”.

The long fifth chapter starts with a beautiful exposition of Alvin Plantinga’s epistemology. He locates an ambiguity in the role of the Bible in Plantinga’s epistemology of Christian belief, and suggests some fixes. (181-9) He points out that in Warranted Christian Belief Plantinga is only trying to offer a model of how Christians might be warranted in believing what Plantinga calls “the main lines of the Christian story”. (189-90) Contrary to Anderson, Plantinga assumes that there are orthodox and apparently consistent versions of the Trinity and Incarnation doctrines. (215) Moreover, Plantinga’s “extended A/C” (Aquinas-Calvin) model covers only beliefs based on the explicit content of the Bible, and not creedal doctrines which are (in Anderson’s view) based on the explicit and implicit teachings therein. (190-1, 209) Anderson aims to fill this gap.

Anderson thus extends Plantinga’s theory further, in the fifth and sixth chapters, to cover how Christian beliefs may, if Christianity is true, be warranted, both for sophisticates and for ordinary believers. While this involves some Reformed assumptions about scripture and tradition, Anderson claims that these are not obviously essential to the success of the project. Basically, if Christianity is true, it’s plausible to think that a believer could be warranted in taking the Bible to be a reliable communication from God. And Christian beliefs may be directly or indirectly based on the Bible.

But, comes the objection, if a doctrine appears to be contradictory, shouldn’t that trump its claim to be part of a divine revelation? Even if, say, Chrissy Christian’s belief in the Trinity were warranted, wouldn’t the realization that the doctrine seems contradictory give Chrissy a “defeater” for her trinitarian belief? Anderson takes the bull by the horns here, deploying the whole machinery of undercutting vs. rebutting defeaters, defeater-defeaters, and defeater-insulators. He argues that a warranted belief in divine incomprehensibility will prevent one’s beliefs regarding the Trinity and Incarnation from defeat by one’s belief that they seem inconsistent. (250-6) (More on this crucial point below.)

In the sixth chapter, Anderson gives the heart of his account of our knowledge of “mysteries”, what he calls his RAPT (Rational Affirmation of Paradoxical Theology) theory. He argues that we should take apparent contradictions in orthodox Christian theology to be MACRUEs (Merely Apparent Contradictions Resulting from Unarticulated Equivocation). When we can’t find adequate terms to express some proposition, we’re sometimes driven to assert what appears to be a contradiction, such as “I’m concerned about my wife’s operation, and I’m not concerned about my wife’s operation.” (222) This is a MACRUE, and it in fact expresses a truth, hence a consistent proposition, despite appearances. The equivocation here is in the term “concerned”; he is concerned in that he cares about what happens to his wife, but he’s not concerned in the sense of being worried about the outcome, as he knows the surgeon to be extremely competent. (223)

Here though, as Anderson points out, we can grasp both meanings of “concerned” which constitute the equivocation. But theological cases are more worrisome. One paradox he examines is: “God is one divine being and God is three divine beings.” (226) None of those terms appear equivocal, and yet at least one must be, if that statement is to only appear to express a contradiction. Anderson tries out slapping subscript numbers on various of the terms (e.g. “God is one divine1 being and God is three divine2 beings.”), but that seems ad hoc, and worse, it seems empty – the epitome of a merely formal or verbal solution to a very real difficulty.

Anderson argues that this move isn’t ad hoc because if God is incomprehensible (as nearly all Christians grant), then we should expect apparent contradictions to arise in our thinking and speaking about him. (237-43) Moreover, all of this, Anderson argues, fits well with a doctrine of analogy, in light of which we can see that the disambiguated terms needn’t be devoid of meaning. Rather, they each have a meaning which partially, but not completely, overlaps how we use those terms in ordinary contexts.

In sum, if Christianity were true, we’d expect that Christians would reasonably believe in and know about “mysteries”, where a “mystery” is “a metaphysical state of affairs the revelation of which appears implicitly contradictory to us on account of present limitations in our cognitive apparatus and thus resists systematic description in a perspicuously consistent manner.” (245, original italics) Facts are mysterious in the primary sense, then, and doctrines are mysterious derivatively, insofar as they are about these sorts of facts. (246) Note that Anderson avoids the hard to justify claim that a “mystery” is permanently beyond human capacities. The seventh chapter tangles, somewhat less convincingly, with other objections to his mysterian position on the Trinity and Incarnation, and the eighth chapter briefly summarizes his project and suggests a few implications of it for biblical interpretation and apologetics.

A project this ambitious bristles with difficulties, but here I can only sketch out a central one. Anderson’s project seems to crucially involve the following non sequitur: 1. If God exists, then he’s incomprehensible. 2. Therefore, if God exists, then it’s likely that humans in thinking about God along the lines of God’s self-revelation in the Bible will be forced into apparently contradictory thoughts and statements. The problem is that 2 doesn’t follow from 1, because Anderson’s doctrine of “divine incompehensibility” is just the uncontroversial claim that “although God can be known in part, he cannot be known fully and exhaustively.” (237) That is a very weak claim, to which probably no theist will object. Given our limited information, the probability of God’s putting us in a paradoxical theological situation is inscrutable, not more probable than not. A child may not understand the sexual aspect of her parents’ relationship, but it doesn’t follow that she’ll probably run into paradoxes in thinking about her parents. Whether she does or not depends on her cognitive capacities, on precisely what information her parents choose to reveal, and perhaps on her own free choices concerning how she reflects on her parents’ relationship. It only follows from divine incomprehensibility that we can’t be sure or anything close to it that we’ll never run into paradoxes in theology. Non-mysterians, it seems to me, can happily admit this, and proceed in their non-mysterian ways.

But if we lack the grounds to expect theological paradoxes, then the clear and stable appearance of contradiction seems to provide an undefeated defeater for the warrant and justification of our paradoxical theological claims after all. (Cf. 252) Without a stronger doctrine of incomprehensibility, there’s no way to rule out that our cherished paradoxes have been created by our misguided speculations or wrongheaded scriptural exegesis, rather than being thrust on us by transcendent facts together with our epistemic limits. In sum, it isn’t clear that the mysterian response to my inconsistent triad above fares better than the other two. Would a stronger doctrine of divine incomprehensibility be worth the price?

This book deserves to be widely read by students of theology, philosophy of religion, and apologetics. It is nicely written, organized, and presented, and features a good index, and only very few (insignificant) typographical errors. It would provide ideal material for graduate level seminars in any of the aforementioned fields. Some readers will, like this reviewer, take this book to suggest that the mysterian defense of Christian belief is a philosophical dead end, while others will take it as presenting an exciting, well-motivated, and genuinely different apologetic option. Either way, there’s apt material for reflection here, whether one is trying to come up with a defeater-defeater-defeater, or trying to shore up the mysterian defenses.

Next time: positive vs. negative mysterianism.

Technorati Tags: James Anderson, mystery, paradox, Paradox in Christian Theology, mysterian, mysterianism, positive mysterianism, MACRUE, contradiction, apparent contradiction, 4 R’s, Mysterian Resistance

We now move one the fourth R – what I call Mysterian Resistance (or Mysterianism). The Resistor is resisting the pressure to resolve the apparent contradiction, i.e. changing one of the apparently contradictory beliefs. Unlike the Redirector, the Resister doesn’t ignore the apparent inconsistency. And unlike the Resolver, he doesn’t think there’s a reasonable way to make the apparent contradiction go away. So the Resistor resists – he makes his stand – he comes up with a rationale for keeping his apparently contradictory beliefs.

There are a few other – in my view very unpromising – kinds of Resistance other than Mysterian Resistance. For these, see ch. 4 of this excellent book. (Stay tuned for a review.) I’m going to ignore them in this series, because I think they’re unpromising, because Anderson refutes them well enough (in the above book), and because I think Mysterian Resistance is and always has been by far the most popular kind of Resistance. In fact, I think that because of Mysterianism, Resistance has long been the most popular of the four R’s in Christianity, and least among intellectuals.

Here are some examples of Mysterianism in action:

Someone: How can the entire body of a man be present in each crumb of this wafer?
Mysterian: I don’t know, but it’s a mystery.
Someone: How can a man be fully divine?
Mysterian: I don’t know, but it’s a mystery.
Someone: How there be one God if there are not one but three divine persons?
Mysterian: I don’t know, but it’s a mystery.

There will be different reactions to this. Many philosophers I know would think these are cheap and lazy answers, and would be quick to suggest a Rational Reconstructions of these doctrines. Well, appeals to mystery certainly can be, and often are no more than intellectual laziness. A “mystery” – whatever it is – is a good thing. Some people are simply not worried about consistency, and are supremely confident that the doctrine in question is true and important.

But Mysterianism is far more than a refuge for the intellectually careless. One must remember that some people are down on Rational Reconstructions (briefly: sophisticated and precise, and allegedly defensible versions of religious doctrines) for philosophical reasons, and/or because they are simply convinced that all such Reconstructions distort the real Doctrine in question, as require by the authoritative Source(s). (With Protestants, usually the Bible. With Catholics, the Bible and/or the doctrinal pronouncements of the Roman Catholic Church.) Furthermore, a sophisticated Mysterian holds that it is reasonable to believe an apparent contradiction. He needn’t be intellectually lazy at or, or (this is a different vice) a mystery-monger (the more contradictory the better). He may eschew contradictions in some, but not in all circumstances. And the most thoughtful Mysterians have stories to tell about why their Resistance is reasonable after all.

Mysterianism is worth exploring – it comes in different kinds, has a long history, and there are worries about the reasonableness of it. But I think it’d be good to start off with a look at a recent book which in my view contains the most well-developed mysterian theory to date.

Next time: A review of James Anderson‘s Paradox in Christian Theology: An Analysis of Its Presence, Character, and Epistemic Status.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit?

A professor friend emailed me recently:

I’ve lately been reading a book (at a student’s request) …a piece of bad Christian fiction called “The Shack” by William P. Young. … it might interest you in light of your trinitarian research. The persons of the Trinity make an appearance in the story: God the Father as a large black woman, God the Son as middle-Eastern carpenter (go figure!), and the Holy Spirit as an Asian woman. I’m certain that there’s heresy lurking nearby.

Just thought I’d pass it along. It is apparently gaining some popularity among some segments of the evangelical subculture – hence, my student’s request that I read it. (link and emphases added)

I can’t speak to the book’s artistic merits, but I’ll trust my friend on that. As to theological merits, heresy or not, there’s certainly social trinitarianism lurking nearby! Who would’ve guessed the Divine Society was so “diverse”? At least they let Jesus remain male… And it arguably beats the gay men’s chorus.

According to this much read review, this society is also maximally egalitarian (see the Trinity section of the review).

Update: a more sympathetic review at Christianity Today.

Your average theologian’s response to recent Rational Reinterpretations.

Let me take four recent books off my shelf by current theologians. Now I’ll search through them to see if they have any reference at all to some of the more important Rational Reconstructions in the last 25 years or so, namely:

• Tom Morris’s (1986, 1989) or Richard Swinburne’s two-minds approach to the Incarnation (1994)
• Swinburne’s social trinitarian theory (1994)
• Leftow’s earlier Latin Trinitarian speculations (1999, 2004) and his exploration and penetrating criticisms of various social theories (1999)
• Peter van Inwagen’s relative identity construals of the Incarnation and Trinity (1995)

(To new readers – you can find many earlier posts on Swinburne and Leftow using the search box, below right.) I’m limiting myself to (1) uncontroversially top-notch work, (2) by prominent Christian philosopher-theologians, masters of their craft, that (3) has been out for a while, and which (4) is pretty well known among Christian philosophers. Now, for the search:

McGrath, Christian Theology: An Introduction, 4th. ed. (2007)

• Basically, a complete miss. A passing reference to Swinburne as a great philosophical theologian. McGrath does mention “kenotic” approaches to the Incarnation, which are certainly Rational Reconstructions, but his discussion ends in the 19th century.

Grenz, Rediscovering the Triune God (2004)

• Complete miss. But we’ve got Hegel and Schleirmacher! (Sigh – philosophy has come a long way since then.)

Kärkkäinen, The Trinity: Global Perspectives (2007)

• Despite the fact that all the aforementioned philosopher-theologians have lived their entire lives so far on the Globe, a complete miss. This is the more bitter because of the coverage lavished on some surprisingly bad theories. Kenosis is mentioned a few times.
• Towards the end of the book, he says: “…I would call for a much more sophisticated analysis of the relation of threeness to unity than has been done.” (393, emphasis added) My friend, this has been going in earnest since at least the late 80s, among philosophical theologians, with the pace picking up more recently.

Olson and Hall, The Trinity (2002)

• Granted, this is introductory, but: a total miss. The end point of theorizing here? Zizioulas’s 1983 book.

Mind you, these are all (1) recent books, by (2) theologians specializing in the Trinity, which (3) aim at comprehensiveness, i.e. showing the student where she ought to look further.

None of these are bad books – I’ve found all them useful in various ways, particularly the McGrath. I’m not criticizing these four gentlemen (one deceased) but rather the professional standard they’ve all followed. Folks, this is like biologists ignoring recent and relevant work in chemistry. (Yeah, I know: some theologians think it’s more like astronomers ignoring “developments” in astrology. )

Instead of just complaining about this, I’ll speculate on why theologians, even ones who focus on the Trinity seem completely uninformed about important work in philosophical theology. (Yes, I’m aware of a few exceptions – usually younger guys – but they are rare exceptions, as far as I can tell - I’d like to be wrong about this.)

1. Theology is backward-looking, and this stuff is too recent to be on the radar.
2. Theologians aren’t trained in philosophy, and so find the aforementioned authors very difficult to understand; hence, they avoid them.
3. These writers are not academic theologians, not professors of theology, but theologians are academically insular, in the own little world.
4. They’re spending so much time batting around the unclear work of Rahner and Barth, and other imprecise and long-winded thinkers, they just don’t have time to read philosophical theology.
5. Theologians are simply not very worried about inconsistency or irrationality (or conversely, consistency and rationality), at least concerning the Trinity and the Incarnation.
6. But insofar as they are concerned with consistency, Mysterian Resistance and Redirection are firmly entrenched in academic theology.

Regarding #2 – I believe that systematic theologians should be trained in Philosophy, at least to the equivalent of a B.A.. Also, as more popular level and reference sources cover this stuff, it’ll be inexcusable to be a least a little familiar with it. All the sources I mention are complex but rigorously clearly written.

Regarding #3 – Are philosophers equally insular? I dare say we (who work in philosophical theology) are not. For my part, I’ve got a shelf full of recent books by theologians on the Trinity, but they rarely address issues in which I’m interested. Or if they do, the treatment is… inadequate in various ways. Philosophers developing Trinity theories, in my experience, are often following up on undeveloped leads from recent theologians – particularly in the social camp. And we have no excuse, for there are abundant decently short and clear secondary sources. (Theologians – this will soon be true of philosophical theology as well!)

Regarding #5: I think this is true. Why it is true is another question, and most of the possible answers are not pretty.

Regarding #6: This is a big reason why I think Mysterian Resistance is worth looking into (next post, btw).

So young theologians: if you’re going to work on the Trinity, surf this site, and follow up by reading some of books and articles discussed here. If you stick with standard theology sources, you’re missing out on a whole world of exciting, challenging, relevant stuff. Frankly, your elders have, collectively, let you down by ignoring obviously relevant material. You must, unless you’re working with one of the aforementioned (rare, and usually young) theology profs who are up on recent philosophical theology, fend for yourself.

Next time: the next “R” – Resistance!

Technorati Tags: philosophical theology, theology, Trinity, Grenz, McGrath, Olson, Hall, Trinity, Kärkkäinen, rational reinterpretation, apparent contradiction

What, if anything, is wrong with with the strategy of Resolution through Rational Reinterpretation? And why are most theologians so cold towards this strategy, while most Christian philosophers love it? Consider this quote by Moses Stuart on one of Leibniz’s takes on the Trinity:

The celebrated Leibniz was requested by a Loefler, who had undertaken to refute the writings of a certain English Antitrinitarian, to give him an affirmative definition of the persons in the Godhead. He sent for answer the following: – “Several persons in an absolute substance numerically the same, signify several, particular, intelligent substances essentially related.” On farther consideration, he abandoned this, and sent a second, which was, – “Several persons, in an absolute substance numerically the same, mean relative, incommunicable modes of subsisting.”

If Leibniz actually understood this, I believe he must have been a better master of metaphysics than any person who has ever read his definition. In fact, he does not himself appear to have been satisfied with it; for, not long after, he wrote as follows: – “We must say, that there are relations in the divine substance, which distinguish the persons, since these persons cannot be absolute substances. But we must aver, too, that these relations are substantial. At least, we must say that the Divine Persons are not the same Concrete, under different denominations or relations; as a man may be, at the same time, both a poet and an orator. We must say, moreover, that the three Persons are not as absolute substances as the whole.”

This is somewhat better than either of his former attempts, inasmuch as it is confined principally to description of a negative kind. Yet, after all, I obtain by it no additional light upon the subject which is important. (Channing vs. Stuart on the Trinity and the Incarnation, part 2, pp. 37-8, emphases added)

Leibniz, by the way, was a very great metaphysician and logician (and more). But Leibniz’s new-fangled (as of the late 17th c.) take on the Trinity is something, arguably, that only a metaphysician could love. Stuart, a very smart man (and practitioner of what I call Mysterian Resistance), looks at Leibniz’s words and pretty much draws a blank. I, a philosophy professor who works on philosophy of religion and early modern philosophy, couldn’t do a whole lot better. Further, it is not clear that Leibniz’s claim that relations can be substantial is consistent with his own views about relations and substances, as this recent book mentions. (pp. 157-8) So if Leibniz has scored any victory here, it’s one that pretty much only he could appreciate, and maybe not even him! (This is why he tries out a lot of other moves as well…)

I should hasten to add, though, that a few rational reconstructions do end up being fairly popular, at least within certain highly educated circles. This, then is one problem with Resolution through Rational Reconstruction: it takes quite a lot of tutoring for people to understand the claims being made, and many, be they laymen or theologians (or even other philosophical theologians) just don’t understand the new version of the doctrine being offered. Or maybe they do understand it, but find it about as problematic as what we started with. (Stuart’s confession that he “gains no additional light” from Leibniz’s speculations could mean either or both of these.)

But the difficulties don’t stop here.

Next time: Theological Innovation: bad or good?

Technorati Tags: Leibniz, Antognazza, Trinity, Incarnation, relations, Moses Stuart, 4 R’s, absolute substance, relative substance, Resolution, Rational Reinterpretation, Resolution Through Rational Reinterpretation

What’s up with that weird Angel/bird/snake thing? Is that supposed to be Arius?

At BBC – Radio 4 In Our Time – The Nicene Creed - A somewhat gassy and academic but nonetheless listenable discussion. Here’s the Real Audio file link. (I thought I listened to this in another audio format, but I can’t find any such files at the moment.)

Then we’ve got “Great Moves of God: The Nicene Creed” at the Australian Sight magazine. This story spins the Nicea council as being the arch-logician, perhaps rationalist scripture-twisting Arians vs. the modest, faithful upholders of Christ’s deity.

An authority is quoted here as saying: “The participating bishops merely affirmed the historic and standard Christian beliefs…”.

I think this last statement is not just misleading but demonstrably false. Further, the whole account is warped by the author’s allegiances, although the article contains some good information as well, which is why I pass it along.

Was that council, or part of it, or its resulting creed a “Great Move of God”? Read Hanson (if you have a lot of time), Ayres (if you have a good bit of time), or Rubenstein (if you have a few hours), and decide for yourself. If you’re interested in the Arians as such, the best place to start is probably with Wiles.

Technorati Tags: Nicene Creed, Nicea, Constantinopolitan Creed, Constantinople, Creed of Constantinople, Ayres, Hanson, Rubenstein, Maurice Wiles, Creed of Nicea, BBC Radio 4, In Our Time

Here: Logic Matters: Philosophy of Religion 3: The Trinity Philosopher/blogger/Analysis editor Peter Smith of Cambridge discusses his reading of this book by Rea and Murray, which I’ve been looking forward to seeing. He’s, um, not terribly sympathetic, and tends towards a harsh and dismissive tone. But, he does (I assume, accurately) summarize their conclusions, and their main lines of argument. So the reviews are at least useful for that.

Also relevant: his take on the chapters on Incarnation, and the Liar, Lunatic, Lord argument for the divinity of Jesus. See the lively and lengthy discussion on this last one, with substantial contributions by Mike Rea, Mike Almeida, Victor Reppert, and others.

It’s very interesting to read another philosopher’s take on one’s colleague’s new textbook. It’s a sort of book review with the gloves off. On the other hand, I don’t relish the thought of my own work getting this kind of treatment, especially if it should be for a student or popular audience.

Technorati Tags: Mike Rea, Michael J. Murray, Peter Smith, incarnation, Trinity, Mike Almeida, Victor Reppert, Liar Lunatic Lord, Logic Matters

I’ve seen this passage quoted by at least three of my favorite Christian philosophers. Unfortunately, they’ve misattributed it to the famous English antitrinitarian John Biddle (also spelled Bidle) (1615-62).

I believe it was Keith Yandell who found it in this old book, where it is misattributed to Biddle. Why did the theologian Leonard Hodgson make this mistake? I’ve seen a copy of the book, the one which is microfiched, in which a “helpful” librarian or someone has written Biddle’s name on the cover page. (No author is named in the book.) While some of Biddle’s tracts were republished towards the end of the 17th century, this isn’t one of them. It was first published in 1687, and sparked a pretty heated trinitarian controversy which lasted about the next ten years or so. Historians have long attributed it to Stephen Nye (1647/8-1719). So, this quote is from his A Brief History of the Unitarians, Called Also Socinians. In Four Letters, Written to a Friend. Whatever you think about the Trinity, you have to admit that it’s a wonderful piece of rhetoric. Here’s the whole paragraph, it all its oddly formatted glory:

To conclude; Theirs [i.e. the Unitarians] (they say) is an accountable and a reasonable Faith; but that of the Trinitarians is absurd, and contrary both to Reason and to it self, and therefore not only false, but impossible. For you (say they) teach, there are three almighty, and most wise Persons, and yet but one God; as if every Almighty and most wise Person were not a God, and consequently three such Persons, three Gods. You add yet more absurdly, that there are three Persons who are severally and each of them true God, and yet there is but one true God: This is an Error in counting or numbring; which when stood in, is of all others the most brutal and inexcusable; and not to discern it, is not to be a Man. But we would not (say they) trouble our selves at the at the non-sense of this Doctrine, if it did not impose false Gods on us; by advancing two to be Gods, who are not so: and rob also the one true God of the Honour due to him, and of which he is jealous. (24-5)

Interestingly, there’s something misleading about the quote. It’s attracted Christian philosophers because they’re interested in the apologetic project of fending off people who claim the doctrine of the Trinity is contradictory. But the bulk of the book (letters 2-4) is instead devoted to two other lines of attack, namely that the Bible doesn’t support the doctrine, and that it teaches things inconsistent with it. The above is practically the only “philosophical” objection to the Trinity therein, and it’s almost an afterthought! Most of the rest consists of attempts to knock down trinitarian Bible exegesis in favor of the Unitarian readings. Maybe some day I’ll blog or write about this interesting book and the controversy which ensued (a nice overview of which is in here).

Technorati Tags: Keith Yandell, Stephen Nye, Unitarian, John Biddle, Leonard Hodgson

I learned some months ago of Triads and Trinity, by the late Classicist and Egyptologist John Gwyn Griffiths, a book which tries to trace outside influences on the development of the Christian doctrine of the Trinity. (HT: Matthew Mullins) I was skeptical about any such project, as I knew it has long been a staple of crackpot antitrinitarians to allege that the Trinity doctrine was illegally imported from (take your pick) Babylon, Neoplatonism, Hinduism, etc. This book, however, seemed legit. Here’s the publisher’s description:

Was the idea of the Trinity-that One God exists in Three Persons and One Substance – influenced by pre-Christian traditions? It is well known that the New Testament offers no such doctrine, and there is no evidence that Jesus of Nazareth regarded himself as a member of the Trinity. The doctrine was developed during the first four Christian centuries, culminating in the Council of Constantinople in AD 381. The world of the early Christian centuries in which the Trinity was developed as a tenet of belief included several religious and philosophical systems with similar beliefs. Triads and Trinity examines three possible areas of impact: Judaism, the religion of Egypt, and various Greek traditions. Whereas a pluralistic concept of God was inherited by Judaism, it eventually accepted a firm monotheism. In Egypt the concept of trinity was of ancient origin, but it flourished especially in the second century AD and afterwards, when the mystery cult of Isis reached its acme of popularity in a Graeco-Egyptian framework which found adherents in many countries of the Roman empire. This Graeco-Egyptian religious amalgam excercised a potent influence on early Christian thinkers, particularly in Alexandria. Using the methods of comparative religion, the distinguished Classicist and Egyptologist J. Gwyn Griffiths has examined the origins of the doctrine of the Trinity and has based his conclusions on a thorough analysis of the original sources in Greek, Latin, Egyptian, Coptic and Hebrew. (From here. See also here.)

Now that I’ve slogged through read it, I thought I’d post a mini-review. First, this is not a book of philosophy or theology. It is in the genre of comparative religion. The brush-strokes are often broad, and the history of doctrine and metaphysical aspects will not satisfy specialists in, say, early Christian doctrine, the early Fathers, or philosophical theology. Sometimes the author’s opinions in these areas are quite informed and plausible, and sometimes they are less so. Second, the book is poorly organized. The author’s real thesis is only clear by the end of the book, and topics of discussion jump around, with truckloads of historical details being frequently dumped on the reader. Much of the book consists in quick summaries and comments on previous studies on the topics in question. This is good and bad. It is a resource for the serious student, but a hard read for everyone else.

What Griffiths is up to is this. He’s looking for influences on the formation of trinitarian doctrine, but he doesn’t go looking for “trinities” (three persons in one substance) – because he knows he won’t find precisely that outside Christianity, but he rather collects and examines “triads”.

When three deities are grouped together in art or in literature frequently enough to suggest that they are regarded as forming an established group, for our puposes they constitute a triad. (3)

Fair enough. And out come a boatload of them, from the religions of early and late Egypt, Mesopotamia, India, Iran, Greece, Rome, the Celts, China, and miscellaneous northern European tribes. And then we have examples from Judaism, Gnosticism, and Neoplatonism. Frustratingly, after trotting out most of these, he admits that most of them are too far in time and/or place to plausibly be regarded as an important influences on the development of the doctrine of the Trinity. He thus focuses on Judaism, Greek philosophy and religion, and late Egyptian religion.

Unlike the crackpots, Griffiths is aware that just because you find something earlier than a piece of Christian art or doctrine that resembles it, it doesn’t follow that there is any causal connection between them. In the end, he thinks there were important outside influences on the doctrine, but as we’ll see, this claim is so qualified, that it’s not clear what the interest of it is, even if it’s true.

One idea in the book, which I simply don’t grasp, is that the matter or substance of the Trinity doctrine comes from the Bible, but the form or structure of it comes from somewhere else. Apparently this idea is current else where in the looking-for-antecedents-of-the-Trinity literature. All I can guess is, this is a way of maintaining peace with orthodox Christianity – congratulating them from having a doctrine truly based on the Bible in a sense, but which in another sense came from elsewhere.

Warning: spoilers ahead! Here are his conclusions.

Structurally the heritage of Israel and Judaism prepared Christian minds for the idea that unity and plurality could characterize the divine, even if the idea was not as a rule on specifically triadic lines. …But for the highly distinctive idea of tri-unity we must turn to Egypt, where the New-Kingdom theology began to treat the triad as a trinity. In the early Christian centuries this development was endorsed by Greek influence: the Platonic triadic systems sometimes came close to the dimension of trinitarianism, and popular Greek syncretism was often ready to regard three deities as one. (306-7)

As an Egyptologist, it’s not surprising that he thinks Egyptian religion has historically been shorted when it comes to its influence on Christian doctrine. But I’m not clear on how he really connects the two. He only shows that certain church fathers, particularly in Alexandria, knew about various Egyptian cults. One would think that it’d be the Neoplatonism’s “three hypostases” who were in some sense all “the One” but not that’d get the main credit, seeing as how the Cappadocians were all steeped in Neoplatonism, and they by all accounts played a crucial role in the development of the doctrine in the fourth century. (See particularly Hanson’s Search, 863-9.) He repeatedly dismisses their relevance, though, on the grounds that Platonic threesomes were mere “abstractions”. Go figure.

In sum, I recommend this book only to specialists, mainly those interested in the details of threesomes in the religions of the near East, who also want to compare these to early Christian trinitarian thought. To those interested in the truth of or evidence for the Christian doctrine(s) of the Trinity, this book is of little relevance. So what if there was this influence? Maybe these other religions and philosophies were God’s ordained vehicle to “make straight the way” for the Cappadocians (or whoever) to finally (take your pick) draw out the implications of the Bible for the metaphysics of God or expand on the contents of the Bible, by the guidance of the Holy Spirit, creating a new but true doctrine. Note that no one defends their belief in the Trinity by appealing to Egyptian religion or the doctrines of Greek philosophy. There are rather arguments from the Bible, from the authority of the church and the orthodox tradition, and from reason (i.e. a priori arguments for social trinitarianism). Friends and enemies of trinitarianism will have to engage on those fields, not on the field of comparative religion. At the very most, if it could be shown that no trinity doctrine can be derived from the Bible, Griffith’s theories might provide a partial explanation of where it did come from. But origin is one issue, and truth is another.

Technorati Tags: pagan trinity, Triads and Trinity, Egyptian trinities, Greek trinities, book review

Some of your know that I work on “early modern” (roughly 1650-1800) philosophy, especially philosophy of religion. For some time now, I’ve been reading through some of the many debates in that era regarding the Trinity. The debates are more wide-ranging and hard-hitting than anything academic theologians are doing now, and bizarrely, they’ve been forgotten by nearly everyone but a few historians. There are interesting historical and institutional reasons for this lapse of collective memory, but that’s an issue for another post (or five). In particular, it seems that most theologians and philosophers now writing on the Trinity are simply unfamiliar with this stuff. That’s a shame, as much can be learned from it, and moreover, in many cases recent-day people (including me) are just re-hashing points well-made back in 1692 or 1738 (or whenever).

Well, now you can read some of it – cheaply. These are real paperbacks, reprints of 17th, 18th, or 19th century editions. The covers are a little thin for my taste, but the pages and binding are quite nice. Print quality varies widely. For some reason, the online Previews always under-represent the print-quality. Beware that they print these to order – no stocks are kept, so they won’t accept returns. I could have these listed on Amazon, etc., but I probably won’t, as it would cost something like $150 each to do that.

I imagine I’ll get the same question as when students see the shelves in my office. No, I haven’t read all these – yet. Some I’ve read, some I’ve skimmed, some I just want to be able to read or refer to. I’m focusing on reading whole debates, both sides, to see what I can learn – pretty much all 17th and 18th century stuff, with a few 19th c. items thrown in. Some of these authors are extremely sharp, others, blow-hards. All I guarantee is that you can learn by “listening in” – whether that’s learning by others’ great discoveries, or by their great mistakes. Of course, since I’m interested in reading both sides of the debates, this stuff is, taken together, wildly inconsistent. So if you’re trying to discern my views, don’t read too much in to my selections.

I’ll be blogging on some of these from time to time, at least, after I finish going through the range of current-day theories by people in philosophical theology. Enjoy!