Boersma on a sacramental view of time and tradition

Hans Boersma’s book, Heavenly Participation: The Weaving of a Sacramental Tapestry, is an extended plea for a recovery of a sacramental view of reality. He begins by tracing the undoing of this view of reality from the high Middle Ages onward, and argues essentially that modernity is the result of a loss of this sacramental ontology. More, the church’s response to and engagement with the world has suffered since it too has lost its sacramental rootedness. Boersma suggests that by looking in particular to the patristic era, and its reappropriation by the nouvelle théologie movement, we can find resources for reweaving the sacramental tapestry.

In one of the chapters in the second part of the book, which focuses on ‘reconnecting the threads’, Boersma discusses the role of tradition in theology, and calls on evangelicals (though he uses the term loosely, and a various times seems to mean different things) in particular to reconsider the place of tradition. Our view of time and history, he argues, means that ‘we tend to look at time as a simple succession of distinct moments, unrelated to one another’ (125). This shapes our view of tradition and how we do theology – later theology always takes precedent over something earlier, and though he does not say as much, the implication is that what comes after is to be seen as fuller or better than what has gone before.

This linear view of time also means that we are given to see theology both as something much more malleable, and as dependent on our individual interpretations, which gain a considerable normative status. Recognising this, Boersma continues with a warning:

A desacramentalized view of time tends to place the entire burden of doctrinal decision on the present moment: I, in the small moment of time allotted to me, am responsible to make the right theological (and moral) choice before God. The imposition of such a burden is so huge as to be pastorally disastrous. Furthermore, to the extent that as Christians we are captive to our secular Western culture, it is likely that this secure culture will get to set the church’s agenda. If we do not see ourselves sacramentally connected to the tradition (and thus to Christ), we sense no accountability to the tradition, and we are likely to accommodate whatever demands our culture places on us and capitulate to them (129-130).

This changes, however, when we adopt a sacramental view of time that sees a unity of past, present, and future as they are tied together in God’s eternity. As it pertains to the development of doctrine, Boersma notes that in doing theology we always have a responsibility to the tradition we are rooted in. This means that, ‘when we are faced with a theological and moral conundrum, a participatory approach to tradition will always ask how the catholic, or universal, church throughout time and place has dealt with the issue’ (130). A sacramental view of tradition sees the church’s collective interpretation of Scripture as a shared calling, and seeks to balance speaking faithfully to our present context with faithfulness to what we have inherited.

‘The widespread assumption that Christian beliefs and morals are to a significant degree malleable has its roots in a modern, desacrilized view of time,’ Boersma argues (130). This, of course, does not mean that doctrine does not develop, but only that we are not pioneers who do theology apart from what has gone before. In a sacramental view of time, to ignore the church’s tradition is to ignore the Christ who is eternally present with his church, and who leads and guides it throughout history as it seeks to interpret Scripture and shape its life in faithfulness to the one who gave it life.

A list of theology conferences

As a theologian, I love a good conference. Having a few days together with other theologians listening to papers on various topics, enjoying good conversation, and just generally sharpening our thinking is anything but a chore for me. In fact, I often come away feeling refreshed.

Now that I have stepped away from the academic world, I’m especially keen to attend conferences as a means of continuing to exercise my mind. But the other day I was thinking about booking something into the calendar in the coming year, and realised that there was no easy way to find out what conferences were being held here in the UK or over in Europe (places that would be relatively easy for me to get to). So with Ian Paul agreeing to host it on his blog, I decided to put together a list of everything I could find.

That list is now live, and can be accessed here. It is focused on distinctly theological conferences, academic or otherwise, and is limited to international conferences held in English. That said, the list is delightfully varied, representing lots of different traditions and aspects of theology.

The idea is that we keep it continually updated as new conferences are announced. You can help by letting us know of anything you might be aware of that we missed. I want this to be of service to anyone with an interest in an area of theology who wants a few days together with others stretching their minds. So have a browse!

On thinking about hell

It is my practice to always have a novel on my bedside table. In the past few days I have been reading Marilynne Robinson’s most recent novel, Lila, which is a deeply engaging and thought-provoking work. Having just preached on Mark 8.31-38, a passage containing a very stern warning from Jesus for those who choose not to follow him, I was struck by this thought from the Reverend, one of Robinson’s two main characters in the book:

Thinking about hell doesn’t help me live in the way I should. I believe this is true for most people. And thinking that other people might go to hell just feels evil to me, like a very grave sin. So I don’t want to encourage anyone else to think that way. Even if you don’t assume that you can know in individual cases, it’s still a problem to think about people in general as if they might go to hell. You can’t see the world the way you ought to if you let yourself do that. Any judgement of any kind is a great presumption. And presumption is a very grave sin (101).

He concludes these words with the statement, ‘I believe this is sound theology.’ I will leave it up to the reader to decide if that is true.

Moberly on the relationship of faith and the authority of Scripture

In his recent book, The Bible in a Disenchanted Age: The Enduring Possibility of Christian Faith, the renowned biblical scholar, Walter Moberly, explores questions of the Bible’s continued relevance in the modern world.

Part of what Moberly takes to task is the notion that biblical authority must stem in some way from its historical reliability, noting that this is a thoroughly modern idea, and pushing back on it in a number of different ways. One of the more intriguing arguments in the book has to do with the relationship of faith and trust in the authority of Scripture. Moberly raises this point by pointing to Jesus’ teaching in the Gospel of John. ‘Jesus says that there is a test of his claim that his teaching is from God’, Moberly writes (136). Emphasising Jesus’ humanity, Moberly says that Jesus is not just ‘a kind of ventriloquist’s dummy’, but that he uses his own words; it is instead that ‘the origin of what is his is, in reality, God’ (136). The question, then, according to Moberly, is ‘how…might one be able in principle appropriately to recognise human words as not merely human but also as in some way authentically from God?’ (136) He continues:

The criterion for grasping that the true origin of Jesus’ words is God is clear: it is that one must resolve to do the will of God. What does that mean? …The key point is that a certain kind of knowledge – that particular human words genuinely originate with God – is inseparable from a certain kind of personal responsiveness. The knowledge that is envisaged is participatory. Unless heart and mind have a certain openness towards that which Jesus says and does, the issue of divine origin can only be a matter of mere words, a contestable and unverifiable claim. Whether faith comes in a flash or is a slow and possibly hesitant process does not affect the point that without at least some degree of participatory faith, any possible divine reality in Jesus remains beyond human perception. There is an empirical dimension to faith, but it is the empiricism not of the natural sciences but of the existential engagement of a person with dimensions of reality that can easily remain opaque to the unresponsive (139).

Moberly makes a big deal of plausibility structures in the book, arguing that one of the ways people become open to the possibility of Scripture’s authority is by encountering a community of people who have accepted and live by that authority. The argument is similar here – that one of the ways to test the authority of the words of Jesus is to live as if his words are true, to ‘be led on to dare to believe that which…others believe, that in and through the biblical portrayal of the person, teaching, and works of Jesus (in his life, death and resurrection), the reality of the living God is encountered’ (139). As John Calvin says, ‘All true knowledge of God stems from obedience’ (Institutes, 1.6.2).

In other words, try it on for size. You may be surprised what you find.

Why it’s important to understand theological controversies well

The whole power of the mysterious dogma is at once established by the one word homoousios, which was sovereignly proclaimed at the Council of [Nicaea], because this word stands for both a real unity and a real distinction. It is impossible to mention without reverent fear and holy trepidation that moment – infinitely significant and unique in its philosophical and dogmatic importance – when the thunder of Homoousios first roared over the city of Victory.

So writes Pavel Florensky in his book The Pillar and Ground of the Truth. Florensky’s vivid language aside, this is a common understanding of Nicaea. But, argues Lewis Ayres, in his book, Nicaea and its Legacy, it is a misunderstanding. There is no doubt, Ayres writes, that ‘the fourth century…witnessed a controversy that produced some of the basic principles of classic Trinitarian and Christological doctrine, the most important creed in the history of Christianity, and theological texts that have remained points of departure for Christian theology in every subsequent generation’ (1). Yet much of what happened at Nicaea is not so cut-and-dried as it is often made out to be.

It is commonly held that the Nicene controversy was fundamentally between Arius and his followers, and orthodox theologians, and focused entirely on the question of whether or not Christ was divine. This is problematic, argues Ayres, because ‘it is virtually impossible to identify a school of thought dependent on Arius’ specific theology, and certainly impossible to show that even a bare majority of Arians had any extensive knowledge of Arius’ writing’ (2). In reducing the controversy to this, it covers up the complexity of the theological issues and tensions of the time. And so,

we should avoid thinking of these controversies as focusing on the status of Christ as ‘divine’ or ‘not divine’. They focus, first, on debates about the generation of the Word or Son from the Father. Second, the controversies involve debates about the ‘grammar’ of human speech about the divine.

The rest of Ayres book is given over to a thorough unpacking on those two debates in order to help provide a much more rounded picture of what actually went on at Nicaea, and how that should shape our theology today.

Christians have a tendency to downplay the complexity of such theological controversies, for a number of reasons. To be sure, as Ayres 475-page book demonstrates, it can take a substantial amount of effort and research to understand such a key historical event properly. However, we are also people who like clearly defined boundaries. Ayres notes how quickly the term ‘Arian’ began to be thrown around, because this heresiological label ‘enabled early theologians and ecclesiastical historians to portray theologians to whom they were opposed as distinct and coherent groups and they enabled writers to tar enemies with the name of a figure already in disrepute’ (2). This is a long-standing problem: much popular Reformation history pits Luther against the Roman Catholics, while today we toss around labels like ‘liberal’ and ‘fundamentalist’. But labels only cover up the complexities, and in doing so, fail to help us deal more robustly with the actual theological issues and tensions.

As someone who is heavily invested in Trinitarian theology – indeed, he has weighed in on some of the most recent Trinitarian debates – Ayres is concerned that we understand Nicaea well. And that is because relying on shallow accounts of Nicaea has meant that ‘modern Trinitarianism has [not just] engaged with pro-Nicene theology badly, but… it has barely engaged with it at all. As a result the legacy of Nicaea remains paradoxically the unnoticed ghost at the modern Trinitarian feast’ (7).

Gregory of Nazianzus on the limits of knowing God

Gregory of Nazianzus is best known for his five theological orations (collected in On God and Christ in the Popular Patristics Series), one of the defining patristic texts on the doctrine of God. The orations are primarily a rebuttal of some of the major Trinitarian heresies plaguing the early Church, and Gregory spends the majority of his time untangling the arguments of his opponents, before ending each oration with a string of references to what Scripture says about God.

There are two main points to Gregory’s argument. The first is very simply that God cannot be comprehended. ‘To know God is hard’, he writes, and ‘to describe him impossible’ (39; references here are to the page numbers in the PPS book). He continually returns to this point, criticising his opponents for attempting to rationally work out God’s nature and essence. ‘What can your conception of the divine be,’ he asks, ‘if you rely on all the methods of deductive argument’ (41)? You will have a God who is bounded by the limits of your mind, and the product of your own preconceptions. No, Gregory says, in the midst of a discussion on what it means for the Son to be begotten of the Father, ‘we count it a high thing that we may perhaps learn what it is in the time to come, when we are free of this dense gloom’ (79). For now, we simply accept what God says of himself.

And that leads to the second point in Gregory’s argument – that the attempt of his opponents to use logic to make sense of God belies a deeper desire, namely, to undermine the God of Scripture. Gregory will have none of it, and states that the twists and turns of their logic are not an effort to truly know God; they merely ‘mean to fight foul’ (84). If his opponents really want to mount a challenge against Gregory’s theology, ‘let us see what strength you can muster from Holy Scriptures’ (84). Indeed, he says, ‘it is not a hard task to clear away the stumbling block that the literal text of Scripture contains – that is, if your stumbling is real and not just wilful malice’ (86). What is to be done instead? We are to ‘let the Spirit aid us, and the Word will have its course and God be glorified’ (118). For Gregory, this is about humility: probing into the nature of God can only be an enquiry that has ‘yielded to faith’. In the end, ‘it is better to have a meagre idea…than to venture on total blasphemy’ (126). A God who makes sense is a God made in our own image.

Gregory’s point is simple: Only a very little can be known of God. But we get nowhere near that knowledge if we rely solely on our own speculations. Faith must be given priority. What we know of God we know from Scripture, and while at times we might not be able to make sense of everything revealed to us, faith calls us to accept it. Why? Because even though ‘the knowledge we shall have in this life will be little, soon after it will perhaps be more perfect, in the same Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen’ (34).


Secularism as heresy

Alexander Schmemann, in his book, For the Life of the World, makes some fascinating comments about the relationship of secularism and Christianity, noting particularly that secularism ought to be understood as a heresy, rather than something entirely distinct from Christianity:

[There is] a very real connection between secularism – its origin and development – and Christianity. Secularism – we must again and again stress this – is a ‘stepchild’ of Christianity, as are, in the last analysis, all secular ideologies which today dominate the world – not, as it is claimed by the Western apostles of a Christian acceptance of secularism, a legitimate child, but a heresy. Heresy, however, is always the distortion, exaggeration, and therefore the mutilation of something true, the affirmation of one ‘choice’, one element at the expense of the others, the breaking up of the catholicity of Truth (127).

As a result, Schmemann suggests that instead of seeing secularism as something we simply need to repudiate or condemn, we ought to recognise the opportunity it presents to the Church to witness to the truth:

But then heresy is also always a question addressed to the Church, and which requires, in order to be answered, an effort of Christian thought and conscience. To condemn a heresy is relatively easy. What is much more difficult is to detect the question it implies, and to give this question an adequate answer. Such, however, was always the Church’s dealing with ‘heresies’ – they always provoked an effort of creativity within the Church so that the condemnation became ultimately a widening and deepening of Christian faith itself… If secularism is, as I am convinced, the great heresy of our own time, it requires from the Church not mere anathemas, and certainly not compromises, but above all an effort of understanding so it may ultimately be overcome by truth (127-128).

Schmemann remarks further that whilst heresies in the early church were a result of Christianity’s encounter with Hellenism, the heresy of secularism is a result of the breakdown within Christianity itself in the modern age. That is quite an interesting observation, and perhaps evidenced in part by the fact that secularism primarily exists in the Western world, in cultures with a Judeo-Christian foundation. Still, whether or not you find Schmemann’s suggestion that secularism is a heresy compelling, he is certainly correct to note that if we are to minister effectively in a secular context, we must first understand secularism. Only then can the gospel challenge it at its most salient points.

On a different note, someone suggested to me that much of what Schmemann says here captures something of the nature and the spirit of Anglicanism. But that is perhaps for another time.

Ordination and the preservation of the faith

One of the purposes of ordination, Andrew Davison writes in his book, Why Sacraments?, is to preserve the faith that has been handed down to us:

The Church has an ordered ministry for several reasons. One is to teach and preserve the faith. Timothy, a young elder or bishop, could trust the Christian faith he had received because he knew those from whom he learned it, namely Paul and perhaps other apostles and their delegates: ‘continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it’ (2 Tim. 3:14). Timothy then faced the task of entrusting the faith to others in turn: ‘what you have heard from me through many witnesses entrust to faithful people who will be able to teach others as well (2 Tim. 2:2). Teaching is a vital part of the ministry of the Church. Since the ordained minister takes a place in the wider whole, this ministry is exercised with accountability, so that the faith can not only be propagated but be propagated faithfully, and therefore preserved.

In the early Church, the teaching role of the bishop developed in clear contrast to the Gnostic cults that were also taking form. While the Gnostics taught secret, esoteric knowledge to the enlightened few (the root is in gnōsis, Greek for ‘knowledge’), the Christian bishop taught in public, seated where all could see him in the cathedral (from cathedra, Latin for ‘seat’). To this day a list of the succession of bishops is displayed in a cathedral to show that we know ‘those from whom [we] learned’ the faith (83-84).

Now, of course, it is important to recognise that ordination does not guarantee that the faith is preserved at is handed down. Only the Spirit of God can do this. But the structures of the Church are there to maintain order and provide accountability, particularly as authority is only granted to its ministers following a time of preparation and examination. And because of that, ordination certainly helps to ensure that the faith is preserved.

Hooker on the edifying power of liturgy and symbol

What was the key concern of the English Reformation? Different people will give different answers, of course, but Bradford W. Littlejohn, in his recent companion to Richard Hooker, argues that ‘the root concern…was edification’ (35, emphasis his). He continues:

The dissenters in the…1560s were not just being stubbornly nitpicky. They knew that the Reformation in England was an exceedingly fragile thing, having nearly been extinguished by the five-year reign of Mary, and in danger of withering again should the political climate again become unfavourable. If it was to take deep root, the mass of the people must be truly converted and trained in the new faith (35).

One of the most divisive debates in this period was the question of how the people of England would be edified. From the point of view of the shape of corporate worship, many Puritans would argue that to grow in this new faith required nothing less than a complete break with the old ways of doing things.

Given that these masses were liable to be influenced as much by visual symbolism as by explicit teaching, a truly reformed church must work to root out the visual markers of continuity with the Roman church, which might continue to lead the ignorant astray. If the priest still wore more or less the same garments, and followed much the same order of service, and still used the sign of the cross, etc., many churchgoers would assume that not much of great significance had changed. This was all the more so given that good Protestant preaching was hard to come by; most ministers were uneducated, and often had to serve multiple parishes, overseen by bishops with overwhelming administrative responsibilities (35-36).

In this context, many Puritans turned to Scripture in the belief that it contained ‘the details of worship and church order’ (36). For those who used Scripture in this way, ‘it was no longer a matter of merely requesting the freedom for the minister to omit unedifying ceremonies as he sees fit, but insisting on his obligation to resist any unbiblical ceremonies’ (36-37). At its most extreme, Littlejohn notes that it ‘threatened to impose…a new legalistic burden: instead of “nothing but what is in Scripture may be required for belief” it was now “nothing but what is in Scripture may be used or believed”’ (37, emphasis his).

This was one of the concerns Hooker directly addressed in his Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity; his work was not merely about demonstrating the legitimacy of the structure and worship of the English church, ‘but that it is actively edifying to the spiritual health of the people’ (39). Littlejohn points to Hooker’s doctrine of correspondences, which helps to illuminate the point. One of the basic principles underlying Hooker’s defence of the liturgy and worship of the church was that, being ‘creatures of sense, we need sensible aids to help our souls rise to the contemplation of divine things’ (169). Outward signs, insofar as they resembled and corresponded to their inward realities, would guide and direct worshippers, deepening their faith in Christ and belief in the gospel. Hooker writes,

If we affect him not far above and before all things, our religion hath not that inward perfection which it should have, neither do we indeed worship him as our God. That which inwardly each man should be, the Church outwardly ought to testify. And therefore the duties of our religion which are seen must be such as that affection which is unseen ought to be. Signs must resemble the things they signify. If religion bear the greatest sway in our hearts, our outward religious duties must show it, as far as the Church hath outward ability. Duties of religion performed by the whole societies of men, ought to have in them according to our power a sensible excellency, correspondent to the majesty of him whom we worship. Yea then are the public duties of religion best ordered, when the militant Church doth resemble by sensible means, as it may in such chases, the hidden dignity and glory wherewith the Church triumphant in heaven is beautified (Laws, V.6.2, quoted in Littlejohn, 169-170).

Yet Hooker was clear that symbol and ritual were not themselves a means of sanctification and edification. Certainly, ‘in the act of public worship, the visible church symbolically enacts the believer’s inward worship of God, and indeed aids it’, but ‘outward worship in itself, without the active participation of a conscience yearning after God, does no good’ (170). Hooker would be as critical of those who merely go through the motions of the liturgy as the Puritans were, but unlike them, recognised that the abuse of the liturgy and symbolism in worship did not require these things to be done away with. The issues with the medieval Church were not fundamentally liturgical, but theological.

Thomas Cranmer, in crafting the Book of Common Prayer, recognised the wisdom of the Church’s tradition in the forms of worship the English Reformers inherited. That is why he did not do away with them, but instead reformed their content so that the liturgy would communicate the truth of Scripture. And Hooker would staunchly defend this reformed liturgy. Far from leading people astray, the worship of the church, proclaiming the gospel through its words, and giving substance to its hope through its symbolism and sacramentality, was necessary for the edification of its members and their formation as disciples of Christ.

For Anglicans following in the footsteps of Cranmer and Hooker, this continues to be true today.

Christians are not called to fill their time with church activities

Bruce Reed’s The Dynamics of Religion is a fascinating psycho-social study of the role of religion in enabling people to live in and face the realities of the world and contribute in meaningful ways to society. Reed draws heavily on a psychological model of oscillation, a theory positing that humans regularly cycle between stages of extra-dependence and intra-dependence, and argues that the liturgy and collective worship of the Church function as a stage of extra-dependence for Christians who are out living and working in the world each week. Their ability to contribute to the flourishing of the worlds they inhabit depends on whether corporate worship meets the needs of the extra-dependence stage.

Proper worship – and Reed rather unapologetically considers the 1662 Book of Common Prayer Communion service to meet the criteria for ‘proper’ worship – is essential if Christians are to face the world of their experience and live faithfully within it. For Reed, whether or not an act of worship meets the needs of the worshipper in extra-dependence is

manifested in its results – in the welfare of the social system in which it is practised, and in the development of that social system in response to the challenge of new conditions, its enrichment, its enlightenment and its enjoyment… Our conclusions must always submit to the test of what happens outside the church… Members of the local church…had better concentrate on worshipping God in church and on the priestly and pastoral work which promotes this, so that outside they will be prepared to become wholly absorbed in being occupied with the affairs of humanity (112-113).

If the purpose of worship, then, is to meet the needs of believers in extra-dependence and equip them for the stage of intra-dependence, why is so much of the Church’s life taken up with extra activities, Reed asks? From social events to Bible studies to institutional boards and programmes, ‘we need to ask why the churches in our time sprouted these multifarious activities when compared with churches from past centuries’ (114). Reed theorises that in a post-Christendom age, the Church demands more of its members as it becomes one institution among many others competing for people’s loyalties. Thus this proliferation of groups and activities serves both a manifest and a latent function:

The manifest function of the activities of the local church apart from those devoted to worship, the preaching of the Word and the ministry of the sacraments, and pastoral care in times of transition or crisis, is to edify and maintain the members of the church, but their latent function may be to preserve it against assaults and erosions caused by forces originating from the environment (115).

But this attempt to protect the members of the Church, Reed notes, prevents a church from fulfilling its proper function, ‘to facilitate the oscillation process in order that the social environment might exhibit the marks of well-being and development’ (115). He concludes that

the function of the local church which facilitates interaction with the environment is of more importance than the function which turns the church members in on themselves, however spiritual and worthy those activities may be. In this light, the present day activist church programmes are more like reactions to contemporary pluralistic sub-cultures than the growth of new insights into the mission of the people of God (115).

I have been in – and, I must not fail to add, benefited in many ways from – contexts where the activities of a particular parish or local church can easily absorb a person’s non-working life. Even in those times free from organised activities, parishioners are often encouraged to be in each other’s homes, continuing to deepen their fellowship. On the one hand, I understand the concern many churches have that life spent outside the body of believers, with the exception of that given over to evangelism, can have a corrosive effect. But at the same time, I think what Reed says has much to commend; to borrow from Alexander Schmemann, the Church exists for the life of the world, not for itself.

The key then, for Reed, is the liturgy. His argument is not that we abandon all the activities of church life, only that we reassess the demands our churches place on parishioners’ lives and whether those are detrimental to their calling to make known the presence of the kingdom of God in all their spheres of life. What is most important is that the content of our worship be carefully examined. If we are going to pray at the end of each service, ‘Send us out in the power of your Spirit to live and work to your praise and glory’, then the Church needs to work to ensure its worship adequately equips believers to do just that. In this way, we can be confident that what we receive in the stage of extra-dependence will form us and sustain us for the stage of intra-dependence.

There is much more to say here; I would be particularly interested, for example, to know what Reed would think of what Rod Dreher has termed the ‘Benedict Option‘. But the point is simply that churches must release Christians to fulfil their calling to make known the kingdom. And if we truly believe that God is at work through the means of grace, we should be willing to let them go, confident that the Spirit that has worked in them will also work through them.