Chasing a mirage

The word [hebel] normally refers to warm air, briefly visible as water molecules contained in it condense when it cools. A larger body of warm air, such as mist, can remain visible for a longer time. It is a visual metaphor. Mist appears to be more substantial than it is (ephemerality), soon disappears (transience) and hides objects behind it, obscuring reality from view (illusoriness). All of these aspects of mist are especially prominent in the metaphorical use of the word hebel: its usage to describe the optical phenomenon of "mirages". The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary defines mirages as "an optical illusion caused by atmospheric conditions through the refraction of light in hot air", giving the following example: "the false appearance of a distant sheet of water in a desert". Figuratively, the word "mirage" can also mean "an illusion, a fantasy". The majority of the occurrences of the word hebel in the OT carry the meaning of "mirage", referring either to an optical illusion or to an illusion in general. In Ecclesiastes, all occurrences of the word hebel refer to an illusion. Knut Martin Heim, Ecclesiastes: An Introduction and Commentary (IVP 2019), Introduction, §5. 

As a native of the Middle East, the narrator and his audience would be familiar with mirages. This doesn't mean the narrator regards the world as illusory, like Eastern philosophy. But a mirage has a twofold effect; on the one hand an observer can't see the reality beyond the mirage. He can't see around or through the mirage. Although there's an objective reality on the other side of the mirage, the optics block the view so that an observer can't see what lies behind it. On the other hand, what the observer does see is unreal. The mirage is an optical illusion. So what can be seen is unreal while what is real can't be seen. That's the paradox. 

Assuming the narrator is exploiting the full connotations of the metaphor, our experience of the world is illusory in some degree. Things are not always as they seem. Appearances are deceptive. What we perceive is superficial and sometimes misleading. But it remains enigmatic because we're in no position to compare it to the underlying reality. An attentive observer like the narrator will discern that something is off, something doesn't make sense, but he lacks the God's-eye viewpoint to discern the correct explanation. There's a larger reality over and above sublunary events, but providence can be baffling. Everything happens according to a master plan, but it remains largely hidden from human view. Only divine revelation can dispel the mirage. Enough of the plan surfaces from time to time to disclose a plan, but too much stays out of sight to figure out the whole or the goal.  

The outlook of Ecclesiastes reflects the narrator's historical position in progressive revelation. I still think Solomon is the best candidate for authorship (a position recently defended by John Currid in his commentary). Christians know more about God's plan than OT sages like Solomon. But it's a matter of degree. Even for Christians, the way we experience the world is still filtered through a mirage. We can't remove the screen. We must use the map of Scripture rather than our own eyesight and insight to find our way through the desert to the eternal oasis. Unbelievers chase the illusory oasis until they die of thirst, lost in the labyrinth of the sand dunes. 

Living like an atheist

Life in a fallen world is full of paradox. Here's another: on the one hand, many atheists live as though the world was designed by God. Many embrace the effects of a world made by God while denying the divine cause. Many believe in right and wrong. Many think human reason is trustworthy. Many think human life is valuable.

On the other hand, God makes some Christians live as if there is no God. God makes it seem as though they're living in a godless universe. God is silent. They pray in vain–or so it seems. They are forced to live like an atheist in the sense that the outward circumstances of their lives seem bereft of God's felt presence or benevolence. No sign of his intercession. They must live as Christians, must live by faith, despite the dark night of the soul. A night without a dawn. They wait for first light as they stagger in the dark. 

I.Q. and paradox

Unlike many Christians, I don't find the Trinity or Incarnation paradoxical, although they are inevitably mysterious to some degree. Some Christians are too quick to resort to mystery or paradox to justify their positions. Transubstantiation is a textbook example. 

But having said all that, there's nothing essentially suspect about the idea of mystery or paradox in Christian theology. To begin with, human intelligence ranges along a continuum. As a result, things that are incomprehensible to some humans are comprehensible to other humans.

However, it's more complex than that, and in an interesting way. There are different kinds of intelligence, so you can have equally smart people who aren't equally smart about the same things. Roger Penrose and Edward Witten are far greater mathematicians than Einstein, yet they haven't made a breakthrough at all comparable to Einstein. Moreover, the basis for his breakthrough was picturesque thought-experiments. He had a knack for visualizing problems in physics. He could translate them into graphic analogies.

Great chess players can intuit a winning strategy in a way that average chess players cannot. Some humans have a particular insight that others lack. Some humans have a knack for solving intellectual puzzles.  Some mathematicians specialize in number theory while others specialize in geometry. According to The Cambridge Companion to Newton, Leibniz was an algebraist while Newton was a geometer.

Let's assume for argument's sake that the Trinity and Incarnation are paradoxical. But as I just demonstrated, and the demonstration could be easily expanded by citing additional examples, it's quite reasonable to suppose that if humans were more intelligent, or not even more intelligent, but had a different kind of intelligence, they wouldn't find the Trinity or Incarnation paradoxical. There are many examples in human experience where what's baffling to one thinker is obvious to another thinker. And it's not necessarily a difference in IQ. Even at genius level intelligence, there are different intellectual aptitudes. There's musical genius and artistic genius. What's impenetrable to one kind of intelligence may be transparent to another. As such, there are many analogies in human experience to warrant the contention that, even assuming the Trinity and Incarnation to be paradoxical, that's because we either lack sufficient intelligence or the right kind of intelligence to discern it. That's not invoking a special kind of justification for Christian doctrine, because that's easily paralleled in human experience. 

Gored by the horns of a dilemma

In response to a post of mine, apostate Dale Tuggy said:

What folks like Steve here imagine to be obvious to the reader - that Jesus is claiming to be the one God, the god of Israel - was not obvious to Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, Tertullian, Origen, etc. - all of whom explicitly hold the one God to be the Father - not the Trinity, not Jesus, and not the Logos. What not obvious right away to careful, smart, informed readers, is just not obvious in a text! 

We know that the 'logos' theorists of the 100s and 200s held the logos to explicitly be 'another god,' 'a second god' (or: a second 'god' - see the difference?), and less than the one God in (for various authors) power, knowledge, authority, divinity, and even (for theorists before Origen) less old than him, having come into existence.

I've already responded to this at length, but I'd like to approach it from a different angle:

1. I didn't claim that the deity of Christ is "obvious" in every NT writing. And my position doesn't require that.

2. But if we're going to cast the issue in those terms, then Dale's argument is counterproductive. It isn't that they thought just one thing was obvious–rather, they thought two things were obvious, and they were struggling to harmonize them. On the one hand they thought Scripture obviously teaches monotheism, while on the other hand they thought Scripture obviously teaches the divinity of Christ. 

Even by Dale's own admission, they obviously didn't think Jesus was just a human male. That's not how you characterize "another god" or a "second god". So their position is far removed from Dale's humanitarian unitarianism. 

3. Let's put this is a larger context. In principle, there are several different strategies for dealing with dilemmas:

i) You can affirm the dilemma. You can say this is paradox that surpasses human reason. There's nothing we can do to mitigate the tension. That's the position of Christians like John Owen and James Anderson.

However, you can defend it by saying that if we have good reason to believe both horns of a dilemma, then we're warranted in affirming both horns even if that generates a dilemma. Moreover, you can say that high Christology is not exceptional in this regard. Paradox is commonplace in physics, mathematics, and logic. 

ii) You can affirm both horns of the dilemma, but deny that it's a dilemma. You can marshal arguments to relieve the tension. You demonstrate (to your own satisfaction) that it's not paradoxical.

iii) You can deny the dilemma by denying one horn of the dilemma. There are Christological heresies that say Jesus was apparently human but really divine, or–conversely–that Jesus was apparently divine but really human.

iv) You can relieve the tension by relativizing both horns of the dilemma. Take a chain-of-being ontology in which divinity is quantitative rather than qualitative. Trees have more divinity than rocks, animals have more divinity than trees, humans have more divinity than animals, angels have more divinity than humans, while the Son has more divinity than angels but less divinity than the Father. It's a matter of degree rather than kind. Gradations of divinity. That works in Neoplatonism. What makes God differ from creatures is that God has more God stuff than creatures. It's not an absolute categorical distinction. 

That's what the logos-theorists seem to be doing. On the one hand they affirm monotheism, but not in the absolute monadic sense (e.g. Maimonides, Al-Ghazali) . On the other hand they affirm the deity of Christ, but not in the absolute sense of co-equality, auto-theos (e.g. Helm, Warfield). It's a mediating position. A compromise position.

4. Finally, the NT is addressed to Jews and gentiles alike, but that presents a challenge. Gentiles had no objection to affirming the divinity of Christ, but the danger is to recast that in polytheistic terms. (The same problem persists today when evangelizing Hindus.) So the NT uses traditional monotheistic language, which reaffirms OT theism, yet it then extends that exclusive language to Jesus. NT writers have to strike a balance to avoid falling into either one of two opposing errors. Using traditional formulations that exclude polytheism while including Jesus within the same formulations. That generates a prima facie dilemma, yet the NT is not an exercise in philosophical theology, but a witness to history in the self-revelation of divine action. 

Quantum Catholicism

Some Catholics cope with Pope Francis by taking the position that even if he's a heretic, that's not too big of a deal so long as his heretical views are just his private option rather than dogma.

But of course, that poses a dilemma. What if Francis makes his heresies official? Then they cease to be heretical. Yesterday's heresy can be tomorrow's orthodoxy while yesterday's orthodoxy can be tomorrow's heresy. 

Catholicism is akin to theological voluntarism in that respect. According to voluntarism, nothing is intrinsically right or wrong. It depends on God's arbitrary fiat.

In Catholicism, something isn't heretical unless it's officially heretical. It's heretical if an ecumenical council condemns it. 

Catholicism is like Schrödinger's cat, suspended in a state of superposition where it's both dead and alive until someone opens the box and peers inside. 

Francis is a heretic until he make it official, at which point it becomes dogma. 

O Magnum Mysterium

Mystery is a standard category in Christian theology, although different theological traditions have different theories regarding the relationship between faith and reason. 

Typically, what's mysterious and what's understandable are treated as opposites. Insofar as something is mysterious, it's incomprehensible–and insofar as it's incomprehensible, it's mysterious. And there are examples where that dichotomy applies. On that view, what's mysterious defies human reason. 

However, sometimes mystery and comprehensibility are reciprocally connected. Sometimes the same thing can simultaneously be both more and less mysterious. Let's start with a mundane example. Suppose I'm hiking on a scenic trail. I never did that trail before. I don't know what to expect, beyond it's scenic reputation. At the outset the journey is mysterious.

As I hike along the trail, I don't know what lies beyond the next bend or over the next hill. Once I get over the next hill and see it from the other side, it ceases to be mysterious in that regard. What lies behind is known, while what lies ahead is unknown. 

However, resolving each mystery creates new mystery. When I started out, I had no notion of what lay along the trail. No inkling how many hills I had to scale. 

Suppose the trail has ten hills. Thus far I had to climb three hills. So I now know the trail has at least three hills, and I now know what's on the other side. From that vantage point I see a fourth hill. But I couldn't see the second hill until I got over the first hill, I couldn't see the third hill until I got over the second hill, and so forth. 

Suppose I approach the fourth hill. What lies over the fourth hill is a new mystery, because I didn't know before I got to that point that there even was a fourth hill. S the known creates the background for the unknown. What I now know creates the context for a new mystery. It's because of where I am, in relation to what lies ahead and behind, that each discovery resolves one mystery while it opens up new vistas of mystery. More unexplored terrain. 

Or suppose I began my hike at the other end of the trail, moving in reverse direction. In that event, mysteries unfold in a different order. And the view is different.

Or take reading a novel. Initially, you may have no idea what to expect. The more you read, the more you understand, in terms of plot and characters up to that point in the story, but the less you understand because you don't know where it's heading. That sparks curiosity about what happens next. There are no surprises in terms of what you already read, but that's the setup for new surprises when you turn the page. So mystery and perception play off of each other in a dialectical arrangement. 

If something is a discrete, finite object of knowledge, then it may be possible to exhaust everything that can be known about it, since there's only so much to be known. In that case, understanding nullifies mystery. The better I understand, the less mysterious the topic. 

But in many cases, answers to old questions raise new questions. There are some questions we don't think to ask because, at that stage of inquiry, we don't know enough to ask them. Questions imply ignorance, but by the same token, they require some background knowledge. You have to know something to know what to ask.When you learn something, that may resolve an old mystery, but it may also raise new questions that weren't possible before you knew more about the subject. 

In addition, even if something is a finite object of knowledge, yet in a world where everything is directly or indirectly interrelated, even finite topics may be inexhaustible when you begin to consider how they fan out into other topics. In the study of nature, understanding one thing is a never-ending journey, because each thing is interwoven with other things in a vast tapestry that's continuously woven.  

Then you have domains like pure mathematics, which are infinite in all directions. If you have mathematical aptitude, as you study problems in math, you may solve them, but progressive understanding eliminates some mysteries by advancing you into ever deeper stages of mystery. You have to know enough to appreciate new problems in math. 

To the extent that we grasp God's nature and ways, our understanding opens doors into new corridors of mystery. There's less mystery insofar as we know more than when we began, but there's more mystery insofar as our comprehension at any given stage makes us aware of things that are perplexing in relation to what we now know. As we gain understanding, that changes the frame of reference, which, in turn, exposes us to new puzzles and brain teasers. That process gets going in this life but carries over into the next life. And everlasting safari of exploration into the undiscovered country of God's fathomless nature and imagination. 

Windows into the Trinity

Indexical perspectives are a striking feature of human experience. For instance, the starting-point of science is the first-person perspective of an observer. But science attempts to translate that indexical perspective into an objective third-person description. 

If the Trinity is true, then the one God has three first-person viewpoints. Father and Son are objective to the Spirit, Son and Spirit are objective to the Father, Father and Spirit are objective to the Son. 

Unitarians say that's contradictory. Christians say that's a revealed mystery or paradox. Unitarians say that's euphemistic language to camouflage special pleading. 

An analogous indexical perspective is the insider/outsider dichotomy.  For instance, an observer can stand inside a house, viewing the outside through a window. Or the same observer can stand outside a house, viewing the inside through a window. Or an observer can stand outside, viewing another outside object. Or an observer can stand inside, viewing another inside object. But we typically think of viewing something from the inside out as contrary to viewing something from the outside in. You can experience both at different times, but you can't experience both at the same time, because these represent opposing physical positions. You can't be in two different places at once, so you can't simultaneously experience an insider as well as outsider viewpoint. Or can you?

On one occasion I was sitting in church. The sanctuary had the traditional cruciform design. I was sitting in the back of the transept, next to a corner window. From my seat, I could look outside. 

In addition, there was a corner window in the nave, at right angles to the window beside me. Sitting in the transept, I could see the nave through that window. From the inside I was looking outside back into the inside. So I simultaneously enjoyed an insider and outsider viewpoint. 

If I made that bare claim without providing the context, it might seem paradoxical or contradictory. But with a bit of additional information, it relieves the apparent contradiction. My point is that something which seems to be hopelessly contradictory may in fact be consistent, even simply so, if we see it in relation to a larger context. Just because a proposition appears to be incoherent doesn't mean there's even a presumption of actual incoherence. 

The argument from ignorance

Atheists often mock the Christian appeal to mystery or paradox. They think that's intellectually evasive. A cop-out.

Before getting to the main point, I'd note that mystery and paradox are not synonymous. A logical paradox is mysterious, but a mystery isn't necessarily paradoxical. 

On a related note, atheists accuse Christians of resorting to an argument from ignorance or God-of-the gaps. However, in other contexts, atheists appeal to mystery. For instance, some atheists say we may never be able to explain the naturalistic origin of life because we don't have enough physical evidence about primordial conditions to reconstruct the distant past in that regard. In principle, we could explain the origin of life naturalistically if we had enough trace evidence to reconstruct the initial conditions, but that may be lost. 

More dramatically, some atheists say we find quantum mechanics baffling because our simian brains were not evolved to understand that sort of thing. That kind of intelligence didn't confer a survival advantage on the ancient African savannas for our early ancestors. So natural selection didn't develop brains that have the cognitive ability to resolve quantum mechanical paradoxes. In that event, it's something we can't figure out even in principle. Human reason is too limited. It hits a ceiling.

Likewise, there may be problems in math that are humanly insoluble. Once again, our simian brains evolved to solve more practical problems. So we hit a wall. 

Common grace and paradox

I recently linked toDavid Engelsma's review of a new biography about Gordon Clark:

https://douglasdouma.wordpress.com/2017/03/03/david-engelsma-reviews-the-presbyterian-philosopher/

While I agree with some of what Engelsma says, there are times when his bias clouds his judgment:

i) The CRC has been on the skids for decades, as has Calvin College and Seminary. 

However, at the time of the Clark Controversy, I believe Louis Berkhof was the nemesis of Herman Hoeksema. It would be absurd to suggest that Berkhof doesn't represent authentic Reformed theology. Moreover, the CRC continued to have orthodox representation in later figures like Anthony Hoekema. 

ii) In addition, the OPC, which was founded over 80 years ago, hasn't followed the downward spiral of the CRC. To the contrary, it's maintained an impressive degree of theological stability and conservativism despite changing hands so often.

iii) Although liberals in the OT department at Westminster Seminary were in danger of adulterating the orthodox stance of the seminary, that trend was recently reversed under new administration, and the reversal enjoyed significant support from other departments of the seminary. So Engelsma's predictive trajectory is unreliable. 

iv) Perhaps owing to his age, Engelsma's attack on theological paradox is rather dated. If you're going to attack the principle of theological paradox, a better foil would be the more recent and rigorous formulations by James Anderson. 

I myself don't find Christian theology paradoxical, although it inevitably has dimensions that exceed human comprehension. 

v) Engelsma seems to be oblivious to the fact that Clark's theology became increasingly eccentric in his later years. Flirtations with idealism and occasionalism. Dubious formulations of the Trinity and the hypostatic union. A Sandemanian definition of saving faith. Necessitarianism regarding the creation of the world. 

Moreover, some of these aberrations represent the outworking of his disdain for sense knowledge. 

vi) He fails to mention that Norman Shepherd's views got him fired from Westminster. 

vii) He doesn't bother to explain how the Federal Vision is the logical outworking of theological paradox and/or common grace. 

Invariably, indeed necessarily, the truth being, in fact, rigorously logical, the doctrine of universal, ineffectual grace in the “paradox” drives out the doctrine of particular, sovereign grace.

i) Common grace is not ineffectual. Rather, it serves the purpose for which God intended it.

ii) Common grace is something of a catch-all category, so assessing the claim depends on which elements are included in the package. I prefer the position of Paul Helm and William Young to John Murray in this respect. 

iii) Since, moreover, it denotes something different from saving grace, it's misleading and confusing to use the same designation ("grace") for both. But, unfortunately, that's the standard label.  

Under the influence of Westminster Seminary, the OPC has approved a covenant theology that expressly denies all the doctrines of grace of the Westminster Standards, including justification by faith alone, with special reference to the children of believers.

I'd like to see documentation for that sweeping allegation. 

Crosslinguistic influence

Yet this is not the whole truth of the matter. We do assert that God, that is, the whole Godhead, is one person…. In other words, we are bound to maintain the identity of the attributes of God with the being of God in order to avoid the specter of brute fact.” 

…Over against all other beings, that is over against created beings, we must therefore hold that God’s being presents an absolute numerical identity. And even within the the ontological Trinity we must maintain that God is numerically one. He is one person. We we say that we believe in a personal God we do not merely mean that we believe in a God to whom the adjective “personality” may be attached. God is not an essence that has personality; He is absolute personality. Yet, within the being of the one person we are permitted and compelled by Scripture to make the distinction between a specific or generic type of being, and three personal subsistences.

—Cornelius Van Til, An Introduction to Systematic Theology (1971).

i) This wasn't Van Til's finest hour. It's a bad way of making a good point. The basic point, I take it, is that the Triune God isn't three persons stuck onto an impersonal essence. Rather, God is personal through-and-through. 

However, Van Til's formulation, as it stands, is contradictory and unorthodox. 

ii) So what was Van Til thinking? What did he put it that way? And is it possible to gives his statement a coherent, orthodox sense?

This may be a case of crosslinguistic influence. To begin with, English was not Van Til's first language. 

An example of crosslinguistic influence is the fact that the sense of some NT words is based, not on secular Greek, but on OT Hebrew filtered through the LXX. What David Hill calls Greek words with Hebrew meanings.

By the same token, it's possible that Van Til is using "person" in the sense of "hypostasis. That's a standard term in Trinitarian usage. And it's a flexible term, because it can mean both "person" and "substance." 

Suppose we were to substitute "hypostasis" for "person" in Van Til's statement. Suppose Van Til said "God is one hypostasis and three hypostases."

That could mean "God is one substance and three persons." That's both coherent and orthodox. 

If he's using the same word with the same intended sense throughout, then the statement is contradictory and unorthodox. If, however, he's using the same word with alternating senses, then the statement could be logically consistent and theologically orthodox.

It doesn't really work in idiomatic English. It only succeeds on the assumption that he's using "person" as a synonym for "hypostasis." 

A dilemma for Scripturalism

In my experience, Scripturalist epistemology is infallibilist and internalist. I think both have philosophical antecedents in Descartes.

The danger lurking in this brand of epistemology is the specter of self-delusion. Recently, I had this exchange with a Scripturalist. He said: 

If this task can be so performed, how can one verify the reliability of these propositions?  The empiricists usually admit that hallucinations and dreams are unreliable. 

To which I replied:

When Scripturalists appeal to the Bible, how can they verify that they are reading the Bible rather than hallucinating or dreaming about a "Bible" that's not the real Bible?

Doesn't this pose an intractable dilemma for the Scripturalist? His epistemology depends on having intellectual access to the word of God embodied in Scripture.

But given his general skepticism, how can a Scripturalist be internally justified in his belief if he can't exclude the possibility that the "Bible" on which he relies might be a hallucination? And how can he rule that out, given his epistemology?

If he already had access to the Bible, that would be a benchmark. But he can't appeal directly to the Bible to prove that he's not self-deluded about his source of information, for that would be viciously circular. If he were self-deluded, if the "Bible" he relies on is a hallucination, rather than the real Bible, then that can't correct his delusion, for t hat's the very source of his delusion! 

The stone paradox

i) Can an omnipotent being make a stone so heavy that he can't lift it? The stone paradox takes the form of a dilemma:

Either God can make a stone that he can't lift, or he can't make a stone that he can't lift. 

If he can make a stone that he can't lift, then he's not omnipotent (inasmuch as he can't lift the stone).

If he can't make a stone that he can't lift, then he's not omnipotent (inasmuch as he can't make it). 

Either way, there's something he can't do. So whether you answer yes or no, God is not omnipotent. 

ii) Of course, this may be a false dilemma. If the proposed task is really a pseudotask, then inability to perform a pseudotask is not a limitation on omnipotence. Rather, it's disguised sophistry. 

iii) Sometimes the debate turns on the definition of omnipotence. There are many things I can do that God can't. For instance, I can sneeze, but God can't. Is that a problem for omnipotence–or for a silly definition of omnipotence? 

iv) Apropos (iii), if God chooses to work through natural means, then that's a self-imposed limitation on what he can do. Natural means are finite. Natural means have inherent limitations. If he chooses to work through natural means, then his chosen medium limits what he can do. 

God can work apart from means. He's not limited to means. 

v) As formulated, the paradox has anthropomorphic connotations. God can't lift a stone the way a man can lift a stone. God doesn't lift a stone through muscular exertion, or pulleys, or a crane. Perhaps we should substitute a less anthropomorphic verb like "levitate." 

vi) Lifting is a twofold relation:

a) Moving an object from one place to another

b) Moving an object from a lower to a higher position

vii) If the stone is the size of the universe, then it can't move, for it occupies all the available space. It can't shift from one location to another if it takes up all the free space. There's nowhere for it to go. A stone the size of the physical universe is immovable. It can't change position. There's no room for the stone to be displaced. 

viii) Likewise, lifting something presumes a frame of reference. To lift something is to pick it up. 

An agent can't lift a stone in outer space, because the stone has no frame of reference in relation to which it's higher or lower.  

Likewise, does it make sense to say an agent can lift a stone off the ground that's bigger than planet earth? In what sense is it higher than a round object if it's the same diameter (or greater) than the round object? Given the curvature of the reference frame, what makes the stone higher rather than sideways or underneath? 

It only makes sense to say it's higher if the earth is flat or the object is so small in relation to the globe that the point of contact is virtually horizontal in relation to the vertical action (raising the stone to a higher position vis-a-vis the ground).    

ix) I assume the strength of the atomic bond (chemical bonding) naturally limits on how big a physical object can be. I assume there's an upper limit on how large a stone can be. Beyond a certain threshold, the attractive force is too weak to keep the atoms and molecules from shearing. 

Although God could make a miraculously large stone, that interjects equivocation into the paradox. It's not a real stone. By "stone," we usually mean a natural object. 

Wheels within wheels

Christian artists and commentators often scratch their heads over the wheels in Ezekiel's inaugural vision of the theophany in chapter 1. They find it perplexing to visualize how the wheels mesh. There could be two possible explanations for their perplexity:

i) Maybe Ezekiel hasn't furnished enough specific information to enable us to visualize the wheels. If we just had more detailed description, it would suddenly become clear–even obvious. 

ii) Perhaps, though, there really is something incoherent about the wheels. This is, after all, a vision. These aren't physical wheels. Rather, the theophany is a play of light. So the wheels could be an optical illusion. 

M. C. Escher devised witty and ingenious depictions of impossible spatial arrangements. It seems counterintuitive that we could see something that's impossible, yet Escher pulls it off. 

iii) Assuming that what Ezekiel saw confounds sense and reason, that may point to the mystery of the Godhead. Even when God reveals himself, there are dimensions to God's nature which remain concealed to human understanding. 

Compare canine intelligence to human intelligence. Dogs can understand some of the same things humans can. Yet there are many things we can understand that are utterly incomprehensible to a dog. Canine intelligence is quite limited. And just as a dog quickly hits a cognitive wall, so do we. 

The paradox of faith and infidelity

7 Therefore, as the Holy Spirit says,
“Today, if you hear his voice,
8
do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion,
    on the day of testing in the wilderness,
9
where your fathers put me to the test
    and saw my works for forty years.
19 So we see that they were unable to enter because of unbelief.
2 For good news came to us just as to them, but the message they heard did not benefit them, because they were not united by faith with those who listened (Heb 3:7-9,18; 4:2).
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. 3 By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible. 7 By faith Noah, being warned by God concerning events as yet unseen… 13 These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar… 27 By faith he left Egypt, not being afraid of the anger of the king, for he endured as seeing him who is invisible (Heb 11:1,3,7,13,27).

Heb 11 invites an implicit comparison and contrast with Heb 3-4. I think the author likely intends us to read Heb 11 against the backdrop of Heb 3-4. These are two groups of people. In a sense, two types of people. 

And the author presents a paradoxical twofold contrast between them. On the one hand, the Exodus generation did far less with greater evidence while the faithful did far more with lesser evidence.

In other words, it's not that both groups basically had the same evidence, but one responded in faith while the other responded with disbelief. It's not just a contrast between the faithful and the faithless. For there's an irony to the contrast. Those who do so much less with so much more over against those who do so much more with so much less.

On the one hand, the Exodus generation witnessed God's miraculous works over a span of 40 years. The plagues. Passage through the Red Sea. Manna from heaven. Water from rocks. The pillar of fire. Signs on Mt. Sinai. As well as miraculous judgments when they sinned. They had sustained exposure to God's existence, presence, and power. God's public miracles. Spectacular miracles. Repeated miracles. Yet they remain faithless from start to finish.

On the other hand, the faithful generally have less evidence to work with. Oblique evidence. Or even apparent counterevidence.

The Exodus generation saw plenty, but believed little. The faithful see nothing directly, yet they forge ahead, one step at a time.

For instance, the creation is visible, but the Creator is invisible. The source of the world is the invisible word of the invisible God. 

And even though words are audible, the author's audience wasn't present during the creation week to hear God's creative word. They can only judge by the effect as well as the written record.

Even more to the point, they live by hope and faith in God's promise. But the reward is invisible. That's because the promised reward is a postmortem reward. The living cannot see it. It is out of sight because you must die before it comes into view. 

They live in the present with a view to the future. But the future is naturally unforeseeable. You can't see the future with physical eyes. By revelation, God can give you a preview, yet most Christians must muddle along without that foresight. Instead, they live in hope. 

But it's not just the inevident nature of the reward. There are obstacles to faith. Challenges to the faithful. Persecution. Set-backs. 

But unlike the ill-fated Exodus-generation, the faithful press ahead. Persevere. Cross the finish-line. 

Prophetic science

Here's one objection which unbelievers sometimes raise to the Bible: if the Bible was truly inspired, it ought to contain examples of prophetic science. God should inspire some Bible writers to make scientifically prescient observations. That would prove the Bible is divinely inspired. Instead, the Bible doesn't say anything over and above what ancient writers would normally know, or not know, given their prescientific outlook.

i) One problem with this objection is that it diverts attention away from actual evidence for the Bible by demanding a different kind of evidence. 

ii) It also overlooks the argument from prophecy. If the argument from prophecy is sound, then that's evidence of something which goes beyond what ancient writers could naturally know. 

iii) But let's address the objection head-on. The objection runs afoul of time-travel paradoxes. In one familiar version, a time-traveler goes back into the past. He inadvertently gives people back then a preview of some scientific discovery or technological breakthrough, thereby kickstarting the scientific development of the ancient civilization. However, giving them advance knowledge of modern science changes the future. His action generates a different timeline, which replaces the previous timeline. But in that event, did the future he came from ever exist? An atheist who faults the Bible for lacking prophetic science is implicated in the same retrocausal incoherence. 

Paraducks in Christian Theology

Cashing in on the Duck Dynasty hit, A&E has signed James Anderson and Greg Welty to star in a spinoff: Paraducks in Christian Theology. Dr. Anderson will be sporting a costume beard.

Canine theology

Self-styled rationalists attack the Christian faith on putatively grounds. This takes various forms. They attack the logic of the Trinity. They attack the logic of the Incarnation. They attack the morality of predestination, penal substitution, original sin, justification by faith, male headship, special redemption, everlasting punishment, the execution of the Canaanites, &c.

Their objections boil down to the position that “If I were God, this is what I’d do instead,” or, “If there were a God, this is what he’d really be like.”

I’d like to make one small, but significant observation. Rationalists are viewing God through the wrong end of the telescope. What’s remarkable is not that we understand so little about God, but that we understand so much. We understand God far better than we have any antecedent reason to expect.

God isn’t human. God isn’t a creature. God is inconceivably great. A different kind of being. Given the categorical difference between God and man, it’s remarkable that we are able to understand as divine revelation as well as we do.

Science fiction movies about intelligent aliens are always a letdown because the alien mind invariably bears an unmistakable resemblance to the mind of a Hollywood screenwriter. Intelligent aliens, however advanced, can never be smarter than the screenwriter. Worse, they can never be fundamentally unlike you and me. They can never surpass human imagination. Even gifted science fiction writers can’t make alien characters truly alien, for, in the nature of the case, that would be alien to human experience. We have no alternate frame of reference.

Given the fact that God is so unlike you and me, it’s astonishing that we can understand God at all. Astounding that so much of God’s revelation in word and deed falls within the outer limits of human understanding.

Dogs probably understand humans better than any other subhuman species. But consider how much of what we think and do must be utterly incomprehensible to a dog. Imagine “theology” written from a dog’s perspective.

It would be interesting to compare a canine understanding of the world with a human understanding of the world. They would be so different. Almost incommensurable. Indeed, they are so different that we, as humans, are incapable of ever assuming a dog’s point of view. Not only are dogs far less intelligent than humans, but they experience the world in a radically different way than we do. If sight is the dominant human sense, scent is the dominant canine sense. We have an essentially visual model of the world, whereas a dog has an essentially olfactory model of the world. Two very different ways of representing reality.

Now, someone might object: “You’re just retreating into the trite old ‘mystery’ canard. Playing the last-ditch ‘mystery’ card. God is so far above us, so utterly different, that he’s bound to be unintelligible to us lowly humans.”

But, no, that’s not what I’m saying. Rather, I’m saying it’s quite surprising that in spite of how different God is from us, in spite of how much greater God is than you and me, that we are still able to make as much sense of divine revelation as we do. Far from demanding that divine revelation should be even more comprehensible, we ought to be startled, humbled, and grateful that we know so much.

Positive Mysterianism Undefeated

http://www.proginosko.com/docs/Positive_Mysterianism_Undefeated.pdf

60-Second Adventures in Thought

Trinitarian paradox

True: The Son is God

False: God is the Son