“Reformed Scotism”

John Duns Scotus

In response to my “Reformed Thomism” post, an “Unknown” commenter who identified himself as a “Reformed Scholastic” asked, “can you name one pre-20th century influential Scotistic or nominalistic Reformed theologian?” (he was of course suggesting that scads and scads of Reformed Orthodox writers (those from 1550-1750) were “Thomists”).

As a matter of fact, Muller suggests that it was Scotist influence, rather than Thomist, that shaped the “Orthodox definition of the discipline” of theology. What follows is from Muller, R. A. (2003). Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics: The Rise and Development of Reformed Orthodoxy; Volume 1: Prolegomena to Theology (2nd ed., pp. 222–224). Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic:

In the decade following 1590, a distinction between theologia archetypa, God’s knowledge of himself and his works, and theologia ectypa, creaturely knowledge of God and works, entered the systematic conceptuality of early Reformed orthodoxy. Althaus correctly points to Franciscus Junius’ De theologia vera (1594) as the first work to employ this distinction and to make a threefold division in the theologia ectypa: the theologia unionis, visionis, and viatorum.

Clash of the Titans

Clash of the Titans (2010) ran on TV recently. It’s a remake of the 1981 version. I’ve seen both, although the 1981 version didn’t leave much of a lasting impression.

The 2010 version has some fine actors, and the special effects are obviously far superior. However, it suffers from a weak plot. Basically, it’s a film for boys.

I also can’t say giant computer-generated scorpions are the least bit scary. Indeed, we’ve been subjected to jumbo mutant insects ever since atomic bomb themed B-flicks from the 50s.

The demigods of Greek mythology were among the first superheroes, although they were preceded by Gilgamesh. As a boy I read Greek mythology. Diomedes was my favorite Homeric hero. Comic book superheroes are lineal decedents of the Greek demigods.

The myth of Perseus also has some interesting connections with legend of St. George, as well as Revelation 12, 19-20.

In a sense, Samson is the Biblical counterpart, but that also illustrates the difference. He’s a tragic figure. His physical might can’t save him from his moral weakness. He must lose everything before he can win–achieving in death what he failed to achieve in life.

I think it’s only natural for young boys to identify with superheroes. At the same time, I’m struck by the radical contrast between Greek superheroes and Christian piety.

Christianity is a frank and even desperate admission of our ultimate weakness. Our profound limitations. The things we care most about are the things over which we have the least control. In our helplessness we turn to God in prayer. Even if we had superpowers, we’d be impotent to save ourselves or those we love from what matters most.

It’s fashionable in some fringe circles to claim that Jesus is based on “dying-and-rising savior gods.” And there’s a sense in which Jesus has superhero powers in excelsis.

Yet therein lies the contrast. At the cross, Jesus saves through weakness rather than strength. Surrender rather than combat. Redemption and sanctification can’t be wrought through brute force. 

A Bryan Cross Make-Believe Fairy Tale Bait-And-Switch Story

Regarding Luther’s writings on The Theology of the Cross McGrath continues that … “it is important to appreciate the nature of the context” within which Luther was writing about these things. They date …

from a time when Luther’s life was widely regarded as being already forfeited [at the hand of the great, almighty and “infallible” Church”]. The shadow of the cross darkens the pages of [his work Operationes in Psalmos], as Luther wrestles with the relationship between the suffering of Christ upon the cross and those which he himself expected to undergo in the near future. Where was God in all this? It must never be forgotten that Luther was not speculating about the nature of God in the comfort of a university senior common room: he himself was under the threat of death for his theology, and in this very threat he saw a paradigm of the hiddenness of God’s self-revelation both in Christ and the Christian life. When Luther speaks of mors, tribulatio, passio, and so on, he speaks as one who believed himself to be close to experiencing them in their full terror, and as one who recognized in the grim scene at Calvary the fact that God had worked through such experiences in the past, and would work through them in the future.

I want to comment on the not-so-implicit arrogance that simply oozes from Bryan Cross’s Reformation Day article. He compares the Reformation to the “Occupy Wall Street” protesters (and there’s even a big picture of them). Imagine, he posits, that these protests continued for years,

“during which time the community of protesters divided into different factions, each with different beliefs, different demands, and different leaders. But the protests continued for so long that the protesters eventually built makeshift shanties and lived in them, and had children. These children grew up in the protesting communities, and then they too had children, who also grew up in the same communities of protesters, still encamped in the Wall Street district. Over the course of these generations, however, these communities of protesters forgot what it was that they were protesting.”

He continues with the make-believe:

What if Protestantism in its present form is the fractured remains of a Catholic protest movement that began in 1517, but which has long since forgotten not only what it was protesting, but that it was formed by Catholics, in protest over conditions and practices within the Catholic Church? What if Protestantism has forgotten that its original intention was to return to full communion with the Catholic Church when certain conditions were satisfied?

Well, what were those certain conditions? Martin Luther outlined them in no uncertain terms: “[W]e do not fight and damn them because of their bad lives …. I do not consider myself to be pious. But when it comes to whether one teaches correctly about the word of God, there I take my stand and fight. That is my calling. To contest doctrine has never happened until now. Others have fought over life; but to take on doctrine—that is to grab the goose by the neck! … When the word of God remains pure, even if the quality of life fails us, life is placed in a position to become what it ought. That is why everything hinges on the purity of the Word. I have succeeded only if I have taught correctly.” (Cited by Steven Ozment, “The Age of Reform, 1250–1550: An Intellectual and Religious History of Late Medieval and Reformation Europe” (New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press, 1980), pgs 315-316 (emphasis added).

In the real world, as in Bryan Cross’s make-believe world, the Roman Catholic Church does not “teach correctly about the Word of God”. And no amount of claiming “interpretive” mastery of the Scriptures fixes that.

But Bryan goes further, and puts make-believe limits on this, and note the bait-and switch. He does not then go on to prove that the Roman Catholic Church does “teach correctly about the Word of God”. What he does do is to imply, “Protestants don’t all agree on the correct teaching, therefore Rome’s method is correct.”

Let us begin to look at Bryan’s reasoning this way.

Consider, there is a totally correct way of understanding the Word of God. It is an ideal, whether anyone gets there or not. Let’s call this perfect understanding “X”.

Luther’s assertion is “Roman teaching is ~X. Roman teaching is “Y”. Even if Luther’s understanding is not quite “X”, it doesn't turn Rome’s teaching into “X”.

In fact, no amount of misunderstanding among Protestant fixes that Roman Catholic “~X”.

Bryan wants you to think, “Protestants disagree among themselves, therefore Roman Teaching is ‘X’”.

But that does not follow in any way.

From a Protestant perspective, it is very easy, among ourselves, to look at Biblical understanding among modern Biblical scholars – with the ever-better understanding of Greek and Hebrew languages, with the better and better historical understanding, and know that we are coming closer and closer to converging on “X”. Whereas, Rome has bought into “Y”, and “Y is ~X”, and “Y” will never be “X”. That’s the real life behind Bryan’s make-believe bait-and-switch story.

Bryan and his Roman Catholic friends are “hear[ing] but never understand[ing]”, seeing but never perceiving”. Their heart has grown dull, fixed on Rome’s “Y”, as it is, “and with their ears they can barely hear, and their eyes they have closed” to everything but Rome.

And thus, as ongoing generations of Protestants continue “to see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their hearts, and “turn and be healed,” and we draw closer and closer to Luther’s “purity of the Word”.

The theologia crucis and Luther’s critique of the analogical nature of theological language

It’s interesting that some of the discussions that are going around in theological circles these days, are echoes of the discussions that went round and round in past centuries. I present the following not only as a description of a key aspect of Luther’s developing awareness of how God works in the world, but also as a historical backdrop to some of the discussions you may be seeing even among contemporary theologians:

In the injustice, the shame, the weakness, the folly and the condemnation of the cross are revealed, and yet hidden, the righteousness, the glory, the wisdom, the strength and the salvation of God. As we have already indicated, Luther recognized an intimate relationship between human understandings of iustitia and sapientia [“wisdom”], so that his sustained critique of the role of reason in matters theological, which becomes evident from 1515 onwards, is ultimately a consequence and an expression of his conviction that human reason cannot comprehend the manner in which God has effected the salvation of mankind. In the cross of Christ, this tension reaches breaking point, and a near-permanent divorce between the spheres of faith and reason results. Reason is scandalized by the cross; faith embraces it with joy.

Underlying the theologia crucis and the discovery of the ‘righteousness of God’ is a radical critique of the analogical nature of theological language. Within the earlier medieval period in general, the concept of iustitia Dei had been constructed on the assumption that it was analogous to [human or classical conceptions of] iustitia. While the difficulties encountered in transferring the term iustus from a human context (as in the statement, ‘Socrates is just’) to a divine context (as in the statement, ‘God is just’) were fully appreciated, it was nevertheless assumed that the term bore a related meaning in each of these contexts.

The nature of the “righteousness of God”: Martin Luther was right

This is the “interpretation” of the “verse” on which the Reformation hinges. And Martin Luther got it right. The “infallible” “Church” got it wrong, and the world has never been the same.

I’m continuing to talk about Martin Luther’s “discovery” of “justification” and “the Theology of the Cross,” both of which emerged in his thinking at the same time, and which were inextricably related to each other. As McGrath (“Luther’s Theology of the Cross,” Oxford, UK: and Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, ©1985, 1990) pointed out:

There are two aspects to Luther’s discovery of ‘the righteousness of God’. The first relates to the nature of this righteousness: Luther discovered a ‘wonderful new definition of righteousness’ which stood in diametrical opposition to human understandings of iustitia. The second relates to the mode by which this righteousness comes to the individual: man cannot perform good works which are capable of earning justification on a quid pro quo basis, but he can totally abase himself, and cry out to God for grace.

McGrath considered “the second aspect of the matter,” “mode”, first. And at these two links I talked shared that discussion:

The Righteousness of God
God’s wrath is his penultimate and not his final word

Beginning his discussion now of the “nature” of this “righteousness of God”, McGrath says:

It will be clear that Luther’s early insistence upon the necessity of destroying human preconceptions of iustitia through the opus alienum Dei leads us on to consider the nature of the ‘righteousness of God’. In the opening of the scholia [commentary] of his lectures on Romans, Luther states his conviction that the letter represents a programmatic assault upon human preconceptions of wisdom and righteousness.

Remember that it was not so clear-cut at all for young Martin Luther. Consider the world in which he grew up , and what “human preconceptions of wisdom and righteousness” were like:

God’s wrath is his penultimate and not his final word

What follows here is a continuation of a message from the Theology of the Cross series, The Christian’s Most Precious Treasure.

That article provides more background on the opus alienum and opus proprium of God, which are two “perspectives” on why God does the things he does, and why they don’t seem quite “God-like” to us.

It occurs to me as I put this together, as well, that Luther’s “discovery” also speaks to some of those “God is a moral monster” types of comments that Paul and Steve are addressing lately.

God humiliates man, in order that he may justify him; he makes man a sinner, in order that he may make him righteous – and both aspects of this matter are increasingly seen by Luther as works of God. Although Luther initially appears to have believed that man humbled himself, there are clear indications in the later stages of [Luther’s 1513-1515 lectures on the Psalms] that he is moving towards a more theocentric understanding of the various aspects of justification. God induces in man a state of total humiliation – a term which Luther prefers to ‘humility’, on account of the latter’s associations with the monastic virtue of humility – and then he accepts this as the righteousness which he demands of man if he is to be justified. Once Luther has grasped the fact that it is God who takes the initiative in Justification, and that he must be regarded as active rather than passive at every stage of the process, he is increasingly obliged to recognize the problems which are raised by this assertion. It is not man who humbles himself – it is God who humbles him. Even in the earlier stages of [Luther’s 1513-1515 lectures on the Psalms], where Luther allows man a greater role in his own justification, God is still seen as instigating man’s humiliation, even if man himself must cooperate with God if this humiliation is to be properly effected.

How does God humiliate man? Through the experience of the wrath of God, the threat of hell and eternal damnation, through Anfechtung and suffering. It is through experiencing the wrath of God that man is humbled, and forced to concede that he cannot, by himself, stand in the presence of God – and thus he turns to God in his helplessness and hopelessness, and by doing so, is justified. Paradoxically, it is thus through God’s wrath that his mercy is able to operate, in that man would not seek that mercy unless he knew how much he needed it. It is considerations such as this which lead Luther to distinguish two aspects of the work of God in justification. Even at the earliest stages of [Luther’s 1513-1515 lectures on the Psalms], Luther may be found to employ the concepts of the opus alienum [“the work alien to God”] and opus proprium [“the proper work of God”] to deal with this paradox…. While the impenitent taste nothing but the severity of the wrath of God, the penitent recognize the merciful intention which lies behind it, in that they discern that it is intended to move them to repentance, humility and faith, and thus to receive the grace of God. God, having ordained that he will bestow grace upon the sole precondition of humility is obliged to stand by his primordial decision – and thus, if man is to receive grace, he must meet this condition. The intent underlying the opus alienum Dei is to enable man to fulfil this precondition, and thus to receive the grace of the merciful God who is hidden in his strange work. As we showed on the basis of our analysis of the soteriology of [Luther’s 1513-1515 lectures on the Psalms] in the previous chapter, Luther appears to interpret fides Christi as sibi iniustus esse ita coram Deo humilis [“unjust to him to be humble before God”], where fides Christi is the righteousness which God requires of man if he is to be justified.

If man is to recognize his own unrighteousness, and thus be moved to humility he must first be forced to concede his own utter unworthiness, and the futility of his situation, if left to his own devices. The merciful intention of the opus alienum thus becomes clear, although this may only be recognisable to faith…. The Word of God, by passing its severe judgement upon man, makes him a sinner, and thus executes the opus alienum – but in that this moves man to cry out to God for mercy and grace (which are immediately forthcoming!), it indirectly executes the opus proprium.

It is of considerable significance that Luther later illustrates the concepts of the opus alienum and opus proprium in the Heidelberg disputation with specific reference to the justification of the sinner: ‘thus an action which is alien to God’s nature results in an action which belongs to his very nature: God makes a person a sinner, in order to make him righteous.’ The fundamental insight, recognized by faith alone, is that God’s wrath is his penultimate, and not his final, word.

Note: Where you see “[Luther’s 1513-1515 lectures on the Psalms]” in the text, I’ve used this phrase to replace McGrath’s use of “Dictata”, or “Dictata super Psalterium”. Yes, Luther did a super job lecturing through the Psalms, and it helped him to understand a great deal, but sometimes the Latin just gets a bit confusing.

In his Theology of the Cross, Luther follows Paul in rebuking Roman boastfulness

I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. (Romans 12:1)

For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth. (Romans 1:18)

Robert Jewett, in his Commentary on Romans (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, ©2007) writes about Roman hubris as it resulted in a pyramid of honor:

J. E. Lendon has shown that a relatively small number of officials ruled the vast [first-century Roman] empire, using a combination of force, propaganda, and patronage that was held together by “the workings of honour and pride,” which provided “the underpinnings of loyalty and gratitude for benefactions” that made the empire functional. Although the threat of force and the desire for gain were always present, “the duty to ‘honour’ or respect officials, whether local, imperial, or the emperor himself is vastly more prominent in ancient writings than the duty to obey…. The subject paid ‘honour’ to his rulers as individuals deserving of it in themselves, and, in turn, the rulers are seen to relate to their subjects by ‘honouring’ them. Subject and official were linked by a great network of honouring, and obedience was an aspect of that honouring … As Cicero revealed, there was nothing specifically governmental in honouring people; it was an everyday social function.”

This background is essential for understanding the argument of Romans, which employs honor categories from beginning to end. Lendon observes: “Honour was a filter through which the whole world was viewed, a deep structure of the Graeco-Roman mind… Every thing, every person, could be valued in terms of honour.” At the peak of this pyramid of honor stood the emperor, who claimed to renounce honors while gathering them all to himself. Beneath him the intense competition for superiority in honor continued unabated on all levels of society.

This is the true, historical source for the Roman Catholic hierarchy.

The Righteousness of God

I’m continuing to talk about Martin Luther’s “discovery” of both “justification” and “the Theology of the Cross,” both of which emerged in his thinking at the same time, and which were inextricably related to each other. As McGrath (“Luther’s Theology of the Cross,” Oxford, UK: and Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, ©1985, 1990) pointed out:

There are two aspects to Luther’s discovery of ‘the righteousness of God’. The first relates to the nature of this righteousness: Luther discovered a ‘wonderful new definition of righteousness’ which stood in diametrical opposition to human understandings of iustitia. The second relates to the mode by which this righteousness comes to the individual: man cannot perform good works which are capable of earning justification on a quid pro quo basis, but he can totally abase himself, and cry out to God for grace.

This is one of those McGrath statements that has been picked out of his various works and used by Roman Catholics with some glee – recently as David Anders has McGrath lamenting “The Protestant understanding of the nature of justification thus represents a theological novum.” It is a novum because, after Augustine got it wrong, Luther was the first one to get it right. The “infallible” Roman church had gotten it wrong for a thousand years and counting.

This may be a well-known to some readers, but I wanted to pass it along.

The Called to Confusion blogger David Anders specifically asks,

The Alien Righteousness of Christ

“By late 1514 Luther had arrived at the fundamental insight that the proper disposition for justification is humility” – Alister McGrath, Alister E. McGrath, “Luther’s Theology of the Cross,” Oxford, UK: and Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, ©1985, 1990, pg 153.

Martin Luther’s “Theology of the Cross” is not a specialized or “side” theology. It is comprehensive attitude out of which arrives his way of understanding what God is doing in the world. It is the Biblical way of understanding God. (“Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord…. For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.”)

In the decades immediately prior to what became known as “Luther’s breakthrough”, late medieval theology had arrived at the understanding that “the basic condition which man was required to meet in order to be justified was by doing quod in se est” (“doing their best”). “The righteousness of God was understood to refer to the equity within the context of the covenant that God made with man ‘which defines God’s manner of dealing with humanity’”.

McGrath’s work is an effort both to provide an overview of the “backgrounds” of medieval theology, and an effort to understand Luther’s thought at various times, based on his various lecture notes and publications. It is an effort to understand “what he knew and when he knew it”. That’s a complicated effort, but my understanding is that McGrath’s scholarship over the years, on this topic, is both thorough and precise.

The hallmark of “Luther’s breakthrough” is his understanding of the phrase “the righteousness of God”. That phrase had a certain, well-defined meaning during the middle ages, and according to McGrath, Luther had a very secure understanding of it:

It is this understanding of ‘the righteousness of God’ which is represented by Martin Luther in the earlier part of his “Lectures on the Psalms (1513-15), as may be judged from his [marginal comment] on Psalm 9:9):

“Righteousness (iustitia) [“the righteousness of God”] is thus said to be rendering to each what is due to them. Yet equity is prior to righteousness, and is its prerequisite. Equity identifies merit, righteousness renders rewards. Thus the Lord judges the world ‘in equity’ (that is, wishing all to be saved), and judges ‘in righteousness’ (because God renders to each their reward).”

Luther here reproduces key aspects of [a late medieval] understanding of iustitia Dei (“the righteousness of God”): iustitia is understood to be based upon divine equity, which looks solely to the merits of humans in determining their reward within the framework established by the covenant. The doctors of the church rightly teach that, when people do their best (quod in se est), God infallibly gives grace (Alister McGrath, Iustitia Dei: A History of the Christian Doctrine of Justification, Third edition, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, ©2005, pg 88).

This late medieval teaching on justification (especially Gabriel Biel and the via moderna school of theology) was genuinely a Pelagian teaching that was widely accepted within the Church of the day. No, Trent did not define it this way either, but there was no definition at all, and such teaching was rampant within the Church of that day.

Luther’s theological breakthrough is intimately connected with his discovery of a new meaning of ‘the righteousness of God’, and it is important to appreciate that his earlier works are characterized by the teaching of the via moderna upon this matter. Luther’s later view that anyone attempting to do quod in se est sinned mortally remains notionally within this framework, while ultimately subverting its theological plausibility.

McGrath goes on to say, “the covenant-theology of the via moderna is based upon the presupposition that man is capable of doing quod in se est without the special assistance of grace.”

The origins of Luther’s concept of the ‘alien righteousness of Christ’ must be considered to lie in his holistic understanding of man. In particular, Luther argues that ‘flesh’ (caro) and ‘spirit’ (spiritus) are not to be regarded as man’s lower and higher faculties respectively, but rather as descriptions of the whole person considered under different aspects. Thus caro is not man’s lower nature, but the entire man (totus homo), considered as turned in upon itself (homo incurvatus in se) in its irrepressible egoism and its radical alienation from God. Similarly, spiritus is to be understood as referring to the entire man in his openness to God and the divine promises. For Luther, justification relates to the entire person, both flesh and spirit: although the individual comes to put his trust in the promises of God, he nevertheless remains a sinner. Thus the totus homo is iustus et peccator simul – a sinner inwardly, and yet righteous in the sight of God….The believer is righteous coram Deo [before God], even though this righteousness cannot be detected empirically: indeed, those whose righteousness can be detected empirically are righteous coram homnibus [before man] and yet unrighteousness coram Deo – the hypocrites. The Christian is a sinner in re, and yet righteous in spe: his righteousness is hidden, known only to God.

As the totus homo cannot be partially righteous coram Deo, his righteousness must be alien and extrinsic to him – it is a righteousness which is in no sense part of his person, or which can in any way be said to belong to him. It is this consideration which appears to underlie the concept of iustia Christi aliena…. Extrinsically, the believer is righteous, through the alien righteousness of Christ; intrinsically, he is – and will remain – a sinner. This concept of justifying righteousness is, of course, totally different from that of St. Augustine, as Luther himself fully appreciates. This element of Luther’s thought would be developed by Melanchthon into a doctrine of forensic justification, which would become normative for Protestant understandings of justification.

Thus, McGrath concludes this chapter on “The Righteousness of God”, “Luther’s insight into the true nature of the ‘righteousness of God’ represents far more than a mere terminological clarification: latent within it is a new concept of God. Who is this God who deals thus with man? Luther’s answer to this question, as it developed over the years 1513-1519, can be summarized in one of his most daring phrases: the God who deals with sinful man in this astonishing way is none other than the ‘crudified and hidden God’ (Deus crucifixus et absconditus) – the God of the theologia crucis. How Luther developed his fundamental insight into the true nature of his ‘righteousness of God’ into the theologia crucis, with all that this entails, is the subject of the following chapter (pg 147).

For anyone interested in the development of Luther’s thought, especially regarding Justification and “the alien righteousness of Christ”, Scott Clark of Westminster Seminary, California, has produced an article, Iustitia Imputata Christi, which goes into quite a bit of detail.

The Christian’s most precious treasure

John Calvin famously began his Institutes of the Christian Religion stating, “Nearly all the wisdom we possess, that is to say, true and sound wisdom, consists of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves.” Before Calvin wrote these words, Martin Luther wrestled with the first of those concepts, “the knowledge of God”.

Then Moses said, “Now show me your glory.”

And the LORD said, “I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the LORD, in your presence. I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion. But,” he said, “you cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.”

Then the LORD said, “There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen” (Exodus 33:18-23).

* * *

For Christ did not send me to baptize, but to preach the gospel—not with wisdom and eloquence, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power. For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written:

“I will destroy the wisdom of the wise;
the intelligence of the intelligent I will frustrate.”

Where is the wise person? Where is the teacher of the law? Where is the philosopher of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not know him, God was pleased through the foolishness of what was preached to save those who believe. Jews demand signs and Greeks look for wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength (1 Corinthians 1:18-25).

* * *

For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. I came to you in weakness with great fear and trembling. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on human wisdom, but on God’s power (1 Cor 2:2-5).

Yesterday I noted that while Martin Luther’s posting of his 95 theses is the traditional and probably the best known event as the start of the Protestant Reformation, they didn’t contain the bulk of his theology. Rather, “Luther came gradually to understand the great themes and doctrines of the Reformation between 1513-21, as he taught the Scriptures.” And he introduced the heart of his theology, his theologia crucis, his “Theology of the Cross” at an event known as the Heidelberg Disputation in 1518.

I started looking at this Theology of the Cross because I thought it might have something to say to my wife and me in the light of her current suffering. But I found as I studied it that it was really Luther’s response to the Medieval Church. It contained the heart and soul of his message. I’ve written about it in bits and pieces over the last month or so. Beginning today, and over the next several days, as we get closer to the “anniversary” of the Reformation, I’d like to go into a bit of detail about it more directly:

For Luther, the sole authentic locus of man’s knowledge of God is the cross of Christ, in which God is to be found revealed, and yet paradoxically hidden in that revelation.…

God is revealed in the passions et crucem – and yet he is hidden in this very revelation. In the very things which human wisdom regards as the antithesis of deity – such as weakness, foolishness, and humility, God stands revealed in the ‘humility and shame of the cross’. We may summarise the leading features of the theologia crucis as follows:

(1) The theologia crucis is a theology of revelation, which stands in sharp contrast to speculation. Those who speculate on the created order have, in effect, forfeited their right to be called ‘theologians’. God has revealed himself, and it is the task of the theologian to concern himself with God as he has chosen to reveal himself, instead of constructing preconceived notions of God which ultimately must be destroyed.

(2) This revelation must be regarded as indirect and concealed. This is one of the most difficult aspects of the theologia crucis to grasp: how can one speak of a concealed revelation? Luther’s allusion to Exodus 33:23 in Thesis 20 is the key to understanding this fundamental point: although it is indeed God who is revealed in the passion and the cross of Christ, he is not immediately recognizable as God. Those who expect a direct revelation of the face of God are unable to discern him in his revelation, precisely because it is the posteriora Dei (“back of God”) which [is] made visible in this revelation. In that it is God who is made known in the passion and cross of Christ, it is revelation; in that this revelation can only be discerned by the eye of faith, it is concealed. The ‘friends of the cross’ know that beneath the humility and shame of the cross lie concealed the power and the glory of God – but to others, this insight is denied.

(3) This revelation is to be recognized in the sufferings of the cross of Christ, rather than in human moral activity or the created order. Both the moralist and the rationalist expect to find God through intelligent reflection upon the nature of man’s moral sense or the pattern of the created order: for Luther, ‘true theology and knowledge of God are found in Christ crucified’. The cross shatters human illusions concerning the capacity of human reason to discern God in this manner.

(4) This knowledge of God who is hidden in his revelation is a matter of faith. Revelation of the posteriora Dei is addressed to faith, which alone recognizes it as a revelation of God Luther illustrates this point with reference to John 14:8. Philip here asks Jesus to show him the Father – which, according to Luther, makes him a ‘theologian of glory’, in that he considers that God may be found and known apart from Christ. Jesus then explains to him that there is no knowledge of God other than that which may be found in his own person: ‘Whoever has seen me, has seen the Father’ (John 14:9). For the presence of the hidden God in his revelation in Christ and his passion and cross – and who is thus able to acknowledge the truth of Isaiah’s dictum: ‘Truly you are a hidden God!’ The concept of a hidden God (absconditus Deus) lies at the center of the theology of the cross. For Luther, Philip represents the tendency of the theologia gloriae to seek for God apart from Christ, unaware that God is revealed in him, although concealed in that revelation.

(5) God is particularly known through suffering. Although this is essentially a reference to the passiones Christi, a far deeper spiritual truth is involved: a fundamental contention of the theologia crucis is not merely that God is known through suffering (whether that of Christ or of the individual), but that God makes himself known through suffering. For Luther, God is active in this manner, rather than passive, in that suffering and temptation are seen as means by which man is brought to God. This brings us to the dialectic between the opus proprium Dei [“the proper work of God”] and the opus alienum Dei [“the work alien to God”], which Luther introduces in his explanation of Thesis 16 [from the Heidelberg Disputation].

The basic paradox involved is illustrated with reference to the justification of an individual. In order that a man may be justified, he must first recognise that he is a sinner, and humble himself before God. Before man can be justified, he must be utterly humiliated – and it is God who both humiliates and justifies. ‘Thus an action which is alien to God’s nature (opus alienum Dei) results in an action which belongs to his very nature (opus proprium Dei): God makes a person a sinner in order that he may make him righteous.’ The opus alienum is a means to the end of the opus proprium. The significance of suffering, whether this is understood as passiones Christi or human Anfechtung [“challenge” or “temptation”], is that it represents the opus alienum through which God works out his opus proprium. In his important study on Anfechtung, Beintker demonstrated that Luther regards God himself as the source of Anfechtung: God assaults man in order to break him down and thus to justify him. Similarly, studies on Luther’s understanding of the role of the Devil in the Christian life have demonstrated that he regarded the Devil as God’s instrument, who performs the opus alienum Dei on his behalf in order that the opus proprium may be realized.

Far from regarding suffering or evil as a nonsensical intrusion into the world (which Luther regards as the opinion of a ‘theologian of glory’), the “theologian of the cross’ regards such suffering as his most precious treasure, for revealed and yet hidden in precisely such suffering is none other that the living God working out the salvation of those whom he loves.

Alister E. McGrath, “Luther’s Theology of the Cross,” Oxford, UK: and Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, ©1985, 1990, pgs 149-151 (Italics is in the original; bold face emphasis supplied).

Note this statement, for it shows well the God that I have come to know and love: “Similarly, studies on Luther’s understanding of the role of the Devil in the Christian life have demonstrated that he regarded the Devil as God’s instrument, who performs the opus alienum Dei on his behalf in order that the opus proprium may be realized.”

The Devil works on God’s behalf. God has created a universe such that, the more that the Devil “devils”, the harder he works on God’s behalf. He is caught in his own net. He works his own mischief in a mighty way, [and he certainly has the free will to do this], but this very mischief is turned to God’s service. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).

“If God is for us, who can be against us? In all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.”

God Rules

George Eldon Ladd, in his “A Theology of the New Testament”, (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, Revised Edition © 1993, pgs 109 ff.), supporting the “dynamic concept of the Kingdom” that France writes about, says “the Kingdom” is “never to be identified with the church”. “The Kingdom is primarily the dynamic reign or kingly rule of God, and derivatively, the sphere in which the rule is experienced. In biblical idiom, the Kingdom is not identified with its subjects. They are the people of God’s rule who enter it, live under it, and are governed by it. The church is the community of the Kingdom but never the Kingdom itself. Jesus’ disciples belong to the Kingdom as the Kingdom belongs to them, but they are not the Kingdom. The Kingdom is the rule of God; the church is a society of women and men.”

Ladd goes on to cite five different ways in which “the church is not the Kingdom”, and he does so exegetically:

1. “The New Testament does not equate believers with the Kingdom”. Directly contradicting the point of the Cross/Brown citation the Gospel of John above, Ladd notes “The first missionaries preached the Kingdom of God, not the church (Acts 8:12; 19:8; 20:25; 28:23, 31). It is impossible to substitute “church” for “kingdom” in such sayings. … There is never the slightest hint that the visible church can either be or produce the Kingdom of God. The church is the people of the Kingdom, but never that Kingdom itself. Therefore it is not helpful even to say that the church is a “part of the Kingdom,” or that in the eschatological consummation the church and Kingdom become synonymous.”

2. “The Kingdom Creates the Church”. “The dynamic rule of God, present in the mission of Jesus, challenged men and women to response, bringing them into a new fellowship. The presence of [the Rule of God] meant the fulfillment of the Old Testament messianic hope promised to Israel; but when the nation as a whole rejected the offer, those who accepted it were constituted the new people of God, the children of the Kingdom, the true Israel, the incipient church.

The parable of the draw net (and see John 21 - contra the Cross/Brown interpretation given in my last post) is instructive as to the character of the church and its relation to the Kingdom. The Kingdom is an action that is likened to the drawing a net through the sea. It catches in its movement not only good fish but also bad; and when the net is brought to shore, the fish must be sorted out. Such is the action of God’s kingdom among humankind. It is not now creating a pure fellowship; in Jesus’ retinue could even be a traitor. While this parable must be interpreted in terms of Jesus’ ministry, the principles deduced apply to the church. The action of God’s Kingdom among human beings created a mixed fellowship, first in Jesus’ disciples and then in the church. The eschatological coming of the Kingdom will mean judgment both for human society in general (tares) and for the church in particular (draw net). Until then, the fellowship created by the present acting of God’s Kingdom will include those who are not true children of the Kingdom. Thus the empirical church has a twofold character. It is the people of the Kingdom, and yet it is not the ideal people, for it includes some who are actually not children of the Kingdom. Thus entrance into the Kingdom means participation in the church; but entrance into the church is not necessarily synonymous with entrance into the Kingdom.

3. “The Church Witnesses to the Kingdom”. It is the church’s mission to witness to the kingdom. The church cannot build the Kingdom or become the Kingdom, but the church witnesses to the Kingdom—to God’s redeeming acts in Christ both past and future. This is illustrated by the commission Jesus gave to the twelve (Matt 10) and to the seventy (Luke 10); and it is reinforced by the proclamation of the apostles in the book of Acts. … It is part of God’s eschatological purpose that before the end, all nations should have the opportunity to hear the gospel. Here we find an extension of the theology of discipleship, that it will be the mission of the church to witness to the gospel of the Kingdom in the world. Israel is no longer the witness to God’s kingdom; the church has taken her place. …

If Jesus’ disciples are those who have received the life and fellowship of the Kingdom, and if this life is in fact an anticipation of the eschatological Kingdom, then it follows that one of the main tasks of the church is to display in this present evil age the life and fellowship of the Age to Come. The church has a dual character, belonging to two ages. It is the people of the Age to Come, but it still lives in this age, being constituted of sinful mortal persons. This means that while the church in this age will never attain perfection, it must nevertheless display the life of the perfect order, the eschatological Kingdom of God.

Implicit exegetical support for this view is to be found in the great emphasis Jesus placed on forgiveness and humility among his disciples. Concern over greatness, while natural in this age [and a hallmark of the way Rome conducts itself] is a contradiction of the life of the Kingdom (Mark 10:35 ff.). Those who have experienced the Kingdom of God are to display its life by a humble willingness to serve rather than by self-seeking.

Another evidence of the life of the Kingdom is a fellowship undisturbed by ill-will and animosity. This is why Jesus had so much to say about forgiveness, for perfect forgiveness is an evidence of love. Jesus even taught that human forgiveness and divine forgiveness are inseparable (Matt 6:12, 14). The parable on forgiveness makes it clear that human forgiveness is conditioned by divine forgiveness (Matt 18:23-35). The point of this parable is that when people claimed to have received the unconditioned and unmerited forgiveness of God, which is one of the gifts of the Kingdom, and then are unwilling to forgive relatively trivial offenses against themselves, they deny the reality of their very profession of divine forgiveness and by their conduct contradict the life and character of the Kingdom. Such people have not really experienced the forgiveness of God. It is therefore the church’s duty to display in an evil age of self-seeking, pride, and animosity the life and fellowship of the kingdom of God and the Age to Come. This display of Kingdom life is an essential element in the witness of the church to the Kingdom of God.

Note what is not being said here. No one is suggesting that “to be a part of the Kingdom you have to be perfect”. However, acts of humility and forgiveness are true manifestations of the Rule of God in the world. These are “the pillar and support of the Truth” (1 Tim 3:15) – and this is yet another place where Rome completely misses what Christ was trying to say, what God is trying to do in the world – and instead, this profound truth (1 Tim 3:15) is used to make the nonsensical claim that “the Roman Catholic Church cannot err.”

If committed Roman apologists cannot see this, they are truly lost.

Continuing with Ladd:

4. “The Church is the Instrument of the Kingdom.” The disciples of Jesus not only proclaimed the good news about the presence of the Kingdom; they were also instruments of the Kingdom in that the works of the Kingdom were performed through them as through Jesus himself. As they were preaching the Kingdom, they too healed the sick and cast out demons (Matt 10:8; Luke 10:17). Although theirs was a delegated power, the same power of the Kingdom worked through them that worked through Jesus. Their awareness that these miracles were wrought by no power resident in themselves accounts for the fact that they never performed miracles in a competitive or boastful spirit. …

This truth is implicit in the statement that the gates of Hades shall not prevail against the church. (Matt 16:18). This image of the gates of the realm of the dead is a familiar Semitic concept. … As instruments of the Kingdom, [Jesus’ disciples] had seen people delivered from bondage to sickness and death (Matt 10:8). This messianic struggle with the powers of death, which had been raging in Jesus’ ministry and had been shared by his disciples, will be continued in the future, and the church will be the instrument of God’s kingdom in this struggle.

5. The Church is the Custodian of the Kingdom”. The rabbinic concept of the Kingdom of God conceived of Israel as the custodian of the Kingdom. The Kingdom of God was the rule of God that began on earth in Abraham, and was committed to Israel through the Law. Since the rule of God could be experienced only through the Law, and since Israel was the custodian of the Law, Israel was in effect the custodian of the Kingdom of God. When Gentiles became Jewish proselytes and adopted the Law, they thereby took upon themselves the sovereignty of heaven, the Kingdom of God. God’s rule was mediated to the Gentiles through Israel; they alone were the “sons of the kingdom.”

In Jesus, the reign of God manifested itself in a new redemptive event, displaying in an unexpected way within history the powers of the eschatological Kingdom. The nation as a whole rejected the proclamation of this divine event, but those who accepted it became the true children of the Kingdom and entered into the enjoyment of its blessings and powers. These disciples of Jesus, his ekklesia, now became the custodians of the Kingdom rather than the nation Israel. The Kingdom is taken from Israel and given to others – Jesus’ ekklesia (Mk 12:9). Jesus’ disciples not only witness to the Kingdom and are the instruments of the Kingdom as it manifests its powers in this age; they are also its custodians.

This fact is expressed in the saying about the keys [of the Kingdom, and Rome’s interpretation that] whatever they bind or loose on earth will be bound or loosed in heaven (Mt 16:19). Since the idiom of binding and loosing in rabbinical usage often refers to prohibiting or permitting certain actions, this saying has frequently been interpreted to refer to administrative control over the church. Background for this concept is found in Isaiah 22:22 where God entrusted to Eliakim the key to the house of David, an act that included administration of the entire house. According to this interpretation, Jesus gave Peter the authority to make decisions for conduct in the church over which he is to exercise supervision. When Peter set aside Jewish ritual practices that there might be free fellowship with the gentiles, he exercised administrative authority.

… another interpretation lies nearer at hand. Jesus condemned the scribes and the Pharisees because they had taken away the key of knowledge, refusing to enter the Kingdom of God themselves or to permit others t enter (Luke 11:52). The same though appears in the first Gospel. “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! Because you shut the kingdom of heaven against men; for you neither enter yourselves nor allow those who would enter to go in” (Matt 23:13). In biblical idiom, knowledge is more than intellectual perception. It is “a spiritual possession resting on revelation.” The authority entrusted to Peter is grounded upon revelation, that is, spiritual knowledge, which he shared with the twelve. The keys of the Kingdom are therefore “the spiritual insight which will enable Peter to lead others in through the door of revelation through which he has passed himself.”

The authority to bind and loose involves the admission or exclusion of people from the realm of the Kingdom of God. Christ will build his ekklesia upon Peter and upon those who share the divine revelation of Jesus’ messiahship. To them also is committed by virtue of this same revelation the means of permitting people to enter the realm of the blessings of the Kingdom or of excluding them from such participation (cf Acts 10).

This interpretation receives support from rabbinic usage, for binding or loosing can also refer to putting under ban or to acquitting. This meaning is patent in Matthew 18:18 where a member of the congregation who is unrepentant of sin against his brother is to be excluded from the fellowship; for “whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” The same truth is found in a Johannine saying where the resurrected jesus performs the acted parable of breathing on his disciples, thus promising them the Holy Spirit as equipment for their future mission. Then Jesus said, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained” (John 20:23). This cannot be understood as the exercise of an arbitrary authority. It is the inevitable issue of witnessing to the Kingdom of God. It is furthermore an authority exercised not by Peter but by all the disciples – the church.

As a matter of fact, the disciples had already exercised this authority of binding and loosing when they visited the cities of Israel, proclaiming the Kingdom of God. Wherever they and their message were accepted, peace rested upon that house; but wherever they and their message were rejected, the judgment of God was sealed to that house (Matt 10:14, 15). They were indeed instruments of the Kingdom in effecting the forgiveness of sins; and by virtue of that very fact, they were also custodians of the Kingdom. Their ministry had the actual result either of opening the door of the Kingdom to men and women or of shutting it to those who spurned their message.

This truth is expressed in other sayings. “He who receives you receives me, and he who receives me receives him who sent me” (Matt 10:40; see Mark 9:37).

I have much more to say about the notion that God put Peter in charge and that the “government” of the church would have the same government in place for all of history. In truth, God is the “government” and if Peter had the keys, they were for a specific task, a specific purpose. There is no concept that keys would be handed on. There is no sense that “thrones” would be handed on. Roman (and other bishops) made that assumption. But God is the Authority. God is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory.

God rules. That is the message implicit and explicit in ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεο, “the Kingdom of God”.

The Kingdom of God

Now after John was arrested, Jesus came into Galilee, proclaiming the gospel of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand; repent and believe in the gospel” (Mark 1:14-15).

Μετὰ δὲ τὸ παραδοθῆναι τὸν Ἰωάννην ἦλθεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν κηρύσσων τὸ εὐαγγέλιον τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ λέγων ὅτι πεπλήρωται ὁ καιρὸς καὶ ἤγγικεν ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ μετανοεῖτε καὶ πιστεύετε ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ.

I’ve recently picked up a small study by R.T. France: “Divine Government: God’s Kingship in the Gospel of Mark” (Vancouver, BC: Regent College Publishing, ©1990). France was Principal, Wycliffe Hall, Oxford University (1989–95) and has authored a number of commentaries on both Matthew and Mark (among other things).

France says he titled his book “Divine Government” because English translations which render the Hebrew and Greek phrases as “the Kingdom of God” give too much of an impression that something with a definite size and shape is what’s being talked about. “There is, as we have noted, no reference in Mark to ‘the kingdom’ as if it were a ‘thing’ in itself. It is ‘God’ that is the controlling noun. The message of Mark 1.15 is not that a change of government is imminent, but that God is taking over (which potentially puts a question mark against any human political programme, even a Jewish one)” (pg 22). And I would say, it even puts a question mark against any program that involves the establishment of a “church authority” of any kind.

But surely it must be pedantic to insist that we use the exact biblical terminology. Where is the harm in a convenient abbreviation? I hope I am not usually a pedant, but in this case I do see a significant danger in the nearly universal modern use of ‘the kingdom’, a danger which is writ large when ‘kingdom’ comes to be used as an adjective. The danger arises from a twofold misunderstanding.

Firstly, the word ‘kingdom’ does not convey in modern English what the Hebrew/Aramaic malkut and the Greek basileia conveyed in their biblical context. It is a scholarly commonplace to point out that whereas ‘kingdom’ in English is today primarily a ‘concrete’ noun, with a clearly identifiable ‘thing’ to which it refers (whether a place or a community), the biblical nouns are abstract, and refer to the act of ruling, the situation of being king – as did the word ‘kingdom’ in the sixteenth-century English from which it has entered our biblical tradition (12).

Here France’s understanding of the original Biblical terms that are rendered “kingdom” undermines the concept that the “kingdom” is visible at all, much less that it is “a visible kingdom” or “a visible church”. “Kingdom” in the original languages connotes a verb, an activity, a movement. It is not “a visible thing”. But he goes further.

The second point follows naturally. If ‘the kingdom of God’ means ‘God being king’, then to abbreviate it to ‘the kingdom’ is to focus on the wrong one of the two nouns. To speak of ‘kingship’ without saying who is king is to speak only in a vague abstraction which can have no specific reference in itself. ‘The kingdom’ is about as meaningless as ‘the will’ or ‘the power’ used alone without a reference to whose will or power is in view. To make the point in terms of a familiar biblical text, ‘Yours is the kingdom, the power and the glory” (Matt. 6.13) does not mean that there are antecedent self-existent ‘things’ called ‘the kingdom’, ‘the power’ and ‘the glory’, which have come into God’s possession. It means simply, ‘You are the king, you wield power, and you are glorious.’ It is a statement about God, not about ‘the kingdom’. The content of the phrase is no less than the great declaration of many Old Testament psalms, ‘The Lord is king’, or “God rules’.

There’s one more thing that I want to point out at the moment, and that is, happens invisibly, and automatically.

And he said, “The kingdom of God is as if a man should scatter seed on the ground. He sleeps and rises night and day, and the seed sprouts and grows; he knows not how. The earth produces by itself, first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear. But when the grain is ripe, at once he puts in the sickle, because the harvest has come” (Mark 4:26-29).

The dynamic power of God’s kingship is the obvious point also of the parable of the growing seed (4.26-29). The emphasis falls on the ability of the seed to grow by itself. The farmer can go away and live his own life while the seed gets on with its growth; he doesn’t know, and doesn’t need to know, how it does it. The earth looks after the process by itself (automate), and all the farmer will need to do is to reap the crop which has been produced for him without his own effort. Any real-life farmer will tell you, of course, that it is not as simple as that today, that life between sowing and reaping is not simply extended holiday. But a parable is not necessarily a photographic reproduction of real life, and the story is clearly told in such a way as to emphasize the lack of human involvement. God’s kingship has its own dynamic, and is not dependent on human effort. It is, in other words, God’s saving power which is the subject of Jesus; message, not a human reform programme…. There is a secret here to be discovered. God is powerfully at work, but many will be unable to see it. But those who despise and even oppose Jesus’ mission are in for a surprise. And those who want to believe him but are tempted like John the Baptist to ask, ‘Are you really the one we were waiting for, or should we look for someone else?’ (Matt 11.3) may take heart: God’s work will be completed, in God’s way (32-33).

France’s exegetical analysis of the “Divine Government” in Mark, as we see it in the phrase “Kingdom of God”, has a direct bearing on those who say “God founded a visible church” and that “God gave the church a visible structure and government”. Of course he didn’t, and those who say he did are grossly misrepresenting what God’s program is all about.

And further, this is also a direct response to those who want to suggest that, because Sola Scriptura and “justification by faith alone”, as doctrines, were not articulated until the 16th century, that somehow they are not a part of God’s program. Both of these fundamental doctrines of the Reformation were simply a harvest on our part – the direct result of the work of God in our midst. “Our God Reigns”, and he does it in ways that surprise and delight us, with no effort at all on our part.

Christ did not found a visible church

Did Christ found a “visible church”? Let’s look at some of the exegetical evidence.

Joseph Ratzinger, destined to be pope, in an essay entitled “Primacy, Episcopacy, and Successio Apostolica,” in the work “God’s Word: Scripture-Tradition-Office” (San Francisco: Ignatius Press ©2008; Libreria Editrice Vaticana edition ©2005), says “The concept of [apostolic] succession was clearly formulated, as von Campenhausen has impressively demonstrated, in the anti-Gnostic polemics of the second century; [and not, as some Roman Catholic writers assert, in the first century] its purpose was to contrast the true apostolic tradition of the Church with the pseudo-apostolic tradition of Gnosis” (pgs 22-23).

<---------------- Yes, that’s Pope Joseph Ratzinger’s picture over there, on the book cover, stating for all the world to see, “The concept of Apostolic Succession was clearly formulated in the second century.” (Even though he wasn’t yet pope when he wrote that, some enterprising publisher put his picture, and name as pope! on the cover, with the hope that more people would buy it!)

The work he is referring to is Hans von Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority and Spiritual Power in the Church of the First Three Centuries, trans. J. A. Baker (London: Black, 1969), pgs 149-177. Hmm. And look at that recommendation from Ratzinger, who was still only a “brialliant theologian” when he wrote that endorsement. “Clearly formulated … impressively demonstrated…” That’s a very fine endorsement indeed.

We look now at what von Campenhausen says:

Theology of the Cross and Justification

I’ve written a couple of posts on Martin Luther’s theology of the Cross, and my hope is to write more. I’ve come upon this topic for several reasons, not the least of which is my wife’s illness. But as I delve into it more, I’m finding that for Martin Luther, his “discovery” of the theologia crucis was fundamental to his understanding of justification – that God justifies sinners.

While this may seem commonplace to us, it was anything but common in the world that Martin Luther lived in. The “late Medieval” environment that he lived in was steeped full of scholastic theologies built upon scholastic theologies (some of which in turn were built upon misunderstandings and other errors). The “discovery” of Martin Luther was one of God’s great in-breakings of understanding into human history. Luther’s “discovery” indeed was simply a re-discovery of what Paul and the Scriptures said.

It is my impression that no matter how much we know, or how much we think we know, we all come upon those moments at which we are absolutely helpless. These are genuine crisis moments in our lives; we’d rather not face them, and when they’re over, we’re glad for it. Sometimes they may enable us to say “God taught me something,” but maybe not.

For me, those moments occur lately when I see my wife in pain, and there is absolutely nothing that I can do to help her. (To be sure, the moments of pain are fleeting – like when the doctor is inserting a sharp instrument into her hip bone to perform a bone marrow biopsy; or last night, when one of the headaches returned that first sent her to the doctor.)

Luther’s moments of distress, in the midst of his intensive teaching schedule, were among some of the greatest moments of history for all of us who consider ourselves the “heirs of the Reformation”.

I’m not a Lutheran; I’m Reformed. I’m not one of those who believe that Martin Luther (or the later Lutherans) came to absolutely correct positions on everything. But I do see Martin Luther as the tip of the spear and as the most brilliant theologian of his age.

But his age, as “the last of the Medieval theologians,” quickly gave way to other things. And I believe that Luther was less adept than some of his later peers at understanding what was going on.

I realize that in bringing up some of these topics, I’m going to unearth some things that need to be dug up. That’s all right. Lord willing, we need to talk about these things. We, as 21st century Christians, need to remember the struggles of the past.

As the historian Philip Schaff noted, the Reformation of the sixteenth century is, “next to the introduction of Christianity, the greatest event in history…. Starting from religion, it gave, directly or indirectly, a mighty impulse to every forward movement, and made Protestantism the chief propelling force in the history of modern civilization.”

To be sure, there were many cracks in the old Roman edifice before Luther. And after Luther, the rushing tide that followed him, did not sweep away all of the debris and garbage. And to be sure, Rome (at Trent) found ways to rebuild its (much diminished) edifice, which continues to stand today.

But it was Martin Luther who, standing upon Scripture alone, first cracked into the mighty Roman edifice and broke open the floodgates of Truth which, as Schaff noted, “made Protestantism the chief propelling force in the history of modern civilization.”

If we want to work to solve problems in our own era, we’ll benefit tremendously from understanding how the cross of Christ interacted with another era where the problems were possibly as difficult as those we face today.

* * *

Here are the first two entries on this topic:

Martin Luther’s Theology of the Cross: Introduction
Can God Suffer?

Can God Suffer?

Martin Luther’s “theology of the cross” is not merely a theology that provides great comfort in the midst of suffering. It is, in fact, foundational for his whole understanding of “justification by faith alone”, and I hope to explore this theme further in coming blog posts.

But there’s something that needs to be clarified from the outset. In discussing Luther’s Theology of the Cross, or theologia crucis, Alister McGrath alluded to “Luther’s daring phrase”, “The ‘crucified God’”. This, he says, “is not merely the foundation of the Christian faith, but is also the key to understanding the nature of God.”

While I believe that Luther’s “theology of the cross” is, historically, one of the most important ways to understand “God” and “church” and “salvation” that came out of the Reformation, it is important to understand what Luther is and isn’t talking about. John Frame makes some helpful distinctions in his “The Doctrine of God,”( Phillipsburg, NJ: Presbyterian and Reformed Publishing Company, © 2002).

Recently, a number of theologians have questioned the traditional Christian view that God is unable to suffer. Richard Bauckham summarizes Jurgen Moltmann’s “three reasons for speaking of God’s suffering”. The first is the passion of Christ. Moltmann sees his argument as following the tradition of Luther’s “theology of the cross,” which “makes the cross, for all its stark negativity, the basis and criterion of Christian theology.” Moltmann believes that the doctrine of impassibility in the church fathers was based on Greek philosophy rather than on trying to “understand the being of God from the event of the cross.”

Moltmann’s second reason for attributing suffering to God is the nature of love. In Moltmann’s view, divine love entails “reciprocity” between God and creation. It must be possible for him to be “affected by the objects of his love.” So God must be vulnerable to suffering. This argument is based, not on a mere analogy between divine and human love, but upon the nature of divine love revealed in the Cross.

Thirdly Moltmann appeals to the problem of human suffering. He finds no adequate answer to the problem of evil, except to say that God suffers with suffering human beings. Again, he does not argue merely from human suffering to divine suffering, but rather from God’s suffering with Jesus on the cross. This event has soteriological implications: “all suffering becomes God’s so that he may overcome it” (emphasis in original).

. . .

But is there any sense in which God suffers injury or loss? Certainly Jesus suffered injury and loss on the cross. And I agree with Moltmann that Christ’s sufferings are the sufferings of God. The Council of Chalcedon, which defined orthodox Christology, said that Jesus has two complete natures, divine and human, united in one person. We may say that Jesus suffered and died on the cross “according to his human nature,” but what suffered was not a “nature,” but the person of Jesus. And the person of Jesus is nothing less than the second person of the Trinity, who has taken to himself a human nature. His experiences as a man are truly his experiences, the experiences of God.

. . .

To summarize, let us distinguish … between four modes of divine existence:

1. In his atemporal and nonspatial transcendent existence, God ordains grievous events and evaluates them appropriately. He grieves in that sense, but does not suffer injury or loss.

2. In his temporal and spatial omnipresence, he grieves with his creatures, and he undergoes temporary defeats on his way to the complete victory he has foreordained.

3. In his theophanic presence, he is distressed when his people are distressed (Isa. 63:9), but he promises complete victory and vindication both for himself and for his faithful ones.

4. In the Incarnation, the Son suffers injury and loss: physical pain, deprivation, and death. The Father knows this agony, including the agony of his own separation from his Son. He regards this event as the unique and awful tragedy that it is, but also as his foreordained means of salvation. What precise feelings does he experience? We do not know, and we would be wise not to speculate.

Moltmann is right to find divine suffering in the cross in the in the senses mentioned above. But he is wrong to conclude that the doctrine of God’s impassibility is merely a remnant of Greek philosophy. As we have seen, the doctrine of impassibility should not be used to deny that God has emotions, or to deny that God the Son suffered real injury and death on the cross. But God in his transcendent nature cannot be harmed in any way, nor can he suffer loss to his being. In his eternal existence, “suffering loss” can only mean losing some attribute, being defeated in his war with Satan, or otherwise failing to accomplish his eternal plan. Scripture assures us that none of these things will happen, and so they cannot happen. In this sense, God is impassible.

. . .

As we have seen from Hebrews, Christ was made like us so that he could be a merciful and faithful high priest, empathizing with our infirmities. He takes away sin, the cause of those infirmities, and he hears our prayers with understanding. But this principle should not be magnified into a metaphysical assertion about God’s vulnerability, for, as we have seen, God’s eternal nature is invulnerable, and that invulnerability is also precious to the believer.

God’s suffering love in Christ, therefore, does not cast doubt upon his aseity and unchangeability. It is, however, ground for rejoicing (Frame, 611-616).

Martin Luther’s Theology of the Cross

This has some special relevance for me these days, and I’ll be posting on this occasionally, Lord willing.

The years 1517 and 1519 are generally regarded as being of decisive importance in the career of Martin Luther, and the history of the Reformation as a whole. The first witnessed Luther’s posting of the Theses on Indulgences at Wittenberg, and the second the historic Leipzig disputation with Johannes Eck. It is all too easy for the historian to pass over the intervening year, 1518, as being little more than the necessary interval between these two pivotal events, a valley nestling between two mountains.

In April of that year, however, at the invitation of Johannes von Staupitz, Luther presided over the traditional public disputation at the assembly of the Augustinian Congregation at Heidelberg. In the course of that disputation, a new phrase was added to the vocabulary of Christendom – the ‘theology of the cross’. In the theologia crucis, we find Luther’s developing theological insights crystallized into one of the most radical understandings of the nature of Christian theology which the church has ever known.

Crux probat omnia. For Luther, Christian thinking about God comes to an abrupt halt at the foot of the cross. The Christian is forced, by the very existence of the crucified Christ, to make a momentous decision. Either he will seek God elsewhere, or he will make the cross itself the foundation and criterion of his thought about God. The ‘crucified God’ – to use Luther’s daring phrase – is not merely the foundation of the Christian faith, but is also the key to understanding the nature of God.

From Alister E. McGrath, “Luther’s Theology of the Cross,” Oxford, UK: and Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, ©1985, 1990, pg 1.