God is love.

There are infinite ways in which God is love. One of the most basic of these is that God is the only being of whom it can be said, His perfection not only justifies but demands His own self-love. If we long to approach His perfection through sanctification, the only path is to love God ourselves and submit to His will.

It doesn't bear simple intellectual acknowledgement: the idea that God's perfection necessitates His self-love requires sweet but arduous reflection. We finite human creatures are so far from perfection that our self-love is always tainted by impure motives, so much so that we are commanded in Scripture to not love ourselves. We are so imperfect that we are forbidden from loving ourselves, and yet God is so perfect that He must love Himself.

That He would also deign to save any of us is literally incomprehensible. We cannot take this seriously enough, yet in our arrogance and unpardonable silliness, we frequently (perhaps always, in one way or another) make light of God's love for us. We could try to excuse ourselves with an appeal to our imperfection, but that imperfection makes us no less culpable before the Sovereign of heaven, and yet He still shows us mercy and grace.

God is love. It sounds almost trite now, after millennia of misusing the phrase and shoving it into shapes in which it doesn't belong, after millennia of trying to make it trite. But it is the least trite statement with which we will ever be confronted. God is love means for His children that He pardons and forgives us, and for His enemies that He is quick to punish and mete justice.

How are these both true? Because of His self-love. If God loves Himself, then any people He has made His own He will also love, and any that have rejected Him without repentance He will force from His presence. Either of these are weighty enough concepts to incubate reflection throughout eternity, but it is the former that is most worthy of contemplation.

These three remain: faith, hope, and love, but the greatest of these is love. God is not some local deity or nebulous life essence to be greedy and mean (on the one hand) or silly and powerless (on the other). Love is great because God is love; and, likewise, God's love makes Him great. A king that is known only for his cruelty and oppression is soon forgotten or relegated to the big black book of history; but a King known for His magnanimity is never forgotten, though His enemies rightly fear the jealousy with which He guards His subjects.

It won't do to think improperly of God's love, but it also won't do to replace His love with intellectual propositions and hard sayings. The only path to enlightenment on this score is the Scripture and its revelations of God's character and nature. These bear constant reflection, not for the sake of mere knowledge, but in order to hear, feel, sense, experience and understand Yahweh, the God who is Love and who simply and absolutely and completely Is.

NOT american literature you should read.

The King James Version of the Bible (for obvious reasons)

Paradise Lost, by John Milton (my favorite piece of literature)

The Pardoner's Tale, by Geoffrey Chaucer (my second favorite piece of literature)

The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, by T.E. Lawrence (maybe the finest example of an autobiography)

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, by Laurence Sterne (as Steve Coogan said, the first postmodern novel. one of the funniest books you'll ever read, and one of the best novels)

Essays, by George Orwell (the man was a genius and a prophet)

The Road to Serfdom, by Friedrich von Hayek (also a genius and prophet, and the spokesman for true conservatives in the traditional sense)

Pilgrim's Progress, by John Bunyan (you simply have to read this one)

A History of Philosophy Volumes 1-9, by Frederick Copleston S.J. (the best of its kind, and more entertaining than you might think)

Titus Andronicus, by William Shakespeare (Aaron the Moor)

The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien (best fantasy, best Christian novel, best modern epic)

Njal's Saga, by anonymous (if you've never read an Icelandic saga, this is the best place to start; you won't find more violence or snappy one-liners in even the best Schwarzenegger movie)

The Scarlet and the Black, by Stendahl (my uncle thought this was the best novel ever written; I wouldn't go that far, but it's up there)

Fear and Trembling, by Soren Kierkegaard (the greatest Christian philosopher writes on the things that matter most)

Twilight of the Idols & The Anti-Christ, by Friedrich Nietzsche (the greatest Pagan philosopher writes on the things that matter most)

The Institutes of the Christian Religion, by John Calvin (theology as it was always meant to be--apprehendable yet deep, intellectual yet applicable and spiritual)

The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women, by John Knox (first of all, the man knew how to title a book; second, the monstrous regiment was comprised of Elizabeth I, and his arguments are compelling)

If on a winter's night a traveler...., by Italo Calvino (so brilliant it's hard to understand why anyone since him has tried writing fiction, or whatever you call it)

The Master of the Day of Judgement, by Leo Perutz (a supernatural mystery story that actually makes sense and is actually scary)

Barnaby Rudge, by Charles Dickens (underrated and largely unread, this is a masterpiece in every sense)

Our Mutual Friend, by Charles Dickens (if Dickens had written nothing else, he'd still be the greatest novelist of all time)

The Death of Death in the Death of Christ, by John Owen (the Puritans are my heroes; this book is pure devotion to Jesus Christ)

The 13 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear, by Walter Moers (who knew Germans had such a sense of humor??)

Hunger, by Knut Hamsun (never has deprivation been so carefully rendered)

A Universal History of Infamy, by Jorge Luis Borges (why isn't this required reading everywhere?)

The Gormenghast Trilogy, by Mervyn Peake (post-World War II Europe in a fantasy setting; this novel will blow your mind and remind you that fiction can indeed be great and worthwhile)

The Tain, by anonymous (an Irish cattle raid in the roughest poetic language you'll ever encounter)

The Kalevala, by Elias Lonnrot (when Vainamoinen sings the world into existence, if you don't lose your breath you're heartless and inhuman)

Mr. Standfast, by John Buchan (spies who use codenames from Pilgrim's Progress AND a veteran of the Boer War who ends up in a fighter plane)

The City of God, by St. Augustine (duh)

and finally

The Complete Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (because really, he accomplished something great there)

American literature you should read.

The last post was fairly abstruse, so I compiled this list:

Moby-Dick, by Herman Melville (the Great American Novel, and the first experimental novel)

To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee (great first-hand introduction to the problem of American racism)

Babbitt, by Sinclair Lewis (best introduction to the "American dream" and business politics)

 

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy (just beautiful)

 

Walden, by Henry David Thoreau (explains why the 1960s happened)

 

The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck (one of the finest novels of all time, and best fictional presentation of the Depression)

The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway (fishing, baseball: it's the ultimate American adventure story)

 

Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut (hilarious, one of the first great postmodern novels and a brilliant deconstruction of American civil religion and military smugness)

The Deerslayer, by James Fenimore Cooper (the first American adventure novel; at least, the first good one)

 

Wieland, by Charles Brockden Brown (the first American novel, and a great horror story)

 

Wise Blood, by Flannery O'Connor (a Southern Gothic allegory about Jesus and scary fundamentalists)

 

The Movie-Goer, by Walker Percy (an expose of American individualism and confusion)

The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, by Edgar Allan Poe (a little-known but AWESOME horror/adventure story)

 

Black Boy, by Richard Wright (posing as an individual's autobiography, this is better described as the autobiography of blacks in America)

 

Roughing It, by Mark Twain (the American West as it really was)

Ethan Fromme, by Edith Wharton (heartbreaking, and very New England)

 

The Sea Wolf, by Jack London (survival of the fittest, more action-packed and scary than Call of the Wild)

 

As I Lay Dying, by William Faulkner (a dead woman tells of her life from the coffin her people are carrying her to her grave in)

 

The Bridge of San Luis Rey, by Thornton Wilder (great redemptive adventure story)

 

Hiroshima, by John Hersey (what America did to Japan in WWII, very sad)

 

Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison (the Black experience told with full literary abandon)

 

The Thin Red Line, by James Jones (redemption in Guadalcanal; the best WWII novel ever)

On the Road, by Jack Kerouac (the American rebel spirit encapsulated in vigorous prose)

 

In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote (how real-life becomes fiction, in the form of a terrifying crime story)

Lie Down in Darkness, by William Styron (the finest stream of consciousness novel written by an American)

 

Starship Troopers, by Robert Heinlein (the great sci-fi novel by a man who knew sci-fi was more than just escapism)

Bless Me, Ultima, by Rudolfo Anaya (the best book no one's ever read, and the best Latino novel)

 

The Man in the High Tower, by Philip K. Dick (what if Hitler had won?)

 

The Lathe of Heaven, by Ursula K. LeGuin (what if Hitler hadn't won?)

 

Dune, by Frank Herbert (the greatest sci-fi novel of all time)

A Canticle for Leibowitz, by Walter M. Miller, Jr. (post-apocalyptic monks saving what remains of civilization while philosophizing: how awesome is that?)

Johnny Got His Gun, by Dalton Trumbo (the saddest war novel I've ever read, and one of the best)

The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien (man oh man oh man. maybe my favorite novel ever)

Ancient Modern Epistemology (Part I)

Ancient modernism is predicated on two assertions: That there is an external world which can be known directly, and that there is a spiritual reality which can be known only by the mediation of divine revelation. The first assertion is in turn based on two premises: That we, by experience, are able to apprehend and comprehend the physical realities to which we all are subject; and, that divine revelation tells us God created matter intentionally and placed man within it, to interact with and to exert influence over.

Some will protest that this is circular reasoning. How can the first assertion include an essential element of the second assertion without begging the question? The fact is, every philosophical position that is logically and practically cohesive is similarly interrelated. If the two foundational assertions were wholly independent, how could the structure stand? It would collapse like a building built on two foundations and insufficiently joined.

It is actually the second assertion that is primary. Left by himself, man can only produce absurd stories as to his origins, his telos, and his nature. Dropped as if by chance into the cosmos (as he perceives it), man is able only to postulate answers to his deepest questions based on chance, going so far in some cases as to declare the universe and everything in it without meaning, as though human civilization and the world of external realities exist simply because they exist, and that everything we suppose has inherent meaning is no more than a construct.

The only rational proposition is that something outside man produced him, along with everything else that exists. Did this origin point in turn have an origin? To suppose so is irrational: an infinite regression of origin points is as meaningless as a single cosmic chance. A number of mediatory points between the "original originator" and the world as we know it is similarly absurd, mainly because it's an unneccessary postulation, and secondarily because a force powerful enough to originate the cosmos wouldn't need intermediaries to accomplish the work.

Is this overly simplistic? Only if one's presuppositions have led one to the conclusion that there is no all-powerful God who controls all things in infinite wisdom and power. Complexity of the philosophical kind is only really requisite once the obvious and simple solutions have been relegated to the realm of impossibility. But in that case, any potential for philosophical freedom or exploration is also abolished: to limit possible explanations to the synthetic and complex is to abandon the philosophical project before it's even begun by setting for it arbitrary and inviolable boundaries.

Ironically, these are exactly the parameters set by those most vocal about the necessity of free thought, those whose idea of intellectual integrity is defined by the ability to think entirely outside structures, even as they limit themselves to the most tyrannical of philosophical frameworks. Ancient modern thinkers, on the other hand, allow for true intellectual liberty by asserting the knowableness of the cosmos and its God, by asserting the finitude of man's ability to comprehend, and by asserting the latitude within those two parameters for developing unique and creative ideas.

The pillar of ancient modern epistemology, then, is the understanding that man is not the originator of knowledge or truth but its discoverer by the grace of God. If we believe this, we necessarily believe that the world of external realities is knowable, that it is created by God, and that God Himself has spoken to us indirectly through this creation and directly through His Word.

Without such a foundation, the pursuit of knowledge or wisdom is fruitless, without ultimate meaning (or at least, without discernible ultimate meaning) and therefore mere nihilism. Ancient modernism rejects both this nihilism and its underlying materialism for a world of material and spiritual truth predicated on the creative purposes of the God of the Universe.

Ancient modernism is not a theory of everything.

First of all, the attempt to construct a theory of everything betrays a misunderstanding of both science and philosophy, and of their intersection. A theory of science has its place within the philosophical framework of ancient modernism, but theories are for science and philosophy is not science in the way that word is currently used.

What is a theory of everything? Marxism is probably the readiest and most accessible example. Karl Marx sought to explain every facet of existence under the rubric of economic evolution, interpreting history, religion, morality, war, and so on as part of a massive teleological project to bring all humanity out of subjugation via violent revolution.

That's an unfairly simplistic analysis of Marxism, to be sure, but it demonstrates the "theory of everything" principle: man's need to put everything into place and give it meaning in light of some "big picture" context. Even nihilists have a meaningful theory of everything (the idea that nothing has meaning is, in itself, an assertion of meaning).

Postmodernism would seem for many to have eliminated the need for or possibility of a theory of everything. More thoroughly even than nihilism, postmodernism destroys any basis for assertions of meaning, compelling its adherents to reject truth claims of every kind and defy meaning on even the most ontological level by accepting all truth as truth (and thereby, accepting none of it).

Yet, because human nature refuses to die, even in the face of existentialist assertions of its non-existence, even postmodernists infuse their philosophy with a strong dose of teleology. Maybe there isn't an all-encompassing end toward which mankind is headed, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't work hard to be accepting of one another in the interest of a loving and compassionate society.

I'm speaking, of course, primarily of postmodern popularizers. There are those under the label (though increasingly the label is becoming passe and old-fashioned) that would assert the supreme autonomy of every individual to construct a life for himself of his own imagining and desire. But this, too, is teleological, and amounts to a theory of everything.

A theory of everything only works in a world where there is no reliable truth, no ontological realities to affirm, no God and therefore no revelation. The man who accepts God's Word as his standard for truth and reality need not construct a comprehensive theory of everything beyond what the Bible offers—he need only understand what God says and live according to His precepts.

Ancient modernism is not an attempt to explain everything. It's a philosophical attitude which admits both intellectual curiosity and exploration, and reliance on God's self-revelation. It attempts to marry the naivete of the ancients and Medievals with the cynicism of the moderns, to bring skepticism under the directional guidance of Christian reason.

The goal of ancient modernism is neither to explain everything (except as the Bible allows), nor to foster credulity. We must be careful thinkers, but we must also affirm there are many things we will never and can never know, to be simultaneously bold and humble as people and as thinkers. One man can never come to truth alone, and it is the project of ancient modernism to overturn the rampant island-making that has characterized so much of modern, postmodern, and post-postmodern thought.

On Posturing

It would take a peculiarly unobservant person, or someone living in a dangerously insular society, not to notice the posturing that goes on all around us. Skinny kids in coffee shops carry huge books and name-drop obscure bands; dudes with shaved heads drive gigantic pickups and spit tobacco; the Amish wear clothes without zippers and look askance at "the English"; middle and upper middle class Americans buy boats and big houses and trips to Europe and SUVs.

Behind all this posturing are much less impressive realities: the obscure hipster bands are obscure because they're so bad no one wants to listen to them, and the books go unread because Dave Eggers and David Mitchell are boring; the pickup-driving rednecks are henpecked at home and hate their jobs; the Amish teach false doctrine and their communities often foster abuse; and the spendthrift American families are all deeply in debt.

So why posture? Do people really think no one can see past the facade? Are the posturers themselves unable to see past their own facade? or the facades of others? And yet one thing that typically characterizes those who posture is their finely cultivated ability to look past the surface of other peoples' lives to the more shallow interior: punks ridicule rednecks, rednecks ridicule yuppies, yuppies ridicule hipsters, hipsters ridicule normal people, and normal people ridicule punks.

Part of the problem is our innate willingness to stereotype. We see it as inevitable, so we give in on a regular basis and sort every person we see into a prepared category. This propensity is so deep seated we even stereotype ourselves, wearing the appropriate clothes, watching the appropriate TV shows, doing the appropriate things to fit into our chosen subculture or group. The act of stereotyping is precisely the act that allows us to see through facades even while maintaining our own.

What's really important isn't the stereotyping, however; it's the corresponding idea that the stereotype to which we belong is the only legitimate one. This is why we posture: to make sure everyone else sees to which group we belong, and that they understand our group is more important, more real, more authentic than theirs. And everyone does posture to one degree or another; some are less obvious, but we all seek identity in a group of some kind.

For Christians, this is sin. Not that we can't be scholars or mountain bikers or blues musicians: but we must not seek identity anywhere but in Christ and as members of His Church. Posturing is ultimately an act of idolatry, assuming that your chosen group is somehow superior to all the others, and that collectively you share an edge on reality. We must abandon posturing, and to the extent that it facilitates posturing we must abandon stereotyping.

Probably the worst form of posturing is that which goes on among Christians as Christians. We carry our Bible ostentatiously wherever we go, we drop catchphrases, we look askance at bums and the morally suspect, we put bumper stickers all over our cars, we wear fish and crosses on our T-shirts and jewelry. Where does this get us? If it's an attempt at evangelism, it fails because it's non-direct and amounts to no more than a show of piety; if it's anything else, it makes no sense.

Our only identity as Christians is as fallen humans saved by the grace of God and the Blood of Jesus and the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. We aren't cool, we aren't macho, we aren't sexy; we're nothing but broken and yet redeemed. The whole human race is broken—attempts to find wholeness as part of a group shouldn't surprise us, but neither should they seduce us. Only one group offers the wholeness we seek, and that is Christ's Body, and we should offer it to everyone humbly and without a hint of posturing or merely human identity-mongering.

Corruption vs. Glory

I watched one of my favorite movies the other day—El Cid (1961), the story of Spain's Medieval hero and defender against Muslim invasion from North Africa. One thing in particular stood out this time, something I hadn't noticed before, and that was the sharp distinction in the film's depiction of the militant Islamic forces and the Christian armies.

When the forces of Ben Yussuf are arrayed outside Valencia, we're given long shots of both the Islamic soldiers and their siege towers. The soldiers wear mostly black, carry strange shields of zebra skins and weird symbols, and march to the ominous sound of huge drums. Their siege towers are decorated with horned animal skulls, their spears are adorned with black feathers, and their are thousands upon thousands of them. They carry black flags.

The Christian knights ride white horses. They are dressed in white and red and gold, they carry dozens of brightly colored pennants and banners, their shields are gold and red. The Cid himself is the brightest of all, mounted on a white horse, wearing white and blue and silver, the sun breaking on his silver shield in every direction. Before they go into battle, they pray and are blessed by a priest.

Obviously, viewers are supposed to understand that Ben Yussuf's armies are the bad guys, and that the forces of El Cid and King Alfonso are good. We're also supposed to get a sense of Medieval morality, that there isn't a blurred no man's land between what is right and what is evil, but rather a sharp distinction and clear sides.

If that was all, El Cid would simply end up being another action movie, an adventure film set in the Middle Ages but that could be easily transposed onto any time period. I think the real message of the representation of the two armies goes much deeper, and that it shows not simply the difference between good and evil, but the nature of pagan warfare vs. Christian warfare.

Ben Yussuf's heathen armies attempt to strike fear in their enemies using that which they fear most: Death. They dress in black, they wave frightening shields, they mount skulls everywhere. They fear death because they have no real hope of salvation when it comes, and they expect their enemies to share this same fear.

The Christian armies, on the other hand, fear God, and therefore they awe their enemies, not with depictions and displays of death, but with portrayals of glory. Christians have nothing to fear in death, for it is our final sanctification. We fear God, the King of Creation, and we attempt to spread that fear wherever we go, not merely to terrify, but to reveal and to convert.

In history, El Cid Rodrigo de Bivar was a Christian knight dedicated to purity, chastity, loyalty, and piety, the only true foundations for any true gallantry and honor. The only way a man can live by these things is to fear God, not death, and yet to live as though death might overtake him at any moment. Anthony Mann's beautiful film ably depicts this, and for that we can be glad.

simplicity and depth

In his introduction to Athanasius' On the Incarnation, C.S. Lewis encourages readers to read at least one old book for every three modern ones. This is good advice, both because (as Lewis points out) the old books are so accessible, and because modern books tend to be infinitely more complex and specialized than they have any need or right to be.

This is particularly true of Christian books (precisely the kinds of books Lewis is talking about, actually). As he says in the introduction, a Christian book must stand the test of time before it can be widely accepted, not because years equal truth, but because Christians must hold it against the Bible and the rest of accepted orthodox Christian doctrine.

One of the most important reasons to read old books in the Christian tradition, however, is that they are much clearer than most of the books published in the last two hundred years. The farther back we go, the clearer the writing: the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds are models of clarity and brevity, as well as some of the oldest Christian documents we have.

It's not just that the writing is clearer, but that the ideas expressed are so much simpler and Gospel-oriented. Modern writers fall over themselves responding to critics, clarifying their highly specialized use of language, cutting away the baggage of centuries of scholarship, or simply adding to it with their own assertions and ideas.

Of course, there's nonsense among the older works, too. Not everything the Church Fathers wrote is worthwhile, there's plenty of bad Medieval theology, the Renaissance and Enlightenment were largely too man-centered, and so on. But you're also far more likely to find excellent Christian writing in the literature of these periods than in our own era.

I would argue that it wasn't primarily because those writers were smarter, or better stylists, or anything temporal like that: they were simply more in love with Christ's true Gospel and its application to the life and thought of every believer. The Puritans in particular (here I'm betraying my own bias) are able to balance incredibly deep theological reflections and baldly practical applications of that knowledge.

We often somehow think that the more complex something is, the deeper it is; John Calvin and Martin Luther ably disprove this as a matter of course in their writings. Calvin's Institutes of the Christian Religion is one of the deepest doctrinal works you'll ever encounter, but on every page he shows how the concepts he explores are important for our life in Christ. The same goes for Luther's The Bondage of the Will and John Owen's The Death of Death in the Death of Christ.

Theological scholarship is important: it would be disingenuous of me to suggest otherwise. At the same time, it must always be balanced by serious reflection on the core doctrines of our faith: Christ's work, death, and resurrection; God's sovereignty; the universal curse of sin and death under Adam; the justification and sanctification of the saints through Christ; the life everlasting. Without an unbreakable anchor in these truths, the scholarship is meaningless and even harmful.

Even (especially?) popular works aren't free from the trend I've identified. While they aren't scholarly, authors of these books find anything to talk about but the Gospel, appealing to socio-economic analysis, social gospel concerns, psychology, postmodern ideas of "story," etc. to connect their message to a modern audience. The truths a modern audience needs to understand and affirm, however, are the same as they were 2000 years ago, and so is human nature.

We could read all the modern books, mindful to cut through the dross, looking for the kernel of truth or insight in each one; or we can read the old books, the ones focused on Christ alone, and be genuinely enriched and quickened to better service. The message hasn't changed, after all; we've simply invented more ways of getting around its incisive and convicting truth.

Ecclesiological Deism

The particular doctrinal mindset that allows Jack Crabtree to make his outrageous but not original claims is something I would call ecclesiological deism. It's a view I think he shares (to his chagrin, if he knew it) with many groups in contemporary Christendom. Basically, ecclesiological deism is the idea (implicit or explicit; both forms exist) that after Jesus instituted the Church, God stepped back and let His people sort things out for themselves.

Probably the most common source of this view is a misunderstanding of the apostolic age. If you think the Holy Spirit supply was simply cut off after the death of the last apostle, thus introducing an era of practical materialism, ED would make sense. Also, if our salvation depends primarily on knowledge, then it would make sense that we'd be fully responsible to apprehend it on our own through the exercise of our intellect and reason.

What any view leading to ED fails to acknowledge, however, is that the Church doesn't belong to Christians, but to Jesus Christ through the agency of the Holy Spirit for the Father's good pleasure and glory. The Church is not primarily a physical entity (though it has a physical element or manifestation), but a spiritual one. How else could Paul speak of it as the Body of Christ, the Bride of Christ, or the Temple of the Holy Spirit?

The implication for Jack's case is clear: if the Church is simply an invisible collective of people each striving for truth on their own recognizance, then of course he can reach the proper view of doctrine all by himself. If, however, the Church is the Body of Christ as maintained throughout the centuries by the Holy Spirit, his claims become a lot less plausible.

This isn't to say that no bad doctrine will ever creep into the Church. Because while the Holy Spirit is our guide and helper, we're also sinful human beings who don't always use our reason to the glory of God. It is to say that 2000 years of Christians haven't gotten the Gospel wrong. This isn't an intellectual cop-out: unless we think Christ abandoned His people to their own devices at the ascension, we have to understand that He left us with provisions against the complete loss of biblical truth in the form of His Spirit.

Perhaps Jack's ecclesiological deism results from his abandonment of the Trinity. People like Brian McLaren who hold similar (if not identical) beliefs seem to be influneced more by semi-Pelagian ideals and an overemphasis of common grace (both of which Jack seems to embrace as well). The temptation to elevate human beings beyond their due is a perennial problem, both within the Church and outside it. All we can do is renew our efforts to preserve the truth passed down to us from our spiritual forebears under the auspices of God's Holy Spirit.

Ancient Modernism and Intellectual Individualism

I've been preoccupied with heresy lately because a man I'd consider one of my intellectual mentors recently revealed himself to be a thorough heretic. Less than a year ago, Jack Crabtree of Gutenberg College in Eugene, OR issued a series of lectures at his church (Reformation Fellowship) condemning most of the core orthodox teachings of Christianity and putting in their place a variety of resuscitated heresies.

When I was a teenager, I attended a philosophy discussion group led by Jack and his brother David, in which we read texts and talked about them. I'm guessing we were exposed to some weird ideas (in retrospect), but the value was that we learned how to analyze texts and form ideas, how to interact with the ideas of others, and how to think logically. I'd give my dad most of the credit for my ability to do those things, but many of the skills he'd taught me were focused and honed in the discussion group, and I was forced to defend my statements by people who often didn't agree with me.

In light of this new development, I can see that one of Jack's purposes for the group was to impart a Greek sense of intellectual individualism to each of us, to force us to wrestle with every idea we held and to reconcile them all into a workable whole. On one hand this is an ability every Christian needs to foster: there's too much shoddy thinking, lack of thinking, and pernicious thinking in the Church, and we need to counter it with good theology, good philosophy, and good logic.

At the same time, we need to fit our thinking in to the broader picture already assembled by those Christians who've gone before us. I'm not suggesting we ought to blindly accept everything handed to us by our pastors and elders, by Christian thinkers, even by the Church fathers. No one is infallible, and everyone makes errors. Scripture is our final standard for truth, and it is that rather than human dogmatism to which we submit.

I am suggesting that human fallibility spreads beyond the Church fathers or contemporary pastors and includes every one of us, no matter how intellectually astute we find ourselves to be. We cannot hope to assemble a coherent theory of everything independent of everyone else, not only because we're fallible, but because we're finite, limited, and chronically subjective even when we believe ourselves to be wholly objective. The second someone says they've finally figured everything out, I immediately become suspicious of everything they say subsequently.

Which is how Jack Crabtree began his lectures (available here), positing that he was sitting in a coffee shop when suddenly the whole "Christianity thing" made sense to him. Unfortunately, his "Christianity thing" excludes a meaningful doctrine of the atonement and justification, calls our sin nature "a philosophical fiction" and claims "it doesn't exist," eliminates the beautiful doctrine of the Trinity, and imparts to Jesus mere God-consciousness rather than actual deity. All this is the result, not of humble submission to Church doctrine tempered with arduous and careful study, but of a desire to simply "make sense" of the Bible in purely rationalist terms.

There are plenty who would simply retreat from this extreme individualism into a dogmatism that is deaf, blind, and speechless. As a Reformed and Presbyterian Christian I acknowledge and even celebrate a certain kind of dogmatism, but only a dogmatism that is informed and able to interact with traditions outside itself. The insular dogmatism is certainly not the right response to Jack's radical individualism, mainly because it provides no basis for showing him his error.

The proper response, what I would call the ancient modern solution to this problem, is to admit the necessity of personal study while submitting to the standards for doctrinal orthodoxy handed down through all true Christian traditions. To presume that the entire Church has been wrong for two thousand years, and that one man can finally discover the truth found in Scripture all by himself in the 21st century, simply doesn't make sense. He claims we've been bullied and forced to believe the doctrine of the Trinity, but I challenge you to show me one person who believes in the Trinity who doesn't do so of their own accord.

Do any of us fully understand the doctrine of the Trinity? No, absolutely not. Does that mean it isn't a true doctrine? Only if human reason is the final standard for truth. But if you understand God to be an infinite transcendent being, whose self-revelation in the Bible includes both paradox and mystery, it only makes sense that there would be essential truths about his nature and character that would be impossible for fallen, finite, subjective human beings to grasp entirely. Jack's real sin, therefore, isn't his accusation against the Church, it's his presumption that he can know and understand everything the Bible proclaims about Yahweh, and that he can do so entirely on his own.