Special thanks to the GMU chapter of Ratio Christi for allowing me to present on this topic at a recent meeting. I would like to apologize for not being able to adequately address the question regarding Plantinga’s argument against metaphysical naturalism. I have updated my comments below to include a brief summation. I will readily acknowledge that I still find myself trying to grasp all of its intricacies. I want to especially thank Marcel for his insightful feedback regarding Spiegel’s argument. I have incorporated the idea of UGN briefly in my summation.
What explains the practice of making inductive inferences? Why do we seem inclined to think that the future will resemble the past? Is this simply the result of conditioning; something baked into us through the repetition of daily experience? Or, is it something hardwired into us, an essential part of our cognitive makeup? The distinction here is significant. On the one side is David Hume’s position which represents an authentically empiricist perspective. For Hume, beliefs based upon inductive reasoning are without any rational justification and calls into question the foundation of scientific knowledge. If he is correct in his thinking, then the so-called problem of induction may well prove to be far more problematic for the Christian than it is for the scientist. On the other side, is the position being put forth in this paper. I wish to argue that inductive reasoning, far from being the product of nurture, is more properly conceived as the product of nature. I will begin by exploring what has come to be known as the problem of induction, arguing that Hume is not so much stating a problem as he is making a demonstration regarding the limitations of reason. It is in this section that I will delineate the larger implications of Hume’s thinking for the theist. I will then discuss what has come to be known as the principle of induction. Far from weakening the ability of reason, I contend that Hume’s demonstration actually points to a priori powers of reason. Finally, I will attempt to account for the production of inductive reasoning. How are we to explain the emergence of this phenomenon? Ultimately, I will contend that inductive reasoning provides a compelling demonstration of theistic design.
The Problem of Induction
Antony Flew defines induction as “a method of reasoning by which a general law or principle is inferred from observed particular instances.” We use it all the time in our day to day life. Anytime we make a general conclusion based upon limited observation, we are reasoning inductively. If I conclude that all women from El Paso are beautiful, solely based on having met a few dozen women who were born in that city, then I have drawn an inductive conclusion. Perhaps, more commonly, we all believe the sun will rise tomorrow and do so on the basis that we have seen it rise every morning of our lives. But induction transcends these mundane beliefs. Indeed, science itself, despite efforts to demonstrate otherwise, relies heavily upon induction. Flew underscores this long tradition of inductive reasoning in science by pointing to Newton’s rules of reasoning, as delineated in the preface to Book III of his Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica.
The third rule runs: ‘The qualities of bodies, which admit neither intensification nor remission of degrees, and which are found to belong to all bodies within reach of our experiments, are to be esteemed the universal qualities of all bodies whatsoever.’ The fourth, which ‘we must follow, that the argument of induction may not be evaded by arbitrary hypotheses’, states: ‘In experimental philosophy we are to look upon propositions inferred by general induction from phenomena as accurately or very nearly true … till such time as other phenomena occur, by which they may either be made more accurate, or liable to exceptions.’
Whereas deductive reasoning provides certainty (starting with true premises leads one to a true conclusion), inductive reasoning does not. But the problem with induction is not simply the lack of certainty that it provides (most would agree that this really is not problematic at all), but rather that it seems to admit no justification whatsoever.
David Hume famously argued that while we certainly use induction all the time, when asked to justify it, we cannot. Take for instance the aforementioned belief that the sun will rise tomorrow. What justifies our believing this? Hume tells us that the belief is based upon an assumption commonly referred to as the uniformity of nature (UN). Simply put, it is the assumption that the future will resemble the past. As Samir Okasha states, it is “the assumption that objects we haven’t examined will be similar, in relevant respects, to objects of the same sort that we have examined.” But as Hume points out, this assumption is not necessarily true. One could easily conceive of a universe where the uniformity of nature does not hold.
The contrary of every matter of fact is still possible; because it can never imply a contradiction, and is conceived by the mind with the same facility and distinctness, as if ever so conformable to reality. That the sun will not rise tomorrow is no less intelligible a proposition, and implies no more contradiction than the affirmation, that it will rise.
But if UN is not logically true, can we at least provide empirical evidence to demonstrate its truth? Hume says that any attempt to do so descends into circular reasoning. If we argue that UN is true because it has always held true in the past, then we have simply used UN to prove UN and are guilty of begging the question. There are therefore no rational or empirical grounds upon which to justify inductively held beliefs. According to Okasha, “Hume concludes that our confidence in induction is just blind faith.” This is what is traditionally known as the problem of induction.
In response to Hume, some have turned to probability as a means of justifying inductive reasoning. If the premises of an inductive argument cannot guarantee the truth of its conclusion, at the very least they make it more likely than not. Bertrand Russell states,
It must be conceded, to begin with, that the fact that two things have been found often together and never apart does not, by itself, suffice to prove demonstratively that they will be found together in the next case we examine. The most we can hope is that the oftener things are found together, the more probable it becomes that they will be found together another time, and that, if they have been found together often enough, the probability will amount almost to certainty. It can never quite reach certainty, because we know that in spite of frequent repetitions there sometimes is a failure at the last, as in the case of the chicken whose neck is wrung. Thus probability is all we ought to seek.
Of course, an inductive argument’s probability is relative to the truth of the premises and whether it is based upon our total relevant knowledge. The upshot is that while scientific knowledge is not certain, we are justified in holding inductively formed beliefs on the basis that they are highly probable.
The problem with this line of reasoning is that it relies upon induction. To say that something is highly probable, is to say that a very high proportion of occurrences follow a particular pattern. Hume tells us in his Treatise on Human Nature that “probability is founded on the presumption of a resemblance betwixt those objects, of which we have had experience, and those, of which we have had none.” In other words, probability presupposes UN; and thus, also falls prey to circular reasoning. Hume continues,
I will go farther, and assert, that he could not so much as prove by any probable arguments, that the future must be conformable to the past. All probable arguments are built on the supposition, that there is this conformity betwixt the future and the past, and therefore can never prove it.
The question is whether this leaves us in a state of total skepticism. Has Hume effectively undermined our ability to justify any scientifically obtained knowledge? There is much debate as to whether Hume embraced this radical conclusion. In reviewing the many interpretations, Alexander Rosenberg concludes that Hume did not reject inductive reasoning. Instead, he confidently asserts that Hume considered it to be an inevitability for humans and essential to the scientific enterprise. Hume himself states, “. . . none but a fool or madman will ever pretend to dispute the authority of experience, or to reject that great guide of human life . . .” Or, as Alvin Plantinga states, “it is the person who does not reason inductively who requires therapy.” So then, if Hume was not advocating a form of Pyrrhonean skepticism, what exactly was his point?
Many philosophers would agree with Rosenberg that Hume was never suggesting that we abandon inductive reasoning. In separate works, both Antony Flew and A. J. Ayer argue that Hume should not be read as presenting a problem or difficulty. Instead, he was simply demonstrating the limitations of reason. We can see this clearly in Hume’s own words.
. . . in all reasonings from experience, there is a step taken by the mind, which is not supported by any argument or process of the understanding; there is no danger, that these reasonings, on which almost all knowledge depends, will ever be affected by such a discovery. If the mind be not engaged by argument to make this step, it must be induced by some other principle of equal weight and authority; and that principle will preserve its influence as long as human nature remains the same.
For Hume, that principle is custom or habit. Ayer points us to the Treatise on Human Nature where Hume states,
. . . that all our reasonings concerning matters of fact are deriv’d from nothing but custom: and that belief is more properly an act of the sensitive, than of the cogitative part of our natures.
By sheer repetition of experience, the mind begins to naturally and automatically make the inductive step. It is not reason or universally intuited principles that serve as “the great guide to human life,” but rather custom built upon experience. Just as a dog expects to be fed by her master whenever he comes home from work, so also humans form inductive beliefs on the basis of instinct. When something happens often enough, we form the expectation that it will happen again.
Custom, then, is the great guide of human life. It is that principle alone, which renders our experience useful to us, and makes us expect, for the future, a similar train of events with those which have appeared in the past.
As we will see later, Hume’s point is not terribly challenging for the scientist. However, for the Christian it has potential to be highly problematic. By relegating inductive reasoning to habit, Hume believed he had demonstrated a fundamental weakness of our cognitive faculties. According to Hume,
. . . we cannot give a satisfactory reason, why we believe after a thousand experiments, that a stone will fall, or a fire burn; can we ever satisfy ourselves concerning any determination, which we may form, with regard to the origin of worlds, and the situation of nature, from, and to eternity?
Because the natural powers of the human mind are so limited, as a matter of practice we should refrain from metaphysical speculation. Or as Hume more eloquently puts it, we should limit “our enquiries to such subjects as are best adapted to the narrow capacity of human understanding.” If we can’t even justify induction, how can we possibly justify anything beyond our own immediate experience? Rather than advocating complete skepticism, Hume is simply espousing a naturalistic, mitigated version which rejects knowledge claims that go beyond immediate experience. Hume continues,
It seems to me, that the only objects of the abstract sciences or of demonstration are quantity and number, and that all attempts to extend this more perfect species of knowledge beyond these bounds are mere sophistry and illusion.
According to Flew, Hume’s point is that it is impossible to postulate “any universal proposition from any evidence which can be provided by experience.” While philosophers of science have wrestled with the implications of Hume’s thought for generations, all the scientist needed to do to free herself from the problem of induction was to abandon any universal or metaphysical conclusions. So, in essence, the problem of induction provides atheists like Hume, Flew, Ayer and Russell a key premise in the argument for scientific naturalism: we cannot and should not draw conclusions that transcend the very grounds upon which those conclusions are based.
The Principle of Induction
In formulating a response to this challenge, the Christian can look to what has come to be known as the principle of induction. It is important to note that Hume himself seems to speak of induction in terms of being a principle, as evidenced by the quotes above. Many philosophers have picked up on this, taking Hume’s intimations much farther. For example, Flew believes induction should be viewed as a rule guiding how we reason.
. . . the much talked about Principle of Induction should be construed: not as the wonder premise missing from Hume’s failed syllogism; but rather as a fundamental and primary rule of procedure for argument from experience.
While the principle of induction doesn’t prove that something is necessarily true, as with logical principles, it does prove that something is probably true. But Russell goes much farther than Flew, making an interesting connection between the principle of induction and the logical principles of thought.
In addition to the logical principles which enable us to prove from a given premise that something is certainly true, there are other logical principles which enable us to prove, from a given premise, that there is a greater or less probability that something is true. An example of such principles—perhaps the most important example is the inductive principle . . .
The logical principles of thought to which Russell alludes, are known a priori; they are self-evident laws that govern all reasoning. Can we say the same for the principle of induction? Or is it more appropriate to think of it as an ad hoc principle, which seems more in keeping with what Hume is saying? Consider what makes a principle of reason a priori. When we think of the logical laws of thought pertaining to contradiction and identity, we can say that they are properly basic. Their truth is prima facie; we accept them without the need of supporting argumentation. In fact, they are incapable of being supported by argumentation. As Russell points out, “logical principles are known to us, and cannot be themselves proved by experience, since all proof presupposes them.” Is this also the case with the principle of induction? Some of the most well-known commentators on Hume would seem to think so. Ayer asserts that there is no question that the principle of induction is universally assumed by all humans. In fact, he specifically connects it with the entire corpus of principles of logic, including causality, saying that, “They cannot be proved . . . nature is so constituted that we cannot avoid accepting them.” Returning to Flew, he adds:
it would be absurd to dismiss as irrational or non-rational all appeals to experience as a guide for our expectations, on the grounds that no further reason could be offered for such appeals beyond the ultimate reason that just this is a large part of what it is to be a rational man.
Perhaps Russell gives us our most forceful statements regarding the nature of the principle of induction. He begins by stating that “. . . the principle of induction . . . is itself not capable of being proved by experience, and yet is unhesitatingly believed by everyone, at least in all its concrete applications. In these characteristics the principle of induction does not stand alone.” He is, of course, speaking of the other laws of thought, such as identity, contradiction and excluded middle, all of which are self-evident and fundamental to all thinking. But is it proper to think of the principle of induction in this same way? It is if we think of it in terms that Alvin Plantinga proposes. “A self-evident proposition is such that a properly functioning (mature) human being can’t grasp it without believing it.” Certainly, this would seem to be the case with the principle of induction, which cannot be proven without assuming its truth. This is why Russell accepts it as a priori, and has no trouble connecting it with the logical principles of thought. Experience cannot confirm or confute these principles, and yet they all seem to be firmly rooted in our rational nature. Of course, if we are to conceive of the principle of induction as an a priori truth, then we have moved beyond the traditional understanding of the concept. Plantinga asserts that we should view a priori beliefs as displaying “the same defeasibility structure displayed by perceptual beliefs, inductive beliefs, and so on.” More specifically,
But it doesn’t follow that what has a priori intuitive warrant is indefeasible, or infallible, or rationally unrevisable or indubitable, or anything of that Cartesian sort. Nor does it even follow that beliefs formed a priori are independent of experience in that they can’t be corrected or defeated by beliefs from other sources—testimony, for example. It may be, of course, that the very highest degrees of warrant are occupied only by a priori beliefs . . .
Therefore, it is entirely reasonable to view a priori warrant as coming in degrees with some a priori principles being more certain than others. In this way, the logical principles of thought have a different kind of a priori warrant than the principle of induction. Russell refers to this as non-logical a priori knowledge.
This does not mean that Russell is advocating rationalism or that to accept what he is arguing is somehow to abandon empiricism. While empiricism maintains that all knowledge is derived from experience, being an empiricist does not preclude one from acknowledging that there exist certain aspects of our knowledge (such as the principles of thought) which are logically independent of experience. Russell is careful to distinguish that knowledge of these principles is not innate as a pure rationalist would maintain. However, while experience cannot prove them, it most certainly makes their existence known. “Even that part of our knowledge which is logically independent of experience (in the sense that experience cannot prove it) is yet elicited and caused by experience.” We might say that the distinction he is making is between cognitive content and cognitive capacity. We are not born into this world pre-loaded with knowledge (cognitive content). However, we are born into this world pre-loaded with principles of reasoning (cognitive capacity), that make possible the accumulation of knowledge. Russell concludes,
Thus, while admitting that all knowledge is elicited and caused by experience, we shall nevertheless hold that some knowledge is a priori, in the sense that the experience which makes us think of it does not suffice to prove it, but merely so directs our attention that we see its truth without requiring any proof from experience.
While I agree with Russell’s assessment, I am not convinced that it is a proper interpretation of Hume.
Hume would say that the principle of induction is something conditioned within us entirely based upon our experience. He would deny any overarching universal principle of reason, or laws which are hardwired, or pre-loaded into our cognitive structure. For Hume, the principle of induction strictly refers to custom itself, which produces ad hoc guides which have wrongly come to be construed as innate and a priori. In this regard, he is a true empiricist. However, I don’t think Russell is wrong in extrapolating something more on the basis of what Hume has demonstrated. Even if Hume is correct that we only come to form beliefs about causality and the uniformity of nature after having been exposed to repeated experience, he still must account for why it is that human nature is prone to consistently and uniformly form these beliefs. Is it logically necessary that we form these beliefs? If, as Hume suggests, we can easily conceive of a universe where nature is not uniform, then it is also just as easy for us to conceive of a universe where nature is uniform, and yet individuals fail to form beliefs about the uniformity of nature. Hume uses the first case to demonstrate that inductive beliefs are not logically necessary, but rather formed upon the basis of custom. But what about the second case? How would he address that? He doesn’t. His entire argument presupposes a necessary connection between repeated experience and the formation of certain beliefs about repeated experience. Hume assumes that this happens, but he never explains why it does. Hume’s own argument reveals a blind spot which seems to have been properly identified by Russell. The great guide to life is not custom or habit, but rather a priori principles of reasoning, such as the principle of induction, which govern all thought and the formation of knowledge.
Let us briefly consider a scenario that illustrates this point with greater clarity. Early in Hume’s Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding he considers a thought experiment which has come to be known as the missing shade of blue.
Suppose, therefore, a person to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly acquainted with colours of all kinds, except one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with. Let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one, be placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the lightest; it is plain, that he will perceive a blank, where that shade is wanting, and will be sensible, that there is a greater distance in that place between the contiguous colours than in any other. Now I ask, whether it be possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses?
Hume readily acknowledges that it is universally accepted that the man will indeed be able mentally conjure up the missing shade of blue, without ever having experienced it. Of course, this contradicts his maxim that it is impossible for ideas to arise apart from experience, also a point which Hume readily acknowledges. So, how does Hume explain this phenomenon? He doesn’t. Hume simply dismisses it as an anomaly. “[T]his instance is so singular, that it is scarcely worth our observing, and does not merit, that for it alone we should alter our general maxim.” But I’m not so sure it is as singular as Hume suggests. Perhaps, the missing shade of blue reveals the fundamental problem with Hume’s entire argument about induction and causality. Hume fails to acknowledge the possibility that the man’s ability to envision the missing shade of blue is due to an innate cognitive power of abstraction, by which the missing shade is produced by comparing and contrasting all other known shades. Likewise, he also fails to acknowledge the possibility that our ability to reason inductively is due to an innate cognitive capacity to make connections between repeated events. One can admit innate cognitive capacity (the power of abstraction and the ability to make causal connections) without admitting to innate cognitive content (that we have prior knowledge of the missing shades universal essence or that we have pre-loaded knowledge of the uniformity of nature).
Of course, even though Hume doesn’t overtly make this distinction, he certainly speaks in terms that lend themselves to drawing these conclusions. He readily acknowledges that there is something essential within the operations of the mind that leads us to make causal connections and inductive inferences. Ultimately, it is unexplainable to him, and he is unwilling to chalk it up to anything more than instinct.
As nature has taught us the use of our limbs, without giving us the knowledge of the muscles and nerves, by which they are actuated; so has she implanted in us an instinct, which carries forward the thought in a correspondent course to that which she has established among external objects; though we are ignorant of those powers and forces, on which this regular course and succession of objects totally depends.
But this is really not so far from where we wish to go in this discussion. If Humean scholar Robert Fogelin can say of Hume’s argument that “we are naturally determined – hardwired, as it were – to form certain beliefs in certain circumstances,” then why can’t we wonder if this power is an essential part of cognition? And if it is, why can’t we ask what accounts for that ability?
The Production of Inductive Reasoning
It is not difficult to imagine why Hume avoids this discussion. Once we acknowledge that we have this innate cognitive ability to reason inductively, it invites the question as to its origin. How do we account for the production of this cognitive capacity? Plantinga states that inductive reasoning is warranted on the basis that “that is how a properly functioning human being forms beliefs . . .” In other words, part of the design plan of humanity is the ability to form nondeductive beliefs about the future based upon past observations. This ability to recognize uniformity in nature, and form beliefs and predictions about the future, is an essential part of human nature. Plantinga turns to Thomas Reid, from whom he draws heavily, to make this point.
. . . the principle is necessary for us before we are able to discover it by reasoning, and therefore is made a part of our constitution, and produces its effects before the use of reason.”
Reid argues that this truth is demonstrated by looking at the natural practice of children, who clearly utilize the principle long before they can confirm it rationally. Inductive reasoning comes to us naturally. Additionally, Plantinga acknowledges that it is not a principle that can be confirmed noncircularly.
. . . suppose I do note that when what was future came to pass, it resembled what was past: that is to note no more than that past futures have resembled past pasts. It is only by employing the very principle (or habit) in question, however, that I can see this as confirming that future futures will resemble past futures. So I can’t noncircularly confirm Reid’s principle.
But Plantinga argues that this isn’t problematic, as there are many principles that we accept in a properly basic way. If this is not problematic for the laws of reason, then why should it be problematic for the principle of induction?
For Plantinga, what we see operating in human reasoning suggests “intentional design on the part of a conscious agent, one who takes thought and aims to accomplish a purpose.” In fact, he takes the formation of this idea itself to be properly basic. It seems we have an inclination to consider as designed any natural organism which displays purpose and proper function. Our epistemic structure and powers, including the ability to form inductive inferences and grasp the laws of reason, represent a significantly high degree of purpose. Given this, it seems only natural to think of our cognitive capabilities as functioning according to a design plan. “If you think there is no naturalistic analysis of these notions, what you have is a powerful argument against naturalism. Given the plausible alternatives, what you have, more specifically, is a powerful theistic argument.”
Plantinga’s overall argument against metaphysical naturalism‘ s inability to account for design is both complex and compelling. As such, it is beyond the scope of this paper. Speaking in evolutionary terms, Plantinga argues that since metaphysical naturalism tends to be skeptical of beliefs, with some even discounting them as legitimate causes of action, then reliable cognition is not necessarily more fitness-enhancing than that of an unreliable sort. If this is the case, then truth is irrelevant and the naturalist cannot argue that extensive false beliefs would lead to maladaptive behavior, which in turn would not be favored by natural selection. Plantinga concludes that the probability of metaphysical naturalism plus evolution generating reliable cognition aimed at the production of true beliefs is either very low, or inscrutable.
James Spiegel provides a more overt argument for theism, specifically built upon the regularities we find in nature. Drawing upon George Berkeley’s language metaphor in his 1732 apologetic Alciphron, Spiegel attempts to formulate a Berkeleyian approach to the problem of induction. In this polemic, Berkeley argues that we can infer the existence of God from signs in the world. Spiegel points us to the words of Euphranor, Berkeley’s spokesperson in Alciphron.
Though I cannot with eyes of flesh behold the invisible God, yet I do in the strictest sense behold and perceive by all my senses such signs and tokens, such effects and operations, as suggest, indicate and demonstrate an invisible God, as certainly, and with the same evidence, at least, as any other signs perceived by sense do suggest to me the existence of your soul, spirit, or thinking principle . . .”
Just as we infer the existence of other minds (an invisible, rational cause) from the outward signs displayed by others (specifically language), we can infer the existence of an invisible, universal agent speaking through the workings of nature. “Like human language, the language of nature has a syntax, which we call the laws of nature.” Again, pointing to Berkeley’s own words:
The phenomena of nature, which strike on the senses and are understood by the mind, form not only a magnificent spectacle but also a most coherent, entertaining, and instructive . . . language or discourse.
Spiegel’s point is that along with the logical laws of thought (which Berkeley would have considered part of the language of nature), we can include the principle of induction. All of these principles together make up the syntax of nature, functioning very much like human language. Much like Plantinga’s argument above, this leads us quite naturally to think of this syntax in terms of being designed by an intelligent being. But whereas Plantinga locates his argument in the design plan evidenced by our cognitive faculties functioning properly, Speigel’s Berkeleyian approach is more focused outward, on the regularities found in nature. There are three steps in his argument.
- We begin with the observation that there are regularities in nature that help sustain and prosper life. Because these regularities have obtained universally and without exception (given certain qualifications), humanity has not only been able to survive, we have flourished. Since these regularities are fundamental to scientific discovery, we have been able to make astounding advances in science and technology. This has led to even greater benefits for humanity. In fact, these regularities are what have allowed us to discover more and more of the syntax of nature (its laws and principles).
- We next move to the conclusion that these regularities, benefits and syntax (laws of nature) are the result of an intelligent, purposeful and powerful mind which has designed the universe for our benefit.
- We conclude by maintaining that since this God is so obviously benevolent, we can trust that he will continue to maintain these regularities, benefits and laws. In other words, we can have complete confidence in the uniformity of nature that the future will continue to resemble the past.
We might add that while it is not logically necessary that nature remain uniform, Hume is correct that we can conceive of a universe where it doesn’t hold; it certainly seems logically necessary in a universe where God exists. It would be contradictory to God’s benevolent nature if he allowed the uniformity of nature to cease. In conclusion, Spiegel summarizes his argument.
In short, regularities in nature are useful for human welfare and thus indirectly testify to the existence of a purposeful, intelligent, and powerful mind at work behind the cosmic scene who seeks to benefit his creatures. That is, the laws of nature evidence the existence of a benevolent God.
While Spiegel’s and Plantinga’s approaches clearly differ, they do share two common points. First, they point to design as evidence of divine intelligence and purpose standing behind the workings of the universe. Second, they both maintain the inability of metaphysical naturalism to properly account for the design found in nature. Spiegel states,
When it comes to the basic principle that nature is uniform, the scientist, whether or not she believes in the supernatural, exercises faith, precisely because no empirical evidence sufficient to justify this belief can be provided.
If you are dead certain naturalism is true, you will have to accept the cost, not only of rejecting this account of warrant, but of rejecting the very idea of proper function. A high price, no doubt—but no more than what a serious naturalism exacts.
Ultimately, it is their differences that leads me to favor Plantinga’s approach. On the one hand, Plantinga is justifying inductive reasoning on the grounds that it represents a properly basic belief, which in turn points to intentional design on the part of a conscious agent. Spiegel seems to approach the matter from the completely opposite direction, using the existence of a benevolent God to justify inductive reasoning and our continued belief in the uniformity of nature. The problem with this is that Spiegel opens himself up to Hume’s familiar charge of circular reasoning. He has essentially used the uniformity of God’s nature, or UGN, to justify our belief in UN. Spiegel’s Berkeleyian approach now has to address questions about the uniformity and benevolence of God’s nature. Specifically, how do we know that God’s past benevolence will continue into the future? Additionally, if we are going to argue that a failure of the uniformity of nature would be irreconcilable with the benevolent nature of God, then by the same logic we could reason that the existence of evil is irreconcilable as well. As theists, we know that the existence of evil is not incompatible with the existence of God. So, why should we suppose that the existence of dis-uniformity would? Because he doesn’t invoke the existence of God to justify inductive reasoning, Plantinga’s simplicity is to be preferred.
I began this paper by stating that the problem of induction was possibly a more troubling idea for the Christian than it ever was for the scientist – at least this has been the claim of scientific and metaphysical naturalists alike. My hope is that by facing the problem head on and seeing it for what it is, we have actually reversed that claim and demonstrated that it is more problematic for the atheist. Inductive reasoning provides a compelling premise in our overall argument for an intelligently designed universe.
 This paper will limit its focus to what has come to be called the old riddle of induction. The new riddle of induction, which deals with the question of what makes a property projectible, is not pertinent to my overall purpose of using inductive reasoning to point to the existence of God.
 Antony Flew, A Dictionary of Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 171.
 I’m thinking here of Popper’s attempt to account for scientific knowledge on non-inductive grounds. Popper accepted Hume’s idea that inductive reasoning was completely without justification and maintained that scientists need only use deductive inferences. While it is not possible to prove a scientific theory true on the basis of limited observation (by induction), it is possible to prove a scientific theory false (by deduction).
 Antony Flew, Hume’s Philosophy of Belief: A Study of His First Inquiry (New York: Routledge Press, 2013), 80. Newton’s work was published in 1687, a few decades before the birth of Hume. His comments are quite sophisticated, anticipating some of the later discussion among philosophers of science wrestling with Hume’s writings on induction.
 Samir Okasha, Philosophy of Science: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 24.
 David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, ed. Peter Millican (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 18.
 Okasha, Philosophy of Science, 27.
 Bertrand Russell, The Problems of Philosophy (Overland Park, KS: Digireads.com Press, 2011), 44-45, Kindle.
 Richard Swinburne, introduction to The Justification of Induction, ed. Richard Swinburne (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 6-7. Total relevant knowledge would include anything that might affect the probability of the conclusion. While “all swans are white” is a common example of inductive reasoning, it actually represents a bad inductive conclusion. Given what was known prior to Captain Cook’s discovery of black swans, an induction based upon species coloration had a high probability of error. Even at that time it was general knowledge that in multiple species of animals, color is a common variable characteristic.
 Robert J. Fogelin, “Hume’s Scepticism” in The Cambridge Companion to Hume, ed. David Fate Norton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 95.
 Hume, Enquiry, 138.
 Alexander Rosenberg, “Hume and the Philosophy of Science,” in The Cambridge Companion to Hume, ed. David Fate Norton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 77.
 Hume, Enquiry, 26.
 Alvin Plantinga, Warrant and Proper Function (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 126.
 A. J. Ayer, Hume: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 91; Flew, Hume’s Philosophy of Belief, 70, 88. The argument that follows is largely built upon the common flow of Flew and Ayer’s arguments. I will admit that I am clearly using observations by Flew, Ayer, and Russell (a bit later) in a manner that they would likely find unacceptable. However, my point is that even in the writings of some of the most well-known atheists, we can find elements that both undermine Hume’s thesis and, when properly understood, set us on a path to find evidence of theistic design in nature.
 Hume, Enquiry, 30.
 Ayer, Hume, 86
 Hume, Enquiry, 32.
 Ibid., 118.
 Rosenberg, “Hume and the Philosophy of Science,” 76.
 Hume, Enquiry, 118
 Flew, Hume’s Philosophy of Belief, 71.
 For example, logical positivism has its roots in Hume’s empiricism. It is easy to see Ayer’s verification principle as a natural outgrowth of Hume’s argument regarding inductive reasoning.
 Ibid., 88. It seems that Flew has included a subtle critique of his colleague Russell, who put the principle of induction forth to serve as the hidden premise in every inductive argument. In this way, Russell seemed to be attempting to make inductive reasoning logically conclusive, by converting it to a deduction.
 Russell, Problems, 50-51.
 Ibid., 51.
 Ayer, Hume, 87
 Flew, Hume’s Philosophy of Belief, 79.
 Russell, Problems, 48.
 Plantinga, Warrant, 108.
 Ibid., 112.
 Ibid., 111-112.
 Russell, Problems, 53.
 Ibid., 51.
 Ibid., 52. Russell’s argument that we must accept the principle of induction a priori or embrace total skepticism is not without contention. Russell states that “we must either accept the inductive principle on the ground of its intrinsic evidence or forgo all justification of our expectations about the future (56).” Paul Edwards argued that it was not necessary to embrace a non-empirical principle, arguing instead that we can provide justification for induction without begging the question. See Paul Edwards, “Russell’s Doubts About Induction,” in The Justification of Induction, ed. Richard Swinburne (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 19-25.
 Hume, Enquiry, 14.
 Ibid., 40.
 Fogelin, Hume’s Scepticism, 112.
 Plantinga, Warrant, 136.
 Ibid., 122.
 Ibid., 123.
 Ibid., 126.
 Ibid., 195.
 A case he makes in Warranted Christian Belief.
 Ibid., 214. Plantinga considers this to be a version of Thomas Aquinas’s Fifth Way, and at this point quotes Aquinas at length: “The fifth way is taken from the governance of the world. We see that things which lack knowledge, such as natural bodies, act for an end, and this is evident from their acting always, or nearly always, in the same way, so as to obtain the best result. Hence it is plain that they achieve their end, not fortuitously, but designedly. Now whatever lacks knowledge cannot move towards an end, unless it be directed by some being endowed with knowledge and intelligence; as the arrow is directed by the archer. Therefore some intelligent being exists by whom all natural things are directed to their end; and this being we call God.” As part of his overall argument, Plantinga agrees with the claim of Richard Dawkins that evolution is a “blind watchmaker,” arguing that evolution cannot produce design without the assistance of a divine watch-maker.
 He is constructing an argument based upon how he believes Berkeley would have responded to Hume. Even though Berkeley was alive at the time Hume first published his thoughts on induction, he never specifically addresses it in his writings.
 James Spiegel, “A Berkeleyan Approach to the Problem of Induction,” Science & Christian Belief 10, no. 1 (April 1998): 77
 Ibid., 78.
 Ibid. Here he is quoting from Siris.
 Spiegel, 79.
 Ibid., 80.
 Planting, Warrant, 213. He follows this up rather nicely by asserting, “the way to be a naturalist in epistemology, is to be a supernaturalist in ontology.”
Andres Serrano’s Piss Christ, a 60 x 40 inch full color glossy photo of a plastic crucifix submerged in a container of the artist’s urine, was first displayed in 1988 at the Southeastern Center for Contemporary Art (SECCA) in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The photo took first prize in the center’s annual competition, but immediately caused outrage among the Christian community. Its subsequent display at museums around the world has lead to protests, accusations of desecration, a reduction in funding for the
National Endowment for the Arts (the government agency that funded the SECCA competition won by Serrano), and acts of vandalism carried out against the controversial photograph. While violence should never be condoned, it’s understandable why so many Christians are upset. What Christian could possibly view this so-called work of art as anything other than an offense against the faith? One would think, we would be hard pressed to find a single follower of Christ for whom this photo is deemed beautiful. And yet, this is exactly what we find in Christian artist Edward Knippers, who believes that after more than twenty-five years it’s time for the church to no longer view Piss Christ as sacrilegious, but rather as a statement of divine truth.
How exactly does Knippers come to this conclusion? He begins by asking the reader to consider what she would think upon viewing the photograph without any prior knowledge of the fluid in which it is contained, or of the artist’s intention in creating the work. Under such conditions, Knippers cannot help but feel that she would consider it beautiful.
The image in and of itself is quite beautiful as we see a crucifix almost nostalgically glowing in a golden mist of timelessness.
It’s only upon becoming aware of the title and the realization of what the fluid is, that one takes offense. Knippers describes it as a jolt to the emotions. In his own reflection on Piss Christ, philosopher Jorge J. E. Gracia states that this is because of how society views the act of deliberately urinating on another person or object. It’s considered an act of power, defiance and humiliation. It’s as if the one pissing is declaring the person or object as worthless and disposable, like piss. It seems only natural for the viewer to conclude that this is exactly what Serrano is doing. But what if the viewer were to discover that this was not the artist’s intention? If this disturbing immersion was for a noble purpose, would it no longer be considered an offense? Knippers is not the first to make such a speculation. It’s entirely possible that Serrano is trying to make some statement about the trivialization and commercialization of the Christian faith. In this sense, he would be attacking the reduction “of one of Christianity’s most precious and seminal moments to a plastic trinket.” That would mean that Serrano is not attacking the Christian faith, but rather the Christian community for the way they themselves have desecrated the image of Christ. Along these same lines, Serrano may be expressing his anger about corruption in the Catholic Church (the institution most commonly associated with crucifixes), acting in a manner not unlike Christ when he overturned tables in the temple and chased out the money changers. Wouldn’t we then have to view Piss Christ as a work of piety and righteous indignation?
Even though Knippers considers these possibilities, in the end he dismisses the artist’s intention as unimportant. It wouldn’t even matter to Knippers if the artist was Catholic, or considered himself a Christian. What matters for Knippers is what Piss Christ comes to mean for him (and for Christians in general), independent of the artist’s actual purpose.
No matter what Serrano’s intent or what this piece has become through the crucible of the culture wars, at this distance in time, from all of the shouting and wounded feelings of hard fought battles, the Piss Christ has become for me an elegant statement of the Christian truth that should be at the heart of our contemplation . . . the fact that our dear Lord and Savior has come, and is here, to powerfully redeem the likes of us with his love.
Knippers has come to view Serrano’s work as symbolic of the incarnation: Jesus left the splendor of Heaven to be immersed in the cesspool of earth, in order to sacrifice his life on the cross for a fallen and filthy world. In this way, Piss Christ is to be seen as a powerfully instructive tool aimed at shocking us out of our comfortable lives to “wrestle with the hard reality of what Christ has done for us.”
Is Knippers correct in his interpretation? Given that Serrano has been largely silent regarding his intention, one might conclude that the meaning of this work is ambiguous. If this is the case, then Knippers is certainly justified in his postulation. It’s not
uncommon for artists to construct works that lend themselves to multiple interpretations. In a recent interview focusing on Piss Christ, the artist acknowledged that this was his goal.
I distrust anyone with a message. The best artistic intentions are usually cloaked in mysteries and contradictions. It wouldn’t be interesting for me if the art were not “loaded” in some way. I always say my work is open for interpretation and that’s why I prefer not to read many of the “interpretations” out there. Suffice it to say, the work is like a mirror, and it reveals itself in different ways, to different people.
But Knippers is not premising his interpretation on the basis of ambiguity. He is declaring that Serrano’s intention makes no difference in how he interprets this photograph. In taking this approach, he is isolating it from the context in which it is necessarily embedded.
First, there is the context of the artist’s intention. While Serrano may have intended for it to be a debatable thing, the fact that it has outraged so many would seem to suggest that he has failed in his goal and “loaded” the work too heavily in the direction of desecration. Is this a surprise? There is nothing ambiguous in the title he has chosen. As Gracia points out, the title is not Piss on Christianity, or Pissed Christ. Serrano entitled the work Piss Christ. There is simply no getting around the fact that Serrano has pissed on an image of Christ, and that alone is not easily separated from negative intention (especially given that he knew it would outrage people). Second, there is the context of the cultural reaction to the photo. To casually dismiss the perceptions of seemingly countless Christians worldwide (and quite a large number of non-Christians as well) and ask that they instead view it as an elegant statement of faith is ludicrous. Knippers is advocating a reckless hermeneutic. And because of this, I believe his interpretation is wrong.
This photo is disgusting and insulting. Given our society’s perception of what it means to urinate on someone or something, there is simply no other way to interpret it. However, that doesn’t mean that it’s not instructive. Piss Christ should serve as a visual reminder of precisely why Christ came into this world. Even knowing that men would reject him, even knowing that they would mock his work on the cross, he still came. Though the world would piss upon it, the image of Christ’s unconditional love remains visible.
“. . . While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”
 In 2011 a print of the photograph was destroyed by a mob of protesters in Avignon, France.
 Edward Knippers, “Serrano’s Piss Christ Reconsidered,” Critique, February, 2016, 8.
 Jorge J. E. Gracia, “On Desecration: Andres Serrano, Piss Christ,” Michigan Quarterly Review 52, no. 4 (Fall 2013): accessed October 15, 2016, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?cc=mqr;c=mqr;c=mqrarchive;idno=act2080.0052.415;g=mqrg;rgn=main;view=text;xc=1.
 Knippers, Piss Christ Reconsidered, 8.
 Gracia, On Desecration.
 Knippers, Piss Christ Reconsidered, 8.
 Udoka Okafer, “Exclusive Interview with Andres Serrano, Photographer of Piss Christ,” The Huffington Post, June 4, 2014, accessed on December 1, 2016, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/udoka-okafor/exclusive-interview-with-_18_b_5442141.html.
 Gracia, On Desecration.
 Romans 5:8 (NASB).
This is my attempt to put into action the principles learned from the book Art and Music: A Student’s Guide. You can refer to my post on What is Beauty? for a full review of that book. Keep in mind that I have zero experience evaluating works of art, and even less skill.
I first encountered Pascal Adolphe Jean Dagnan-Bouveret at a mall gift shop in 2004. I was thumbing through an eclectic mix of art reproductions, movie posters, and bikini clad women stretched across the hoods of luxury sports cars. I was killing time and not expecting to make a purchase. When I saw the print of Dagnan-Bouveret’s Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus, I knew immediately that I had to own it. Was it because I instantly recognized this as a great work of pictorial art? That didn’t matter to me. I had never heard of Dagnan-Bouveret before that day. What mattered to me was what the painting represented. As it turns out, this artist is not considered one of the Old Masters, and this particular painting is not regarded, at least by most critics, as a masterpiece. However, it may be time to reconsider its place in history. My goal here is to evaluate the work in light of aesthetic principles and theological/biblical considerations, with an eye toward allowing this piece to speak to others just as clearly as it first spoke to me over a decade ago. The history of Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus is one of promise and disappointment. The work was purchased by Carnegie Steel chairman Henry Clay Frick, when he first saw it unfinished on the artist’s easel in the summer of 1897. An avid patron of the arts, Frick immediately donated the work to the Carnegie Institute, where it became one of the centerpieces of the newly established Carnegie Museum of Art. Carnegie’s vision for his museum was not to build upon the acquisitions of Old Masters, but rather to showcase contemporary painters who would in time become the ‘new generation’ of Old Masters. Dagnan-Bouveret was seen as exemplifying that vision. John Caldwell, one of the trustees of the Carnegie Institute’s Fine Arts Committee, was quoted as saying to Frick,
Unless I am greatly mistaken, this is one of the modern paintings that is going to hold its own and remain a ‘masterpiece’ for the instruction as well as pleasure of future generations.
Caldwell was mistaken. Frick purchased a total of three of Dagnan-Bouveret’s paintings.After his death his estate was unable to give away one of the more repudiated, the Consolatrix Afflictorum (which to this day remains out of public view in the storerooms of the Frick Art and Historical Center in Pittsburg). While Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus remains on display at the Carnegie Museum of Art, it was subject to mixed reviews when first introduced. Even though the Chicago Tribune declared it “one of the most remarkable works of the modern French school,” it also criticized it for being unoriginal (specifically referencing Veronese’s Supper at Emmaus as an example of the derivative nature of the work). The London Times, in its review of the painting’s London showing, also highlighted this point, referencing Titian and Rembrandt as examples. There is even some insinuation of kitschiness from critics. In 1900, this is exactly what a correspondent for the New-York Tribune implied when describing Dagnan-Bouveret’s body of religious paintings.
As devotional works one cannot take them seriously. The figures are too intensely French; the spirit of each is somewhat lacking in the magic which would stir the emotions of the spectator.
Contemporary art critic Ken Johnson characterizes the paining as “absurdly sentimental.” I wish to counteract these claims and demonstrate that Dagnan-Bouveret has produced something entirely original, transcending any characterization as religious kitsch. Far from being derivative and devotional, Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus should be viewed as Avant-garde.
I have been a Christian educator for over twenty years. In 2004, when I first came across this work of art, I was the principal of a K-12 Christian school in El Paso, Texas. As a mission oriented school, we had an open enrollment and saw our ministry as one of leading students to Christ. The passage of scripture upon which this work is based, Luke 24:13-35, resonated with me as an educator. Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, my students metaphorically walked with Jesus. They were exposed to scripture-based curriculum, affording the opportunity to hear about Jesus in each of their classes. They attended weekly chapel services where they were regularly challenged to commit their lives to Christ. They sat under the teaching of fully dedicated Christian teachers, who constantly sought to apply the Bible to every area of the student’s life. And yet, many of the students never came to faith. Luke gives insight as to why.
When he was at table with them, he took the bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened, and they recognized him. And he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?”
These disciples did not recognize Jesus until he broke the bread and their eyes were opened. They did not, and could not, see Jesus on their own. He needed to open their eyes and make them see. It is this precise moment that Dagnan-Bouveret has chosen to capture. Seeing the painting for the first time, I suddenly realized that it was not my job to convert students to Christ. I could present him daily. I could open the scriptures just as Jesus did to these unknown disciples. But a person only comes to faith when God himself chooses to open the eyes. When this authentically happens, it is the most spectacular thing that can be witnessed. While it’s true that this passage is well depicted in European art, in my opinion, Dagnan-Bouveret is the only one to capture it with such vivid realism and emotion.
When looking at the painting, one cannot help but first be drawn to the figure of Christ. He sits at the center, surrounded in a glow of radiant light (reminiscent of Dagnan-Bouveret’s most famous work, La Cena). His hair is auburn, not typical of depictions ofChrist, but adding to a heightened sense of awe and intensity. This stands in contrast to the drabness of all other colors in the painting. The artist wants Christ to be the focal point. His eyes are looking straight ahead, as if focused directly on the viewer, instantly drawing him or her into the image. In fact, from whatever angle the picture is viewed, it appears that Christ’s eyes follow the observer. His two hands are spread out, the bread now divided, and the eyes of the three supper guests clearly opened. Their bodies are largely situated in shadow and darkness, with the light that radiates from Christ shining upon each of their faces. The light even seems to wash out the background scenery making it impossible to discern what is back there. This effect adds to the notion that at this moment, nothing else matters; everything else is obscured by the risen Savior. Two of the supper guests appear to be disciples, and the third a servant. There is a gradation in the responses of each. The servant girl, dinner platter in hand, appears to be in shock as she realizes that Christ is sitting before her. The disciple immediately next to her has his hands thrown up in wonder, as if amazed and entirely speechless. The disciple on the opposite side of Jesus has pushed his chair back, dropped to his knees, and has his hands clasped in worship. The progression of responses moves from fear and terror, to awe and wonder, then finally to total submission.
There is no doubt that the artist is attempting to paint a biblical event in the style of the Renaissance, and both The London Times and Chicago Tribune are correct that other European artists have painted this same scene. However, while this may be a biblical storycommonly depicted in European artwork, Dagnan-Bouveret captures the intensity and wonder of it better than any other. Take for instance the aforementioned Supper at Emmaus. Veronese seems more concerned with capturing the intricate detail of clothing than the intensity of the moment. Christ’s radiance extends barely beyond his own head. In contrast, Dagnan-Bouveret has Christ’s radiance overtaking everything in the photo. Where there is darkness, one gets the sense that the light is quickly chasing it away. You cannot help but conclude that this is a life changing event. Then there is the comparison of the people surrounding Christ. In the Supper at Emmaus, many of them seemed disengaged and unaffected. Nowhere in this work does anyone come close to capturing the mood and feeling that certainly must have accompanied this moment. In contrast, Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus is filled with emotion.
But both the Tribune and Times were referring to something more than simply the style, when accusing the artist of being unoriginal. Off to the right of where Jesus sits, Dagnan-Bouveret has inserted three figures dressed in contemporary clothing. Numerous renaissance painters often did the same thing. Veronese was reportedly called before church officials because of this, being cited for the crime of heresy. But whereas Veronese was clearly doing nothing more than embedding a family portrait into his painting (often wealthy donors would be included in religious depictions to display their adoration and worship), Dagnan-Bouveret is providing commentary on the biblical scene. In addition to the very clear biblical message, which I believe Dagnan-Bouveret has captured faithfully, he has added an additional layer of meaning, one that is in tension with the original.
The modern figures are that of a man standing, a woman kneeling, and a small child immediately in the forefront, kneeling next to the woman. While all three figures are more obscured than any other in the work, the faces of the boy and woman reflect the light radiating from Christ, while the man remains obscured in darkness with what appears to be a dubious demeanor. More than anything else, it was the image of this modern man that caused the Chicago Tribune to title its 1898 review, “Frick Buys A Freak.” The paper also included multiple sub-headlines with the piece: It Will Cause A Shock; Europe Considers It Scandalous and Sacrilegious; Boldness Of The Artist; and, His Cynical View Of Religion. History has left us with the artist’s own words responding to this criticism and explaining the meaning of the three figures. For Dagnan-Bouveret the man clearly is skeptical, finding himself unable to accept the truth of Christ as easily as the boy and woman. This is reflected in the positioning of each of the modern figures’ hands. The child’s hands are clasped near his waist, the woman’s hands are prayerfully at her chest, and the man’s hands are touching his face as he considers what is before him. The move is from childlike faith to the uncertainty of modern man. Dagnan-Bouveret explains that it is the man, enlightened by the advances of philosophy and science, that struggles with his own religion.
But perhaps there is more to be seen here then the artist conveys in his own words. Upon closer examination, it appears that the child is the only one in the frame not looking at Christ. A child accepts the faith of his or her family, often without question. But while children understand the form of piety, they do not necessarily have a heartfelt devotion. This child appears distracted by something else, as children so often are. On the other hand, the woman is filled with devotion as she gazes upon the scene before her. There is no question of her sincerity or acceptance of the truth of Christ. But what of the man? Does Dagnan-Bouveret intend to communicate that educated man cannot, and must not give in to the superstition of religion? While the work does not reveal the man coming to faith, perhaps the radiance and intensity of the rest of the scene provides some insight as to the ultimate outcome of the struggle between faith and reason. The artist asks the question of his own work:
Have scholars and philosophers succeeded in giving satisfaction to the human soul? I don’t believe it. The figure of Christ remains, after 1,900 years, as effulgent as ever. His rule of morals is as sublime as ever.
In providing a retrospective analysis of Dagnan-Bouveret’s work, modern critic Gabriel Weisberg concludes that the artist must be understood in light of the deeper meanings that are reflected in his paintings.
He was certainly one of the most personal of the academic painters, and perhaps the key artist who interiorized academic image-making in a way that reveals the doubts and traumas of an era in which traditional ideology was under severe stress.
Of course, Dagnan-Bouveret did not limit his doubt to traditional ideology in artistic styling. In Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus, he is clearly expressing doubt over the traditional ideology expressed in the very content of art, distinguishing this work as far more than sentimentality and devotion. This is the juxtaposition of two worlds in conflict: the enduring legacy of religious art verses its rejection by modernity. Is that legacy merely the product of a time when scientific ignorance made room for naïve faith? Even though Dagnan-Bouveret entertains this idea, the transformative power communicated in this painting suggests otherwise. Ultimately, it is today’s viewer that finds herself in the exact same position as the skeptic within the painting, coming face to face with the figure of Christ. His eyes connect, his radiance overwhelms, and he draws the viewer into the scene. Will the response be doubt, fear, wonder, or submission? Whatever the response, Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus compels us to decide.
 Gabriel P. Weisberg, Against the Modern: Dagnan-Bouveret and the Transformation of the Academic Tradition (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2002), 267.
 Ross Finocchio, “Frick Buys a Freak: Dagnan-Bouveret and the Development of the Frick Collection,” The Burlington Magazine, December, 2013, 827.
 Ibid., 828.
 W. R. Hearst, “Frick Buys a Freak,” Chicago Tribune, February 6, 1898, accessed November 13, 2016, http://archives.chicagotribune.com/1898/02/06/page/2/article/frick-buys-a-freak.
 “M. Dagnan-Bouveret’s New Picture,” The London Times, December 21, 1897, accessed on November 13, 2016, https://www.newspapers.com/image/33185176/?terms=M%2BDagnan-Bouveret%27s%2BNew%2BPicture.
 Finocchio, Frick Buys a Freak: Dagnan-Bouveret and the Development of the Frick Collection, 830.
 Ken Johnson, “A Timid Academician, Tempted by Modernism,” The New York Times, September 20, 2002, accessed November 9, 2016, http://www.nytimes.com/2002/09/20/arts/art-review-a-timid-academician-tempted-by-modernism.html.
 Luke 24: 30-33 (English Standard Version).
 Hearst, “Frick Buys a Freak.”
 Weisberg, Against the Modern, 10.
I will be posting several articles related to aesthetics and the nature of beauty. The following is a review of a book I picked up a few years ago and will serve as an introduction to the topic. Enjoy!
What is beauty, and how do we identify it? While the nature of beauty has perplexed philosophers for generations, perhaps the problem is best illustrated by turning to children. In every home occupied by toddlers, there are likely numerous “works of art” hanging on the refrigerator door. What mother wouldn’t consider such pictures beautiful? But can a shaky, barely identifiable image, drawn by a three year old hand, actually be considered beautiful? Would a curator declare such a drawing beautiful enough to replace a Rembrandt or a Picasso in an overcrowded exhibition? Paul Munson and Joshua Farris Drake utilize this scenario in their book Art and Music: A Student’s Guide, to point out why so many in our society find it easy to accept aesthetic relativism. The idea that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” helps us understand how a mother genuinely finds beauty in a child’s drawing, while a curator does not. It helps explain the wide variety and dissimilarity that exists in people’s preferences of beauty. But is this thinking correct? Munson and Drake’s purpose is to prepare Christians to think Christianly about art and music. How does the Christian faith and scripture inform our understanding of art and music? What constitutes beauty in these mediums? The authors are convinced that how we come to view beauty, has a direct impact on how we view truth and goodness. Munson and Drake propose a distinctively Christian conception of beauty, that is both objective and absolute, while at the same time accounts for our apparent subjective differences in taste.
In fleshing out this proposal, the authors begin with an analysis of the two major approaches to defining beauty. First, is the classical approach, which views beauty as objective and uniform. Beauty is seen as a characteristic of the object of perception, and can be empirically studied and measured. At first glance, this would appear to be in line with the Christian view of beauty that Munson and Drake are putting forth. In fact, the traditional perspective of Christians has been predominately classical. But the authors view this conception of beauty as inaccurate and dangerously idolatrous.
But make no mistake: not only were the masterpieces of classical antiquity made in the service of idols but also the classical vision itself, at its purest, is an idol. When form is made absolute, when—like the media-bewitched teen starving herself before the mirror—we devote our lives to the pursuit of some created formal standard, the result is not beautiful at all, but wicked and ugly.
Here, the authors connect this idea to C. S. Lewis’s warning against aestheticism. In The Weight of Glory, Lewis poetically cautions that the classical view of beauty can lead to idolatry, hinting at a more accurate conception (something the authors delineate later in the book).
The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.
Lewis is correct in his observation that the classicist conception has often led to the misguided notion of equating beauty with the object of perception. Perhaps, it is precisely this adoption of the classical approach that has led to the internal struggle that many Christians have with beauty. Why does God makes things beautiful, if beauty only serves to lead us away from him? Augustine, who clearly echoed Plato in defining beauty in terms of symmetry and proportion, writes of his own struggle in The Confessions:
Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved Thee! And behold, Thou wert within and I was without. I was looking for Thee out there, and I threw myself, deformed as I was, upon those well-formed things which Thou hast made. Thou wert with me, yet I was not with Thee. These things held me far from Thee, things which would not have existed had they not been in Thee.
The authors maintain that the classical view is a mistake, not simply because we are sinful and inclined to abuse it, but because it is inherently idolatrous.
But idolatry is not the sole reason for rejecting this approach. The classical view tends toward uniformity, which seems to be at odds with our experience of beauty. If all things are beautiful in exactly the same way, how do we account for the diversity of tastes and the variety of perceptions regarding what is beautiful? It is precisely this phenomenon that has led to the second approach, which has become the most dominant. The postmodern approach maintains that beauty is not to be considered a quality of the object of perception, but rather a quality of the one perceiving. Beauty has essentially become synonymous with preference. It is precisely this kind of thinking that has led many to abandon the debate on what constitutes beauty. For the postmodern mind, there is no need to define what is relative to the individual and essentially undefinable.
It is at this juncture, that Munson and Drake begin to delineate a proper Christian conception of beauty. Building upon the teachings of scripture, the authors assert that beauty must be viewed as objective, rooted in the very nature of God. A key verse for them is Mark 14:3-8 where Jesus commends the woman who has anointed him with oil. Jesus declares that she has done a beautiful thing. Instead of commending her for doing a good thing, he commends her for the way (or form) in which she worships him. Hearkening back to Lewis’s quote above, the authors then define beauty as the forms through which we recognize the nature and ways of God. To make this clear, they juxtapose two scriptures discussing God’s creation. In Ecclesiastes 3:11, creation is referred to as beautiful. In Genesis 1:32 it is referred to as good. From this they infer that beauty is a form of communication. Beauty is the means through which God communicates truth and goodness. It is the means through which he communicates himself.
The authors are quick to distinguish this objective view from that of the classical approach. Yes, beauty is objective, but this does not mean that it is uniform. It also does not imply a cookie cutter approach to beauty where everyone must like the same things. Beauty is endlessly diverse. But how can this be the case if beauty is rooted in the unchanging nature of God? Beauty is endlessly diverse because it reflects and communicates the infinite glory of God. Because no mind can comprehend beauty in its fullness, we all see different aspects of it. Because we all have different backgrounds and experiences, we all have different perspectives and preferences. It therefore becomes necessary to view beauty as transcendentally objective. In this regard, the authors believe that the Christian view of beauty is the only view that can properly account for both objectivity and subjectivity.
The authors also assert that this is not a relativistic approach to beauty. The postmodern, relativistic approach implies that no one preference for beauty is better than another. When we are left with such a predicament, it leads to indifference. When no one’s view of beauty is better than anyone else’s view, then there is no need to learn from others or attempt to expand our understanding of beauty. Each person’s perception of beauty represents an objectively knowable facet of the overall concept of beauty. If we are going to come to a better and more complete understanding of beauty, then we must learn from others. “If we are going to see as much of God’s glory as possible, we have to learn to see through others’ eyes.”
Returning to the illustration at the start of this essay, we can easily see how both the mother and curator are merely seeing different aspects of beauty, and to different degrees. In her child’s drawing, the mother rightly perceives beauty. The child’s picture communicates several objectively good things, namely love, imagination, and the development of fine motor skills. But the curator is also making a correct assessment of beauty in not including the child’s picture in his exhibition. He is trying to find the highest and best examples of beauty, and certainly the child’s work does not compete with those of Picasso, although some might feel otherwise. Munson and Drake conclude that to a certain degree, beauty is present is all art. Both the child’s drawing and Picasso’s painting are beautiful. However, this does not mean that all art reflects the same degree of beauty.
. . . the beauty of any object is its capacity to proclaim truth and to realize goodness. The ugliness of any object is the sum of all the ways in which it obscures truth and impedes goodness, which means that everything in this cursed world is both beautiful and ugly. Some things will be mostly beautiful, and some will be mostly ugly, but everything will be a mix.
Munson and Drake next consider the question of art and music for the sake of enjoyment and leisure. Too many Christians believe that pursuing aesthetic pleasure is a waste of time. The authors provide several reasons, based upon general revelation, why this attitude is mistaken. Most notably, is the idea that Christians ought to start thinking of the artist or musician as expounding upon God’s natural revelation much in the same way that a preacher expounds on God’s special revelation. Just as not every Christian is gifted as a pastor, with the ability to exegete scripture, not every person is gifted as an artist, with the ability to observe and communicate through art the often obscured truths of general revelation. By means of color, symmetry, exaggeration and even abstraction, the artist draws our attention to the details of God’s revelation through the created order. The artist helps us see truth and goodness more clearly. She communicates a message, much like a pastor. And just as there are bad pastors, those who fail to communicate appropriately or clearly, so also there are bad artists and musicians. While Hegel is certainly not coming from a Christian perspective, I think he perfectly illustrates this when he talks about art being “born again.” There is truth that is communicated via the created order, which receives added emphasis and clarity as it is reborn through the artist’s work. The artist should be seen as highlighting, elucidating, and communicating things that fallen men and women might not have seen, or might have glossed over in the busyness of life. Beautiful art and music reminds us that we need to stop, look, listen and read God’s works. Seeing it in this capacity, the Christian needs to understand that avoiding art would be disastrous. Those who fail to take the time to enjoy and appreciate beautiful art and music, or even worse focus solely on bad art and music, will inevitably become desensitized to truth and goodness.
The book concludes on a very practical note, providing the student with guidelines for judging art and music, and then asking the student to make applications. Every Christian’s goal ought to be identifying those works of art and selections of music that best communicate the true and the good, that best exemplify beauty. Here the authors once again turn to C. S. Lewis for insight. In An Experiment in Criticism, Lewis challenges the Christian to seek out art and music that reveals new ways of thinking, and enriches one’s life. We can either use art and music to reinforce what we already believe, or we can allow it to teach us, imparting truth and goodness. Ultimately, this means judging art and music on the basis of its purpose. Does it promote an evil use, or the reception of ideas that are evil? If so, then it should be considered ugly art. In this sense ugliness should be understood as a form that “poorly realizes a good purpose, whether it be a good use or the reception of something good.”
In applying these ideas, the authors ask the reader to evaluate three separate works of pictorial art, spending at least fifteen minutes alone in contemplation before reading the author’s own analysis. These instructions are repeated in the final chapter, with three separate musical compositions. In each case, the reader is looking for ways in which the artist or musician is communicating truth and goodness. Several study questions are provided for further reflection, along with a glossary of key terms and a list of suggested resources.
While I found this book to be a compelling introduction to discerning the nature of beauty in art and music, I believe it comes up short in two areas. First, in the area of providing a distinctively Christian approach. Art and Music: A Student’s Guide, is just one volume in an eleven volume series entitled Reclaiming the Christian Intellectual Tradition. And yet, while the authors are clearly influenced by C. S. Lewis, they fail to significantly incorporate any other representatives from the long tradition of Christian thinkers writing on beauty. While I am fascinated by the position that the authors take, I am not sure this represents what Christians have traditionally held. In what is arguably the most important chapter of the book, when the authors are delineating their definition of beauty as transcendentally objective, there is more hints of Immanuel Kant and Werner Krieglstein, than there is to any distinctively Christian ideas. If one is hoping to learn about the rich tradition of Christian thought on art and music, this is not the book.
Second, the authors fail to provide any strong reasons for accepting the position they are asserting. Regarding the connection between beauty, truth and goodness, the scriptural argument is weak. This seems more of an assumption inherited from the classical approach, rather than anything based upon clear passages of scripture. Regarding their definition of beauty, if the authors are going to completely redefine how most people intuitively define beauty, then they will need to provide greater biblical and philosophical support. I found the proposal very intriguing, I just wish they have made a more convincing case. In the end, it comes across sounding more like a postmodern approach to beauty (everything is beautiful, everything is ugly), nuanced slightly to retain the appearance of objectivity.
Ultimately, the book did not provide the definitive clarity I had hoped. I am still unsettled in my views about the nature of beauty. However, the book did engage me enough to make me want to study this question further. What truly is the traditional Christian view of beauty? Do we need to re-think our understanding of beauty and settle on a view that somehow bridges the gap between the classical and postmodern approach, as Munson and Drake attempt to do?
As a fun activity until the next posting, how do you think Munson and Drake would respond to the Voltaire quote at the top? How would you respond?
 Paul Munson and Joshua Farris Drake, Art and Music: A Student’s Guide (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2014), 23-24.
 C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 29. Italics mine.
 Augustine, “Augustine, from Confessions,” in Theological Aesthetics: A Reader, edited by Gesa Elsbeth Thiessen (Grand Rapid, MI: Eerdmans Publishing, 2004), 1.10.5, Kindle.
 The biblical argument presented by the authors rests solely on Psalm 27:4.
 Munson and Drake, Art and Music, 35.
 Munson and Drake, Art and Music, 37.
 The language throughout this section seems to echo that of Werner Krieglstein and his thoughts on transcendental perspectivism. However, it should be distinguished that the authors are not making the argument that man can know nothing of the beauty of God, or that what defines absolute beauty is somehow relative to each individual’s own context and perception. Each individual has a tendency to hone in on certain aspects of beauty, on the basis of upbringing and personal experience. But each perceived aspect is still objectively discernible.
 Munson and Drake, Art and Music, 38.
 Ibid., 40.
 Arthur C. Danto, The Abuse of Beauty: Aesthetics and the Concept of Art (Chicago: Open Court Publishing, 2003), 12-13. Of course, the Christian would not go as far as Hegel and claim that the artist’s work speaks with greater clarity and truth.
 Munson and Drake, Art and Music, 91.
 The authors do not provide a clear delineation of “things” to look for when contemplating these works. They more or less challenge the reader to take a disinterested approach and allow the works to speak to them. When reviewing the analysis of the authors, it is clear that they are employing knowledge of artistic style and art history. The student interested in getting more specific details on what to look for might find Joshua C. Taylor’s Learning to Look: A Handbook for the Visual Arts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981) exceptionally helpful.
This essay focuses on Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit as a whole, in light of Søren Kierkegaard’s critiques of Hegel. Given that Hegel’s attempt to answer Kantian skepticism culminates in a discussion of religion, and Kierkegaard’s own status as a Christian existentialist, I will approach this discussion from a Christian perspective. My goal is to demonstrate that, contrary to Kierkegaard’s claims, Hegel’s conception of the Christian faith is actually more in keeping with Christian tradition (and Scripture), than his own, and provides a more certain foundation for metaphysical knowledge. I also believe this discussion provides insight into a distinctly reformed epistemology, which I have previously addressed, and will have more to say about in an upcoming post.
It is an interesting feature of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit that in his great quest to answer Kantian skepticism and show how absolute knowledge of reality is possible, Christianity plays a significant part. For many, the mere introduction of religion may seem odd in such a discourse, especially a “scientific” work, as Hegel refers to it. And yet, it is clear that in Hegel’s mind, the Christian religion is indispensable to the task. Indeed, it is through the core belief of the Christian faith, the incarnation of Christ, that Hegel asserts such knowledge comes. “Through,” of course, being the operative word. According to Hegel, Absolute Knowledge is not found in religion by becoming a devout follower of Christ. It comes about through the perfection of religion; more specifically, as a result of the insights gained from analyzing the doctrines of the Christian religion. Consequently, Hegel ends up painting a very rationalistic picture of faith, with faith being essentially in rationality itself, rather than in a personal God. This is a picture that most Christians reject. And rightly so, for one of the tenets of Christian faith is that God is personal. Perhaps the most well-known Christian voice to speak against Hegel’s thesis is that of the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard argued, as Ralph McInerny best put it, that “Hegelianism explains away Christianity instead of denying it openly.” Much of Christian thought since has rejected Hegel’s emphasis on a rational religion, and has instead chosen to embrace Kierkegaard’s more fideistic approach. This should not be the case. As far as Christians are concerned, one’s faith ought to be more Hegelian than Kierkegaardian. Not only is Hegel’s view more in keeping with Christian tradition, it provides a basis for the justification of metaphysical knowledge (including knowledge of God). If Hegel has seen it fitting to glean insights from Christian faith without necessarily becoming Christian, then perhaps Christians can glean insights from Hegel without necessarily becoming Hegelian and adopting an impersonal view of the divine.
If there is one thing that can be said with certainty about modern evangelical Christianity, it is that the Kierkegaardian approach to the relationship between faith and reason reigns supreme. Undoubtedly, most Christians would not be able to tell you what Kierkegaardian faith is, let alone spell it correctly. And yet, his views on faith have unquestionably informed the Christian understanding on this matter. Christians have so willingly embraced Kierkegaard’s notion that faith is contrary to reason, that even atheists and agnostics have come to define faith in these same terms. This means that in any discussion involving faith, one must take into consideration that most people presuppose faith to be irrational (and assume Christians do as well). Such understanding may be rooted in the idea that “blind” faith is more spiritual (a misinterpretation of key scriptural passages), or that belief in an other-worldly being requires other-worldly thinking. While Christians may contend that this conception of faith is based upon biblical grounds, the reality is that it is fundamentally rooted in the metaphysical skepticism of Kant, of which both Hegel and Kierkegaard were attempting to address.
It is obvious in reading Kierkegaard that much of his philosophy is a reaction against Hegel’s philosophical system. In his Concluding Unscientific Postscript, Kierkegaard provides a biting summary of his criticism of Hegelian thought:
The speculative movement which plumes itself on having completely understood Christianity, and explains itself at the same time as the highest development within Christianity, has strangely enough made the discovery that there is no beyond.
As the quote above suggests, Kierkegaard rejected Hegel’s philosophy because it watered down Christianity’s real message and turned the church into an essentially secular institution. The reference to there being “no beyond” indicates Kierkegaard’s inability to accept Hegel’s Divine Absolute as coming anywhere close to the Christian conception of God. Hegel may, at times, refer to it as “God” (especially in later writings), but his understanding of the divine is clearly not personal.
Certainly, Kierkegaard’s problems with Hegel went far beyond mere theological differences. For Hegel, the individual is absorbed into the universal. For Kierkegaard, the individual is what matters, and subjectivity is truth (a concept that Kierkegaard could not separate from his faith).
It is subjectivity that Christianity is concerned with, and it is only in subjectivity that its truth exists, if it exists at all; objectively, Christianity has absolutely no existence.
Kierkegaardian faith is entirely subjective; it is a blind leap into the absurd and the acceptance of something which Kierkegaard maintained as being completely incapable of being understood. In his own words, Kierkegaard states,
Christianity specifically involves relinquishing the natural discriminations of the finite understanding and taking a qualitative leap into the realm of the intellectually opaque or repellent.
How different this is from Hegel, who wants to assert that faith is rational (even scientific). For Kierkegaard, faith is irrational; there is no rational justification for belief in God, it is purely an assertion of the will. Finally, a philosopher who gets it! Or so, the fideistic champions would lead Christians to believe. In reality, such thinking does faith more harm than good. Kierkegaard was justified in criticizing Hegel for going too far, but in so doing, he went to the opposite extreme. A faith that is irrelevant to the modern mind is irrelevant to the modern man. When properly understood, faith should not be viewed as contrary to reason. It would behoove Christians to take a closer look at Hegel, back away from taking any irrational leaps into opacity, and move a few steps closer to a faith within the bounds of reason.
It is clear in the very opening pages of the Phenomenology that Hegel has Kant in mind and is attempting to overcome the uncertainty and skepticism that he has left the world pondering. Clearly, he is echoing Kant’s ideas when he talks about the uneasiness we have in contemplating whether we can trust our perceptions of the world.
This feeling of uneasiness is surely bound to be transformed into the conviction that the whole project of securing for consciousness through cognition what exists in itself is absurd, and that there is a boundary between cognition and the absolute that completely separates them.
The absolute that Hegel is referring to is the knowledge of reality itself, as it truly is, as a concrete particular. The problem is in getting to such knowledge, for between the absolute and one’s cognition is this great boundary that separates the two. As the individual encounters objects in the world, they are encountered through the senses, coming to understand them through the use of the mind. Thus, Kant asserted that a person can never get to this knowledge of true reality because they only know it after it has been filtered, mediated, and reshaped by the categories of understanding (i.e. time, space, causation). Objects are known only as they appear to the individual, not as they are in themselves. Or at least, no one can trust that this is not the case. This is the great uncertainty that Kant left the philosophical community and the very issue that Hegel is attempting to confront. Is humanity limited to a mediated and distorted phenomenal knowledge of objects, or can things be known as they really are?
These are questions that might not seem significant to the modern mind, but that have broad philosophical and theological implications for today, particularly for Christians. If we can’t have certain knowledge of the external world, then how can we have certain knowledge of God? If all of our perceptions are skewed by our senses, then how do we know our perceptions of God haven’t also been skewed? It was this same mistrust of sensory perception that led Kierkegaard to define faith as an irrational leap. If we can’t know God objectively by means of our senses and reason, then a subjective act of faith is our only means of knowing him. But while Kierkegaard believed it was impossible to rationally know reality (and ultimately God), Hegel was confident he could. The Phenomenology sets out to delineate his solution, and as was previously mentioned, concludes with the Christian faith providing the answer.
For Hegel, Christianity was the consummate religion. He believed that the truth of Christianity was in what it represented. There was a deeper meaning to be found behind the symbols. It was this picture thinking of the Christian faith that Hegel set about to transform into a scientific philosophy of religion. He argued that a traditional understanding of Christianity objectified God, placing him above and separate from our finite world. God, being infinite and universal, is therefore left alienated from mankind (who is finite and particular). With God off in the unknowable beyond, we find ourselves restricted to the finite, cut off from God’s realm. While Hegel certainly maintained that the Divine was infinite, he considered this particular conception a bad kind of infinity, which is precisely what leads to Hegel’s unhappy consciousness. However, Hegel did find within the Christian faith at least one good picture of how the infinite is to properly be conceived. In the person of Christ we have the infinite and the finite brought together. Hegel scholar Quentin Lauer summarizes what sets Christianity apart from other religions:
The inadequacy of all previous forms of religious consciousness was that they represented to themselves either a god (gods) not recognizable as spirit… In none was the abstract divine human relationship concretized into a relationship of God and man. In Christian theology…the incarnation presents to religious consciousness a uniquely concrete union of the divine and human in the God-man, thus revealing to human consciousness that to be totally human is to be divine. Jesus Christ is for Hegel the unique self, who is at once absolute and human.
This is why Hegel refers to the Christian faith (when properly understood) as the religion of revelation. Not that it is a faith built upon the Scriptures (what Christians commonly refer to as revelation), but that it helps to reveal a profound philosophical truth. God is present in and tying together all of Creation, and it is this unifying factor that makes knowledge of the real world possible. If God is imminent in Creation, then for him to know the world is to know himself. If our own consciousness is part of the divine, then for us to know God is to know ourselves. And likewise, if all of Creation is part of the universal consciousness of the Absolute, then we can know it as simply as we know ourselves.
The subject itself, and consequently this pure universal too, is, however, revealed as Self, for this is just this inner being which is reflected into itself and which is immediately present and is the self-certainty of the Self for which it is present. This – to be in accordance with its Notion that which is revealed – this is, then, the true shape of Spirit, and this its shape, the Notion, is likewise alone its essence and its substance. Spirit is known as self-consciousness and to this self-consciousness it is immediately revealed, for Spirit is this self-consciousness itself. The divine nature is the same as the human, and it is this unity that is beheld.
For Hegel, it is the incarnation of Christ that communicates this philosophical truth better than any other. For within himself, Christ discovered the infinite life. In his person, the infinite was imminent within the finite. “Two sides have in this way encountered each other, and through this encounter their true union has come into being.”
If Kant left humanity with a great gulf between the noumena and the phenomena, the real world and our perception of it, then it is through the synthesis expressed in the figurative language of the Incarnation that the two can be reunited. Here the finite and infinite are brought together. As Copleston expresses it, “Not by denying all reality to the finite, not by reducing the infinite to the multiplicity of finite particulars as such, but by integration, as it were, the finite into the infinite.” In this sense, we can say that the finite has now become a moment (a manifestation) in the overall life of the infinite. Hegel pushes us past natural religion and the religion of art and beauty, to an absolute religion where the totality of nature is united with God, a self manifestation of spirit (the Word). It is rational spirit that is imminent in finite selves, uniting them into a whole. Again, though the religious terminology of the Christian faith pervades the closing sections of the Phenomenology, Hegel is merely expressing philosophical truth in the figurative language of religion. He is using it much like a father would use a fable to express some moral principle to his child. There is a deeper, hidden message. The Christian religion provides the pictorial thoughts that lead us to absolute knowledge. In the end, it is at the level of absolute knowing that he distills the philosophical form from Christian expression and transcends representational religion altogether. “The content of this picture thinking is absolute spirit; and all that now remains to be done is to supersede this mere form.” For Hegel, the result is the perfection of religion, the abandonment of the figurative trappings of the faith. What we are left with is an entirely rational faith, or more appropriately, faith in rationality. Religion has evolved into science. 
In Hegel’s mind, he has helped resurrect religion from its Enlightenment critics who tried to dispense with it altogether. “We shall see whether enlightenment can remain satisfied; that yearning of the troubled spirit which mourns over the loss of its spiritual world lurks in the background.” Philosophy (and even science) cannot and must not entirely do away with religion. In the Phenomenology, Hegel removes the tension that has always existed between religion and philosophy and attempts to show that the one needs the other. On the one hand, the religious consciousness must come to accept a rational picture of the world, rejecting the literal understanding of the terms of Christianity (abandoning its representational form) which is the very thing that the Enlightenment attacked. For this service, Hegel points out that the Enlightenment critics have done their work and are to be applauded for it. On the other hand, if religious belief is thus fashioned, then there is no need for it to be rejected. In fact, philosophy must come to realize that there is much it could learn from such religious belief (which is what Hegel has demonstrated). Through the perfection of religion (religious consciousness in its highest form), the difficulties between faith and philosophy are removed and the one can be incorporated into the other.
While the Enlightenment set out to place reason above faith, which certainly fits Hegel’s overall purpose, he believed it went too far in trying to entirely dismiss faith and the spiritual realm. “If all prejudice and superstition have been banished the question arises, what next? What is the truth Enlightenment has propagated in their stead?” The truth is that we would be left in a vacuum, cut off from absolute Being. The opposition between finite and infinite, the world of reality and the world of spirit, cannot be overcome by philosophy alone. For this, we must turn to religion for help. Quentin Lauer says it best:
It is religion, we might say, which gets consciousness out of the vacuum in which it floats into the real world where alone spiritual activity and the consciousness of it have meaning. Only as religious can consciousness see that there is no conflict between the world of reality and the world of spirit, because they are one and the same world.
Hegel maintains that without Spirit, the Enlightenment leaves the self alienated from the world.
(The Enlightenment’s) behavior towards faith seems to rend asunder the beautiful unity of trust and immediate certainty, to pollute its spiritual consciousness with mean thoughts of sensuous reality, to destroy the soul which is composed and secure in its submission, by the vanity of the Understanding and of self-will and self-fulfillment. But as a matter of fact, the result of the Enlightenment is rather to do away with the thoughtless, or rather non-notional, separation which is present in faith.
Hegel argues that this is why we need the perfection of religion, a conception of faith that is free from dogmatic irrationalism and that seems to mediate the universal with the finite, the inner with the outer, and God with man. Far from doing away with spirit and faith, it must now be embraced. But in order for the philosophical mind to come to such a point, faith must be reformulated into something more rational, which is what Hegel is trying to do. The result of such a faith is that it can truly come to know the divine being. “The world is indeed implicitly reconciled with the divine being; and regarding the divine being it is known, of course, that it recognizes the object as no longer alienated from it but as identical with it.” Just as God has instantiated Himself in the world through Creation, reason is realized in the world, infusing and permeating everything. According to Patrick Gardiner,
The Christian doctrine of the Incarnation should be read as symbolizing the essential unity of the spiritual and natural in the life and development of the human species as a whole.
In the end, Hegel is clearly not a traditional theist, and is certainly far from the Christianity that Kierkegaard knew and embraced. If anything, we can say that he was a panentheist. Peter Singer says of the Phenomenology, “Although we set out merely to trace the path of mind as it comes to know reality, at the end of the road we find that we have been watching mind as it constructs reality.” Of course, for Hegel, this is a connection that goes beyond mere creation. This action on the part of mind is much more akin to the incarnation, where the individual and universal share the same properties.
Science sets forth this formative process in all its detail and necessity, exposing the mature configuration of everything which has already been reduced to a moment in property of spirit.
God is thus the cosmic consciousness or mind that courses through all things, much like what we would find in Eastern philosophies where “all is one.” He is the Absolute, which comprises the totality of reality as a whole. While Hegel speaks of the Absolute as God, he does not conceive of Him as a personal deity, distinct from the world, as in theism. His argument is never that one has to believe in God in order to know Absolute reality, simply that one has to recognize that there is an all-encompassing mind that stands over and runs through all of reality. For Hegel, God is mind, Spirit, the Absolute, the all-encompassing Reason that interpenetrates and interconnects all of nature, providing the rational framework that enables knowledge of reality.
Not only does the “picture thinking” of the incarnation aid in communicating this point, Hegel uses it to avoid falling into subjective idealism. In subjective idealism, one’s own thoughts are what ultimately make up reality. The problem with this thinking is that we end up with a multiplicity of realities as different minds construct different worlds, with no objective outside reality to judge which is right and wrong. While Hegel is most certainly an idealist (ultimate reality is mind, not matter), he is an absolute idealist as opposed to subjective. For Hegel, there are not countless minds that exist. There is only one mind, essentially universal, representing rational consciousness (for indeed, reason is the essential principle of mind). It is not that there are no such things as individual minds; they are simply incarnations, or aspects of the one universal mind. They are linked together by a common universal reason. It is Hegel’s rational picture of God (if we can still call it such) that holds reality together in a consistent, knowable form.
Hegel has set out to achieve absolute knowledge, to know reality as it truly is, not merely as it appears. In the end, one discovers that there is no reality independent of the mind; it is no longer an unknowable beyond as Kant postulated, but is known directly by mind, because it is one with it. “Absolute knowledge is reached when mind realizes that what it seeks to know is itself.” Contemporary Christian philosophers Steve Wilson and Alan Padgett rightly interpret Hegel as stating that . . .
All things, historical events, finite minds such as you and I, social institutions and natural events – are all expressions of absolute spirit. Reality is in the end rational, and rationality (absolute mind) is the basis of all reality.
The individual mind is an incarnation of the universal mind, as is all of Creation. Man is no longer alien to the reality of this world. The two are linked together. They share a common bond, and it is this common bond that enables the human mind to have true knowledge of the world. Absolute knowledge can be reached by human reason, because it is reason knowing reason. According to Hegel, if everything that is real is also rational, then it can be known.
Reflecting on the totality of Hegel’s argument, one can begin to see why Kierkegaard, and Christians in general, would have a problem with Hegel’s panentheistic conception of God and interpretation of Christian doctrine. Perhaps Kierkegaard found it ironic that while Hegel claimed to have fully understood Christianity, and to have perfected it, he was in fact completely distorting it (or so Kierkegaard claimed). In his work, On Authority and Revelation, Kierkegaard directly critiques Hegel’s approach to Christian faith, claiming that he has missed the whole point. He argued that Hegel’s attempt to subject the truths of faith to the norms of human understanding was precisely what the Scriptures had warned Christians not to do. Kierkegaard believed that faith should not be based upon reason. Faith was a personal choice, entirely subjective, not backed up by evidence, and totally without basis. As previously stated, he believed that faith was a blind leap involving intellectual risk. Without risk, faith would not exist. While he may have agreed with Hegel in showing disdain for an historical-evidential basis for Christian belief, he clearly disagreed with Hegel’s attempt to construct a rational connection between human consciousness and the Absolute. In the end, Kierkegaard believed that Hegel was merely dressing up speculative thought in Christian terminology.
The problem here is that such irrational notions of God as “wholly other” and “not of this world,” seem to be merely religious expressions of the Kantian conception of cognition. It is precisely for this reason that Christians ought to be more Hegelian in their view of faith, than Kierkegaardian. If Hegel set out on his journey of consciousness to disprove the assumptions of Kant, then it appears that Kierkegaard has merely embraced them. In the end, Hegel’s answer to Kant is that one can know the thing in itself, as it actually is, because of a shared connection with it. The world is not something that is external and independent of the individual, and one’s understanding is not an ill equipped medium that distorts what is perceived. “What confronts us as being apparently foreign or ‘other’ is in fact the expression of an all encompassing cosmic process in which we ourselves participate and whose underlying essence is spiritual or mental.”
But for Kierkegaard, Kant’s assumptions about cognition and perception are presupposed. If there is a great gulf between things as they are in themselves, and things as they are perceived to be (as Kant maintained), then Kierkegaard’s approach seems natural. How can one ever approach knowledge of God using rational capacities if they are prone to distortion? Unfortunately, to accept such a basis for faith leaves us no grounds for justifying one set of beliefs over and above alternative beliefs. This notion of justification is not important to Kierkegaard. In the end, what matters to him is that “he” has chosen to believe. What he has chosen is not as important as the act of choosing. The truth of faith is determined entirely on the basis of a subjective experience. Instead of resolving the dichotomy that Kant posits (between reality and perception), Kierkegaardian faith only makes the problem worse. Fideism gives in to Kantian skepticism and ultimately leads to relativism and mysticism. If faith is irrational, then subjectivity is truth. This leaves us with countless possibilities, posited by countless individuals, who all claim to have had countless esoteric encounters with countless divine beings. This is an approach to faith that Christians should not accept.
As Christians, we should favor Hegel’s emphasis on reason, but not all of his conclusions. It is not clear from Hegel why it is necessary to reject the literal understanding of the terms of Christianity, especially if its historical and textual aspects can be demonstrated as factual. It appears that while Hegel is fighting against certain aspects of Enlightenment skepticism, he has bought into others (particularly the attacks on the historicity of the faith). One can still hold to the authority of Scripture and the historicity of Christ, and maintain the rationality of the Christian faith. First and foremost, we should echo Hegel’s belief that there is a rational framework that pervades all of reality, including God. Just as man is rational, so is God. It is this rational resemblance between God and man that enables each to know the other. In his Philosophy of Religion, Hegel states that “(h)ere it is revealed what God is; He is no longer a Being above and beyond this world, an Unknown, for He has told men what He is, and this not merely in an outward way in history, but in consciousness.” Theoretically, God can tell man what He is because he has created him with the rational capacity to understand what is being communicated. In regard to this unity that exists between human and divine, Hegel states:
The absolute Being which exists as an actual self-consciousness seems to have come down from its eternal simplicity, but by thus coming down it has in fact attained its highest essence.
If we say that God’s highest essence is best expressed in human terms (the condescension of God), then are we making God in the image of man (by projecting onto God the rational ways of the human mind)? This is partly what Kierkegaard and many Christians believe Hegel is doing. It echoes the criticisms of Feuerbach, that what Hegel has done is reduce theology to anthropology. “Man’s supposed knowledge of God amounts in the end to no more than man’s knowledge of himself.” But, is it inappropriate for us to think of God in these anthropomorphic terms? Hegel never communicates that the Divine Consciousness is fashioned in the likeness of the individual. Quite the contrary; Hegel is adamant that individual self consciousness is an expression, or instantiation of the universal. All particulars are impressed or infused, with the rational order of the universal mind. It is not a case of God being fashioned in the image of man, but rather man having been made in the image of God – a concept which clearly hearkens to the words of Genesis 1:27, “Let us make man in our own image.” In this case, it would be entirely appropriate to speak of God in human terms because it is our way of reflecting back onto God what he first imparted onto us. No matter what can be said of Hegel’s theology, he is certainly correct in this approach.
It is easy to see this within the context of the master-slave relationship addressed in earlier sections of the Phenomenology. It is in this section that Hegel reveals his thinking to be much more in line with traditional Christian belief. Much of Hegel’s thought reflects the Scholastic idea of the doctrine of analogy. Simply put, the doctrine of analogy states that any created thing necessarily shares qualities with the thing that created it. It speaks of a unity between creator and creation. This is in part what Hegel’s bondsman is beginning to realize as he works to create things with his own hands. It is an insight which Hegel uses as a key transition into the idea that there is a rational structure to the world. The slave begins to see the universe as interconnected. The thread of logos runs throughout all of reality, of which man’s rational consciousness is a part. It is this unifying force that ties everything together and provides “communion with myself, and the object.” Prior to this moment of consciousness, external objects were seen as contrary to one’s thinking. However, in working on objects and bringing one’s ideas to realization via creation, one comes to see that there is no gulf between us and the external world. What Hegel begins as a seed thought in his earlier sections of the Phenomenology, he brings to full development in his conclusion. In regard to this line of thinking, Hegel falls right in line with one of the greatest representatives of the Christian tradition, Saint Thomas Aquinas.
For since every agent reproduces itself so far as it is an agent, and everything acts according to the manner of its form, the effect must in some way resemble the form of the agent. If therefore the agent is contained in the same species as its effect, there will be a likeness in form between that which makes and that which is made according to the same formality of the species . . . If, however, the agent and its effect are not contained in the same species, there will be a likeness, but not according to the same formality of the same species.
Aquinas further states,
Because they (sensible things) are his effects and depend on him for their cause, we can be led from them so far as to know of God whether he exists, and to know of him what must necessarily belong to him, as the first cause of all things, exceeding all things caused by him.
It does not seem necessary to Hegel’s argument that he move on to a more panentheistic conception of God. Aquinas demonstrates that the Christian can maintain that the creator and his creation, God and man, are distinct from one another while still being connected.
Aquinas, articulating classical Christian thought, firmly believed that there was a direct analogy that could be drawn between God and the world, a truth that necessarily flowed from the fact that God was the primary cause of the world. For Aquinas, God stands over the world as the creator of all things to include mankind. All of reality shares the marks of its creator and are thus similar, at least in some respects, to God and each other. These similarities would seem to preclude the notion that there is utter alienation, or an impassable gulf between us and the Absolute. Aquinas would argue that while there are differences between creation and creator, the differences cannot be radical. Wolfhart Pannenberg states, “According to the doctrine of analogy, the effects produced by God are the basis of what is said about God himself, following the maxim about knowing the unknown by analogy with the known.”
Just like it is not hard to see the influence of Kant on Kierkegaard, it is not hard to see the parallels between Hegel and Aquinas’ thinking. It is even harder to argue against the logic. It is the Christian tradition that has long held the belief in the rational structure to the universe, rooted in the rational nature of its creator (as opposed to being independent of God). This means that not only do Christians have a rational faith, they have faith in rationality (specifically the rationality of God). It would appear that while Hegel goes too far in his rationalization of Christianity, his approach is more in keeping with the Christian tradition than Kierkegaard’s. Given Hegel’s fundamental point that reason is universal, and the significance it plays in supporting our ability to have absolute knowledge (as well as our ability to know the Divine), it is hard to see how we could advocate anything less than faith in rationality – a rational faith in the rationality of God and his creation. Anything less would reduce faith to the absurd. But then, that is exactly what Kierkegaard is advocating.
 This paper will not focus on the analysis of related scriptural passages.
 Lauer, Quentin. A Reading of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. New York: Fordham University Press (1993), p. 259.
 McInerny, Ralph. “Kierkegaard and the Hegelian Christians”, The Review of Politics, Vol. 19, No. 1 (Jan., 1957), p. 134.
 I will point to a discussion in Dr. Jules Simon’s Ethics and Science class (Spring ’09) in which one of the students indicated a preference for the Book of Mormon’s definition of faith as holding a belief even if all the evidence points against it. This comment was not recorded in the protocol for that evening.
 Kierkegaard, Søren. Concluding Unscientific Postscript. tr. D.F. Swenson and W. Lowrie. Princeton University Press (1941), p. 323.
 Gardiner, Patrick. Kierkegaard: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press (1988), p. 16.
 Kierkegaard, p. 116.
 McInerny, p. 135.
 Kierkegaard, p. 159.
 While Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason (1781) might have been an attempt to combat the skepticism prevalent in the Enlightenment (particularly that of Hume), he actually ended up contributing to even greater skepticism. When we talk of Kantian skepticism, we are referring particularly to skepticism regarding anything metaphysical.
 Hegel, G.W.F. Phenomenology of Spirit. Trans. by A. V. Miller. Oxford: Oxford University Press (1977), p. 46.
 Wilson, Steve and Alan Padgett. Christianity and Western Thought. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press (2000), Vol. 2, p.86.
 Copleston, Frederick. A History of Philosophy: Modern Philosophy. New York: Doubleday (1994), Vol. 7, p. 165.
 Lauer, p. 275.
 Hegel, p. 460. – emphasis added.
 Ibid., p. 457.
 Copleston,p. 167.
 Hegel, p. 479.
 Copleston, p. 187. “But the religious consciousness expressed itself as we have seen, in pictorial forms. And it demands to be transmuted into the pure conceptual form of philosophy which at the same time expresses the transition from faith to knowledge or science.”
 Hegel, p. 349.
 Toland’s Christianity Not Mysterious (1696) being an example of such a rationalization of the Christian faith.
 Stern, Robert. Hegel and the Phenomenology of Spirit. London: Routledge (2002), p. 193.
 Hegel, p. 340.
 Lauer, p. 260.
 Hegel, p. 348.
 Stern, p. 155.
 Hegel, p. 478.
 Gardiner, p. 32.
 Panentheism is the belief that God is in the world and the world is in God.
 Singer, Peter. Hegel: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press (1983), p. 92.
 Hegel, p. 29.
 Singer, p. 96.
 Ibid., p. 89.
 Ibid., p. 92.
 Wilson & Padgett, p. 82.
 McInerny, p. 135. For example, Colossians 2:8 says, “See to it that no one takes you captive through philosophy and empty deception, according to the tradition of men, according to the elementary principles of the world, rather than according to Christ.”
 Evans, Stephen. Faith Beyond Reason: A Kierkegaardian Account. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans Publishing (1998), p. 211.
 Gardiner, p. 30.
 As quoted in Brown, Colin. Philosophy and the Christian Faith. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press (1968), p. 122.
 Hegel, p. 460.
 Gardiner, p. 32 & 34.
 Hegel, p. 120
 Aquinas, Thomas. Summa Theologica, tr. by Fathers of the English Dominican Province. Westminster, MD: Christian Classics (1981), Pt. 1, Q. 4, art. 3.
 Ibid., Pt. 1, Q. 12, art.12.
 Pannenberg, Wolfhart. Basic Questions in Theology, Volume II. Philadelphia: Westminster Press (1971), p. 223.
 Ibid., p. 215.
Crump, David. Encountering Jesus, Encountering Scripture: Reading the Bible Critically in Faith. GrandRapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2013.
I am of two minds when it comes to David Crumps’ Encountering Jesus, Encountering Scripture. On the one hand, I see it as a very useful response to the implications of higher criticism. I even find myself agreeing with Crump about the importance of subjectivity as the only way to come to terms with these implications. This is no small accomplishment, as I am generally reluctant to acknowledge the veracity of anything that grounds itself in the philosophical insights of Sören Kierkegaard. [Yes, I have issues with the great Dane.] On the other hand, I find myself concerned over the implications of Crump’s approach, especially as it relates to our understanding of the nature of Biblical inspiration.
Crump begins his work wrestling with a problem that has been around for centuries, the seemingly reckless manner in which the New Testament authors handled Old Testament passages identified as Christological prophecies. To Crump, the messianic interpretations presented by Matthew are forced and unconvincing. There is no rational justification for Matthew’s approach, no harmonization that works. Here Crump draws upon insights from Kierkegaard to establish the only grounds upon which the believer can accept these as authentic: a leap of faith. We come to accept Matthew’s usage of these verses in the same way we come to Christ – through a subjective encounter with the living Christ. While I cannot agree with everything that Crump is saying, I do agree that these problematic passages are only fully understood through the lens of faith. I also agree with his assertion that while reason is not excluded from faith, embracing articles of faith is not a deduction from logical or historical arguments. But this is where my agreement ends.
At times, it seems that Crump is hesitant to characterize the Gospel writers handling of Old Testament scripture as divinely inspired. Crump describes their approach as one of “intuitive apprehension” when it comes to interpreting Christological prophecies. Of course, Crump would disagree with even characterizing these verses as Christological. He believes that the Gospel writers re-interpreted them, re-purposing them for the proclamation of the Gospel. The New Testament writers did not draw out what was hidden (or prefigured) in the Old Testament, they created an entirely new interpretation. This leads him to ask the very question that was foremost in my own mind: “What force directed the trajectory of this interpretive leap?” What led them to do this? An apropos question given the claims of higher criticism. But Crump’s response is far from resounding. He uses words such as artistic imagination, creative inspiration, and even personal inspiration rather than more traditional formulations. To be sure, he eventually characterizes it as “Gospel-inspired imagination activated by the Holy Spirit.” But this is the closest he comes to saying divinely inspired (and even that is the only reference to God’s role in the process in the entire book). Is Crump simply trying to articulate orthodoxy in phrasings that are more amenable to postmodern readers, or is he saying something more?
The something more comes through as Crump proceeds to demonstrate how this approach to the interpretation of scripture was not limited to the four evangelists. Jesus and Paul also made use of what he calls backward illumination, where modifications (or reinterpretations) are made to the scripture and convention. Crump is setting up a pattern that he maintains applies to all Christians. This is the way we operate in faith. While he places his exhortation primarily within the context of life experiences and our interpretation of them, he also commends this approach when “wrestling with the connections between Exodus and Calvary.” Unfortunately, he overlooks a key distinction between New Testament authors (to include the words of Jesus), and the average Christian alive today. They were divinely inspired. We are not. If we limit our understanding of inspiration to mere creative imagination fueled by our subjective experience of faith, then it is easy to see how Crump makes this connection. But if we view biblical inspiration in
the terms in which it has been traditionally articulated, then we are bound by the very words of scripture. No prophecy of scripture has ever been a matter of one’s own interpretation, or reinterpretation. The Bible is very clear on this point (see 2 Peter 1:20, 21 above). Their creative license comes from God. Yes, something we can only come to accept by faith. But faith alone, and the accompanying encounter we have with Christ, is not a sufficient license for us to creatively reinterpret scripture. I am not certain Crump is actually advocating this, but his ideas certainly lend themselves to this unfounded notion. And for that reason I did not enjoy this book.
For example, let’s apply Crump’s backward illumination to the issue of homosexuality. It is increasingly becoming more common for church leaders to “re-interpret” Old Testament passages in light of contemporary social mores. Yes, the church has traditionally interpreted passages in Leviticus, Genesis, and the writings of Paul to be condemning homosexual behavior. She has held that interpretation for centuries, and it has largely gone unquestioned. However, today’s Christian finds herself in a different context, with different experiences. We encounter homosexuals in our churches, living in monogamous relationships, and identifying as evangelical believers committed to the authority of scripture. This was not the experience that early believers, or even the people of Israel would have had when encountering homosexuals in their communities. They knew of temple-based homosexuality, pedophilia, and prostitution. Not exactly the face of homosexuality in the modern church. In light of the contrast between their experience in faith, and our experience in faith, would it be wrong for today’s Christian to view these scriptures differently? What are we to make of evangelical Christians who are increasingly re-interpreting these scriptures to only refer to the negative manifestations of homosexuality? After all, doesn’t our own personal experience of Christ’s love compel us to encounter these passages differently?
Perhaps, at this point you are ready to castigate me for reading too much into Crump’s little book. Please note that I am not saying that David Crump advocates embracing homosexuality as a legitimate lifestyle for Christians. What I am saying, is that Crump’s ambiguity in his treatment of the interpretation of scripture, leaves the door open for others to make such claims. It provides a philosophical justification for such a view. When speaking about the interpretation of scripture, I would not expect a theologian (one who has committed his life to the study and teaching of scripture), to be less than resounding. When it comes to what we think of scripture, how we interpret it, and how we present it to others, we should be clear and emphatic. It’s God’s word. If we are to maintain that it encapsulates truth, that it is authoritative, and that it reflects God’s unchanging character, then we should do so with equal authority and force.
Dr. Amy Plantinga Pauw, professor of doctrinal theology at Louisville Seminary, makes the argument that the ideas reflected in scripture do not necessarily correspond to human experience today. The interpreter’s context is important to how one interprets scripture. Since the context of the one interpreting scripture changes over time, Pauw would argue that the interpretation of scripture must also change.
. . . there is no single, unchanging biblical view of marriage. This is clear as soon as we start reading the Bible. Biological procreation was of supreme importance for ancient Israel because their very survival as a people depended on it—which is why you get biblical teachings about marriage and human sexuality that seem very odd to both contemporary Christians and contemporary Jews—the acceptance of polygamy, the insistence that a man marry his brother’s widow, an extreme worry about “wasting” male seed. Those are biblical ways of thinking about marriage and sexual activity that Jews and Christians don’t regard as normative anymore.
The reason Dr. Pauw can say that there is no single, unchanging biblical view of marriage, is because she has bought into the notion that scripture is open to reinterpretation as individual experiences and social contect change. So it would seem that my reading of Dr. Crump’s book is not entirely out of line with the practice of modern theologians, especially those that share very close connections to Dr. Crump and Calvin College (where Crump teaches). [for the full text delineating Pauw’s views, visit http://covnetpres.org/2013/11/time-amy-plantinga-pauw/]
Unfortunately, such views fail to take into consideration that true inspiration involves the guidance and activity of the Holy Spirit. Not only is God involved with the original composition of scripture (to the point where it does not represent the thought and opinion of man), he is also involved in our own reading of scripture. This is not to say that God somehow ensures that we will always properly interpret scripture. There are simply too many contradictory interpretations of scripture to make that kind of claim. But, it does ensure that we are not left to our own creative devices. We do not have the license to interpret and reinterpret scripture according to our own whims. There is a metaphysical grounding for the interpretation of scripture, and that grounding is the unchanging nature of God.
Having asserted that point, I think it is important to conclude by circling back around to the very thing that moved Crump to make the above assertions about backward illumination: the problem of how the New Testament authors seemingly reinterpreted Old Testament scriptures to have entirely new meanings. After all, my above assertion would leave open the idea that we could re-interpret scripture, so long as we could demonstrate that it is rooted in the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, as opposed to modern experience. There are two reasons that such an idea should never be entertained.
- If in fact the New Testament authors reinterpreted scripture under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, they did so having received direct permission from Christ. As far as everyone else is concerned, there is no such permission given in scripture. That license was only given to the apostles, not every follower of Christ. John 16:13 is often misapplied to all Christians. It is important to note that in this passage Jesus is addressing the apostles and providing a future promise regarding biblical inspiration. This promise is never repeated in relation to the church in general.
- The New Testament authors may have divinely re-purposed certain Old Testament passages, making them prophecies about Jesus, but it is simply inaccurate to claim that they reinterpreted these passages. There is a subtle distinction to be made here. The Old Testament passages re-purposed to have Christological meaning, never lost their original meaning. And yet, this is exactly what Pauw, and others who would like to change the Bible’s narrative on homosexuality, are advocating be done with Old Testament verses regarding the biblical view of marriage. Giving a verse added meaning, and giving it a meaning contrary to the old, are two entirely different things. If we are to maintain that the writing of the scripture was guided by our unchanging God to reflect his unchanging will, then a passage of scripture can never come to have a meaning that is contrary to the original. More pointedly, even if we somehow accepted the idea that God divinely inspires today’s Christians to interpret scripture, he could never inspire them to reinterpret it.
Of course, it would be more consistent with the traditional understanding of inspiration to simply maintain that today’s interpretations of passages dealing with the biblical view of marriage and sexuality are not reinterpretations, but rather corrections of previously held misinterpretations. This is a harder argument to make, but nonetheless one that is being made quite popularly by several leaders in the gay Christian movement. Wisely, this is not the path that most theologians have taken. Such a path involves denying the clear facts of history and appearing as nothing more than a blind ideologue. For most, it is simply easier to undermine the nature of inspiration. See my earlier post Should Evangelicals Evolve on Homosexuality? for an evaluation of such attempts.
The purpose of Christian Doctrine ought to be the formation and reformation of one’s character – the production of excellent persons. This is the vision that Ellen T. Charry had in mind when writing By the Renewing of Your Minds. It is a vision that she maintains has been largely lost by today’s theologians. Her modest goal is to reestablish the salutary (beneficial) nature of theology. She seeks to do this by highlighting a variety of past theologians (all of whom wrote prior to the seventeenth century), who exemplify this unity of pastor and scholar. She does not simply want to reawaken the reader to voices that have been largely neglected by moderns; she desires to distill a pattern which can be used to guide us in returning theology to its pastoral role.
The role of many of the great theologians of the past was not simply to formulate and elaborate on the meaning of doctrine, but to use it (and present it) in the same way as a pastor. Today’s church sees the pastor as the one who exhorts, evangelizes, comforts and heals; this is not how most view the theologian. Modern theology has lost its practical and affective aspects, focusing solely on the intellectual justification of Christian Doctrine. It has become too scientific. As a result, it is detached, lifeless and impractical. Once theologians and their work become irrelevant, so too does Christian Doctrine. This is not how it should be. Truth, especially truth about God, ought to have an impact. Doctrine, by definition, should be pastoral.
In the first chapter, Charry attempts to counteract much of the ideas that have led to the separation of theology from pastoral function. She maintains that while knowledge precedes character (character reform requires a renewing of the mind), practice is also needed. Expounding on knowledge is not sufficient. Knowledge must be coupled with practice; it must be engaged if it is to truly result in developing excellence. Charry refers to this as sapience. She then takes the reader through the ideas of the three leading figures who have contributed most to the loss of sapiential theology: Locke, Hume and Kant. She follows this critique by utilizing clinical medicine as an example of how knowledge and science can (and should) go hand in hand with trust. In the case of the medical practitioner, knowledge is useless without practice (the application of the knowledge). Returning to her initial epistemic thoughts, medical knowledge must precede medical practice, but medical practice in turn enhances and refines medical knowledge. She further drives home her point by turning to literature as an example of written work that contributes greatly to moral formation. Just as literature is aretegenic (conducive to virtue), so too should be theology. Of course, whereas literature utilizes characters and real-life scenarios to form and reform, Doctrine goes beyond these aspects and is far more effective than literature; this due largely to the work of the Holy Spirit and communal practices within the body of Christ.
In the final chapter of the book, Charry looks back on the theologians she has presented in chapters two through nine to analyze the process and principles they utilized in developing sapiential theology. She does not want us to simply re-read these great theologians; we must follow their lead. Key to this is her admonition for theologians to reconnect the concepts of truth and goodness, both in their thinking and in their writing. Theologians must also come to see themselves as pastors and spiritual directors. Once they do this, Christian Doctrine will regain its relevance and speak anew to the Church.