Chapter 4:
Recent Process
Christology
The philosophies of
Whitehead and Hartshorne are undoubtedly deeply theistic in intention,
but Chris-tians looking them over for possible theological appropriation
have often complained that they lack any Christology. Neither has
developed any explicit theory concerning the nature of Christ, nor have
any of their earlier followers, with one exception. This historical
result used to be frequently regarded as evidence suggesting that no
real Christology could be developed on process principles. This
objection seems to stand refuted, prima facie at least, by the
spate of essays during the past few years proposing a variety of process
Christologies. We propose to examine some of these proposals to see
what they achieve. Are they efforts to show how various christological
assertions, derived elsewhere, can be rendered consistent with process
categories, or are they genuinely dependent upon, and emergent from, the
more distinctive features of process thought? In what ways can they be
reconciled with one another? In summarizing the positive results of
this survey we hope to prepare the way for the distinctive thrust of our
own christological proposal that the body of Christ with the risen Lord
as its head constitutes the next evolutionary emergence beyond man.
Before looking at
these recent proposals, it will be instructive to take a glance at that
one early exception, Lionel Thornton’s The Incarnate Lord. The
failure of this ambitious attempt to fuse an evolutionary concept of
nature with a high Christology and an orthodox Trinitarianism has won
few adherents among either students of Christology or process thinkers,
and has probably discouraged others from entering this thicket. Hence
the long delay in the emergence of process Christologies.
Thornton’s
example had to be forgotten before others would venture forth with their
own proposals.
Thornton
did not intend to write a Whiteheadian Christology, although that is
what many who read him were looking for. He is primarily a church
theologian presenting a high Christology in conversation with
Whitehead’s analysis of experience. He is decidedly not a process
theist: “As long as there is genuine religious experience remaining, the
religious attitude will never give up its treasured truth that God is
the eternal and unchanging Creator, who utterly transcends the changing
drama of this present world and all that it contains.”1
Nevertheless he was an enthusiastic Whiteheadian, profoundly influenced
by Whitehead’s philosophy of nature. This was still possible in 1928,
for the dynamic, temporal character of God’s consequent nature was first
introduced in Process and Reality (1929). At the time Thornton
had closely read The Concept of Nature (1920) and Principles
of Natural Knowledge (2d edition, 1925), tended to interpret
Science and the Modern World (1925) in line with these earlier
works, and was acquainted with Religion in the Making (1926)
though somewhat unsure what to make of its doctrine of God.2
He took comfort in Whitehead’s remark concerning the immortality of the
soul, and evidently wanted to apply it to all theological issues: “There
is no reason why such a question should not be decided on more special
evidence, religious or otherwise, provided that it is trustworthy.”3
Whitehead’s proposal to develop a strictly metaphysical concept of God
with secular functions was not picked up.
Thornton
was attracted by Whitehead’s evolutionary conceptions of nature, and
particularly by his dissolution of scientific materialism into organic
events. Especially in his earlier writings (including the earlier
sections of Science and the Modern World), Whitehead
develops a theory of overlapping events characterized by reiterated
patterns, showing how sub-events may be organically influenced by the
patterns of the events within which they are included. Such influence
modifies and transforms simpler organisms into component elements of
more complex organisms, thereby allowing for evolutionary growth.4
From this
Thornton
develops a hierarchy of stages: matter, life, mind, and spirit, each as
a new emergent from its predecessor.
Yet the doctrine of
real emergence in nature is balanced by an awareness of the ancient
principle ex nihilo nihil fit: “The new cannot properly speaking
emerge out of an existing situation. It may appear as thus emerging;
but it must enter from beyond. . . . What cannot emerge out of the
process of events in the series enters into that series from beyond it,
that is, from the eternal order.” 5 This is a remarkable
anticipation of Whitehead’s view in Process and Reality that
God’s primordial ordering of the world’s possibilities (the eternal
objects) is the ultimate source of novelty in an emergent universe,
except that Thornton understands these possibilities to be everlasting
rather than timeless.6 This reification of what for Whitehead
is purely possible, needing concrete embodiment in the actual world,
leads Thornton to conceive of the eternal order as absolutely actual in
its unchangeableness, identical with God. Then the world becomes an
unnecessary appendage to God, a strange reduplication in time of that
which is already unchangingly actual in God. The reciprocal interplay
and mutual dependence between God and the world, so characteristic of
Whitehead, are here absent. Like Hartshorne, Thornton argues that God
is essentially self-giving love which must find expression in another,
but he uses this argument not to establish the necessity of creation,
but to demonstrate the existence of a social trinity of interacting
persons.7 This Trinitarianism, moreover, leads to an
interesting identification of two of Whitehead’s formative elements in
the creation of actual entities, the realm of eternal objects and
creativity, with the second and third persons of the Trinity
respectively.8
Nevertheless, given
these principles, Thornton could have devised an evolutionary Christology such that God’s
creative Word, already manifest in each emergent process, has been
decisively actualized for man in Jesus of
Nazareth.
The man Jesus could then be the bearer of that divine activity carrying
man beyond himself. Such a view would have been a consistent
development of the process interpretation adopted in the first half of
the book, integrating both man and the divine activity in the world into
the total process of nature. But Thornton can envisage no evolutionary
advance beyond man,9 and sees in spirit, the distinctively
human characteristic, primarily an openness and receptivity (when not
thwarted by sin) to the eternal order. This in turn is tied to a
concept of God as ‘‘Absolute Actuality’’ which is the identification of
universality with concrete individuality.10 Apparently
relying here on F. H. Bradley’s concrete universal, Thornton conceives
of divine individuality as an all-embracing unity, and it is this
principle of unity which must be incarnate in Christ. Since this divine
individuality cannot be gradually introduced into the creative process,
that process cannot be allowed to progressively culminate in the Christ,
but must be seen merely as the material basis for the sudden irruption
of the Logos-Creator from beyond. “Each stage in the incorporation of
creative activity produced a new level of the series. But the Eternal
Word is very God. His self-incorporation into the organic series does
not, therefore, constitute a new level of the old series.”11
“The Incarnation brings creation to its true end in God,”12
which constitutes a new creation decisively different from the old
creation in gradual evolution. “The Christ whom Christians worship as
God is not a product of creative activity . . . . not simply the
projection and continuation of the curve of ascent which marks the
pathway of creative activity in its incorporation into the organic
series,”13 but the descent of God from beyond.
From the standpoint
of process thought, this conception of the incarnation presupposes a
self-sufficient creator who need not seek fulfillment in creaturely
actualization and whose incorporation within the world is wholly
discontinuous with its ongoing process. It is strikingly similar to the
traditional Catholic doctrine of a divinely infused soul into the first
man Adam, who otherwise may be understood as the product of the
evolution of the primates, and bristles with the sharp dualisms between
creator and creature which process theism has sought to overcome.
Norman Pittenger,14 Charles E. Raven,15 and
Dorothy Emmet16 have criticized Thornton on this score.
Quite apart from
these concerns, students of Christology have objected to the implication
of Thornton’s
argument that Christ’s individuality must be divine rather than human.
Thornton’s
defense against the charge that he denies Christ’s humanity is not
wholly convincing:
We have not to
search, as some have supposed, for a central core which must be
abstracted to make room for the eternal Logos. All the principles of
unity which exist in any other human organism exist also in Him. But
whereas in created human beings the highest law of being [= the
principle of individuality] is that transcending principle of unity
which is proper to a human organism, . . . the highest law of being in
His case is the law of being proper to deity. . . . The human body is
not less physical because it is taken up into a spiritual organism and
has become an organ of spirit. Neither is the human organism less human
because it is taken up into union with the eternal Logos and has become
the organ of His deity.17
This overlooks the
fact that each new principle of individuality creates a new species, and
Christ is here depicted as belonging to a different species from man.
Christ is both divine and human on Thornton’s account in the same way
that man is both human and animal.18 Jesus cannot be one with
us in our humanity unless he is also a man, not a divine being who
subsumes humanity within himself.
We may generalize the
issues raised by Thornton’s proposal by asking whether any high Christology is possible within a
process perspective. Is it possible for the divine subjectivity to
become actualized in some way within the man Jesus? Our answer is
negative, for none of the alternatives seem to work. Either we adopt a
social trinity in which only one of several divine subjectivities
becomes incarnate, or the one and only subjectivity of God is realized
in Jesus. But a social trinity is impossible on Whitehead’s terms,
since “person” in the sense of an individual center of subjectivity must
be identified with “substance” as the underlying unity of an actuality.
For the unity of an actual entity in its process of coming to be is
precisely its unification or growth together (concrescence), which is
its subjectivity as experienced from within. Subjectivity and
substantial unity cannot be displaced from one another, so the
time-honored formula, una substantia in tres personae collapses
unless “per-sona” is understood rather as an abstract aspect or mode of
activity of a single concrete subjectivity. If that single divine
subjectivity is realized in Jesus, then either not all of God is taken
up in Christ, or Christ is identified with the totality of God, or God
is in some sense diminished or altered in Christ. The first possibility
would treat God the Father or the Godhead as some sort of vacuous
actuality devoid of subjectivity; at any rate it would, like the second
possibility, ascribe all divine subjective attributes to the
subjectivity of Jesus (who can only have one unified subjectivity, not
one divine and one human), which is both implausible and heretical. If
to avoid such doceticism we adopt the radical kenoticism of Thomas
Altizer, accepting a successive trinity such that in Christ God (the
Father) died to be received by us as wholly immanent Spirit, then we
must explain how universally necessary divine attributes (such as God’s
full experience of every actuality) can have such an abrupt and
contingent end.
None of the process
Christologies we have examined propose that the divine subjectivity has
become actualized within the man Jesus; rather, they contend that God
was in Christ objectively, the way any actuality can be present in
another according to Whitehead’s principles, though with considerably
more profundity and richness. J. E. Barnhart comes the closest to
articulating the concerns of high Christology as to how God
could become man in
Christ.19 “Through empathy with the man Jesus, God did become
not a man but, rather, became human. By ‘identifying’
with Jesus, God experienced certain human predicates, especially
singular care for a dearly beloved and the dread of being
estranged from him.”20 God could not become a man without
thereby abandoning his divinity (as in Altizer’s Sabellianism), but he
becomes fully human in intimately incorporating into his own being
peculiarly human experiences and sensitivities, thus accepting an
inexhaustible concern for human purposes, achievements, and failures.
But in this sense God became human not with Christ but with Adam. “The
primordial divine will-to-experience-humanity,” which Barnhart
identifies with the “potential Christ in God”21 becomes
actualized within God with the first emergence of man. It is true that
‘‘in the historical Jesus, God’s will-to-value-and-fellowship”22
met a special fulfillment in a peculiar, reciprocal
intensification of mutual involvement, but this in itself is not the way
God became human, although from a human perspective it may make
accessible to us the richness of God’s concern for us. Christology
cannot be the locus for God’s becoming human, although it may reveal to
us the depth of his humanity for us.
The stubborn,
persistent problem of classical Christology, how one person could be
both fully divine and fully human, practically disappears within a
Whiteheadian framework. In that framework events and activities are
primary, while enduring substantial personhood is derivative. No
concrete, actual event, moreover, can be understood as either wholly the
work of God or the work of man (or of any other creature). Each event
requires the persuasive power of God to provide the lure or possibility
or initial aim to be realized, but it also requires the creaturely power
to actualize that aim by integrating together the totality of efficient
causes derived from the past. Without God there would be simply chaos,
for the individual occasion would lack any ordering principle to
initiate its process of integration, but without the world, God’s aims
for the world would never be realized, since God acts solely by the
power of persuasion, which can be effective only so far as it elicits
concrete response. This means that every creaturely activity is
also a divine activity, incarnating God’s purposes in the world, to
greater or lesser degree. Only those actions which are fully responsive
to God’s aims, to be sure, reveal God’s action in the world, for
only they realize his intentions without distortion. Other events may
thwart or frustrate or only partially realize the divine intent, but
they still necessarily involve divine action, though with diminished
effectiveness. “The world lives by its incarnation of God in itself.”
23
Whitehead’s
recognition of this incarnational universe is implicit in his high
praise for “the schools of thought mainly associated with
Alexandria
and Antioch. .
. . These Christian theologians have the distinction of being the only
thinkers who in a fundamental metaphysical doctrine have improved upon
Plato. . . . They pointed out the way in which Platonic metaphysics
should develop, if it was to give a rational account of the role of the
persuasive agency of God.” 24 For Plato, the world can only
contain copies or images or Imitations of God and the Ideas which he
contemplates. The Nicene fathers were faced with the problem of
understanding how God could be present in Christ. “On this topic, there
can be no doubt that the Arian solution, involving a derivative Image,
is orthodox Platonism, though it be heterodox Christianity.”25
In contrast the church fathers decided for the direct immanence of God
in the world, restricting its application to the one instance of the
person of Christ. For all of their advance on Plato, these theologians
failed to generalize their results because of an unfortunate
presupposition: “The nature of God was exempted from all the
metaphysical categories which applied to the individual things in the
temporal world. . . . They made no effort to conceive the World in
terms of the metaphysical categories by means of which they interpreted
God, and they made no effort to conceive God in terms of the
metaphysical categories which they applied to the World.” 26
Whitehead does, and hence conceives of the Platonic Ideas (his “eternal
objects”) as directly immanent in each actual occasion as the means
whereby God’s directing activity is really present in every creature.
In a world where every actuality incarnates God, even if in a very
diminished way, the christological problem must be put quite
differently: what is the special characteristic of general human
significance defining a Christ-event, enabling Christians to confess
that they find it decisively realized in Jesus of
Nazareth?
Since the degree to
which God’s aims are incarnated depends upon the quality of creaturely
response, it is not surprising that some process thinkers such as Norman
Pittenger, Peter Hamilton, and Ronald Williams have taken Jesus’ total
obedience to God as the clue to the specialness of the Christ-event.27
This criterion, however, is entirely too general to describe the
specific characteristics which ought to pertain to the Christ. It only
describes “sinlessness” or “creaturely perfection” or “saintliness.” The
Christ may well have all these properties, but are they sufficiently
distinctive to single him Out from amid a host of other good and holy
persons? Complete human response to the divine prompting may be a
necessary but not a sufficient condition for the Christ-event if we
define such response in relative rather than absolute terms. There is
creaturely perfection wherever there is optimal achievement of value,
given the antecedent causal conditions that creature unifies in its
actualization.
Once we take into
account the crucial role such antecedent conditions play, we see that
there are as many different kinds of possible optimal achievements for
persons as there are different situations confronting them. At every
moment in our lives we have the opportunity of achieving the maximum
value potentially inherent in each situation, but should such optimal
realization be classed forthwith as ‘‘Christ-events’’? The question may
be put historically: could Socrates, as a fourth-century Athenian,
possibly have become the Christ? Not if our understanding of what the
Christ is presupposes in any way the historical circumstance of
Israel’s expectation of a coming Messiah. If all such historical conditions,
on the other hand, can be systematically ignored as irrelevant, it
becomes highly problematic on what grounds we award the title of Christ
to Jesus and yet continue to withhold it from Socrates or from Gautama.
Let us then specify
“Christ-events” as one particular species of human events characterized
by the successful achievement of “christological aims,” as yet
unspecified as to content. In this fashion we may readily grant that
Socrates and Gautama and any number of saints or just plain good people
have frequently achieved the maximum value possible in given situations
without thereby claiming them to be Christs, on the grounds that the
aims they so richly actualized were not specifically christological.
Such christological aims depend upon the grace of God, and he bestows
them on some and not on others. Nevertheless, God’s activity is not
arbitrary, since he inexorably seeks the best possible aims appropriate
to the circumstances. It is only in certain special situations,
however, that these specific aims can embody christological aims.
In A Process
Christology, David R.
Griffin
notes the same difficulties we have raised about these proposals: “They
have not made use of the notion that the content of God’s ideal aims for
men varies. . . If this notion of Whitehead’s is not used, the
resulting Christology has a somewhat Pelagian quality, suggesting that
Jesus’ specialness is due solely to human initiative—if Jesus was God’s
decisive revelation, this did not result even partially from any special
activity on God’s part in any sense.”28
Griffin therefore
focuses his attention upon what we have called the christological aim,
although he generalizes it beyond the scope of mankind: ‘‘In actualizing
God’s particular aims for him, Jesus expressed God’s
general aim for his entire creation.” 29 This
generalization is possible because of the specific content he assigns to
the christological aim: “The aims given to Jesus and actualized by him
during his active ministry were such that the basic vision of reality
contained in his message of work and deed was the supreme expression of
God’s eternal character and purpose.” 30
Clearly the event of
Christ does reveal to us the personal character of God. Christians have
seen, and will continue to see in Jesus as the Christ the supreme
revelation of God’s personhood. Surely Griffin’s position is sound to this extent. Nevertheless, we do not feel that
he has made full use of the resources available in process theism when
he restricts what is revealed in Christ to the eternal essence of God.
In classical theism, which insists upon God’s simplicity, immutability,
and eternality, the eternal essence of God was all that could possibly
be revealed of God. Process theism, on the other hand, makes a formal
distinction between God’s abstract, necessary essence and its concrete,
contingent embodiment which is responsive to the vicissitudes of the
world. Griffin stresses that this contingent dimension is necessarily
involved in God’s provision of initial aims, including those which
express the special christological aim, since the content of such aims
is constantly changing, contingent on circumstance. Clearly there is
also additional contingent content in the special aims for Jesus’ life
which accompany and embody the christological aim for
Griffin, but these are dismissed as only of historical significance. They are
relevant only to the particularities of those occasions which gave rise
to the supreme revelation of God. Doubtless many aspects of those
complex special aims have little systematic import. Yet a third factor
may be present in these aims, a contingent component distinct from the
eternal aim which, nevertheless, may have significance for the entire
human situation.
God’s personal
character is revealed in the contingencies of his particular dealings
with his creatures. Insofar as God has an eternal, permanent essence,
this is exemplified in every interaction where there is an adequate
response to God. This is the character of God’s general revelation, and
is fully accessible to metaphysical investigation. Theology’s focus, in
contrast, should concern the special, contingent dimension of God’s
personal relationship to the human situation. Humanity is a contingent
species, which need never have existed. If so, the special character of
God’s salvific action on man’s behalf must also be contingent. This
means that theology has its own intrinsic subject matter, since this
contingent dimension can never be discovered by metaphysical analysis,
but must await historical disclosure. Metaphysics reveals what God is
like for all creatures, as Hartshorne tells us, but religion
makes manifest what God is like for us. In our religious faith
we are not primarily concerned with the universal character of God’s
loving response. We are concerned with the specific way that loving
response is directed toward us in our own particular existential
predicament. This can only be revealed in contingent historical
particularities.
“In actualizing God’s
particular aims for him,”
Griffin
assures us, “Jesus expressed God’s general aim for his entire
creation.”31 We agree, but insist that this is too abstract
and general for the purposes of theology. Theology is properly
concerned with God’s specific aim for mankind. Since this
specific aim must be contingent, it can only be discovered if
historically revealed.
This distinction
becomes all the more important once we place Christology within the
context of possible intelligent life elsewhere in the universe. In
Christ God has become incarnate as man, and for man, but is he thereby
incarnate for other forms of intelligent life as well? Previously this
question could be dismissed as idle speculation, but since the Second
World War, there has been a dramatic upsurge of interest in life on
other worlds. For many people, particularly those engaged in the
natural sciences, the notion of extraterrestrial life is no longer
merely an exotic possibility but a virtual certainty. The issue chiefly
turns on our confidence in the regularity of planetary development and
of evolutionary growth. If both of these occur regularly,
spontaneously, then we should expect the universe to be populated with
myriads of planets sustaining life, many of which could be technical
civilizations far in advance of ours. On the other hand, if the origin
of life, or the formation of planets, is a chance, freak occurrence,
then we may well be alone in the universe.
Both views of
planetary development have been with us for a long time. The French
naturalist Georges de Buffon (1707-1788) proposed that the birth of the
planets resulted from a glancing collision of our sun with a passing
comet. In contrast, Immanuel Kant and Pierre de Laplace argued that
planetary development was part of a normal process to be expected in the
life of almost every star: they assumed the young sun was surrounded by
a thin lens-shaped gaseous envelope (solar nebula) which later condensed
into planets. During the late nineteenth century the Kant-Laplace
hypothesis was severely criticized by the British physicist Clerk
Maxwell, who argued that the forces of differential rotation between
parts of the solar nebula would break up any such condensation as soon
as it began to form. In the face of this objection, which seemed quite
decisive at the time, cosmologists increasingly turned to some version
of Buffon’s glancing collision.
Forest Ray
Moulton and Thomas C. Chamberlin in the United States supposed that the
sun, under the gravitational pull of some passing star, erupted gigantic
globs of matter which in time formed planets, and a comparable theory
was proposed by Sir James Jeans and H. Jeffreys. Yet the collisions or
near misses dictated by these theories are inherently very improbable,
perhaps only ten for the entire life of our galaxy during the past five
billion years.32 With so few planets in existence, we could
hardly assume that there would be much life elsewhere, at least not in
our galaxy.
Both types of
theories developed difficulties, but Maxwell’s objections to the Kant-Laplace
hypothesis were overcome toward the end of World War II by C. F. von
Weizsäcker, who argued that the original objections were based on the
assumption that the chemical composition of the sun resembled that of
the earth. We now know that the heavier, terrestrial elements compose
less than one per cent of the sun’s mass, the rest being essentially a
mixture of the two lightest elements, hydrogen and helium. Von
Weizsäcker argued for a differential treatment between the
hydrogen-helium and heavier elements with respect to the angular
momentum of original solar mass. With the issue thus resolved in favor
of a regular formation of planets, the chance of there being other
planets capable of sustaining life is so high as to be practically
certain. Even if only one planet out of every 150,000 contained life,
there would be one million life-worlds in our galaxy, some of which we
can reasonably assume contain intelligent life, for whom, we presume,
God would also be concerned.
As Paul Tillich has
seen:
.
. . a question arises which has been carefully avoided by many
traditional theologians, even though it is consciously or unconsciously
alive for most contemporary people. It is the problem of how to
understand the meaning of the symbol “Christ” (or any other man-centered
religious symbol, for that matter) in the light of the immensity of the
universe, the heliocentric system of planets, the infinitely small part
of the universe which man and his history constitute, and the
possibility of other “worlds” in which divine self-manifestations may
appear and be received. 33
Now what can we say
about God’s relation to such intelligent beings on other planets? Here
our approach cannot be existential, for we cannot participate in the
self-understanding such beings might possess, nor can our reflections
significantly influence, or be derived from, our own quest for a
meaningful selfhood. The issue is quite theoretical, but it is one
which helps us to see the boundaries and implications of one particular
faith-stance in the wider context of others. Christian thinkers have
reflected on these boundaries with respect to their fellow human beings
in other cultures, and even with respect to the other animals which
share our planet, but rarely with respect to the rest of life populating
the universe.
Moreover, the issue
entails cosmological asser-tions bearing on our scientific understanding
of the universe. For we must show the possibility of God’s involvement
in the emergence of other forms of intelligent life before any claim can
be entertained concerning their existential standing before God, and
this task invites dialogue with scientific accounts of evolutionary
processes.
While it may not
express itself in these terms, the scientific community has become
increasingly confident in the tremendous potential inherent in the
universe for evolutionary growth. If the proper conditions are present,
for example, surface temperatures permitting large bodies of liquid such
as water or ammonia or methane, atmospheres permitting of
energy-exchange, some source of light, etc., most scientists expect that
sooner or later life will emerge. The extreme resiliency and buoyancy
of the evolutionary thrust make it unlikely that, if all necessary
environmental conditions are met, prebiotic molecules will not
eventually emerge to be followed by some form of life.
In 1953,
Stanley L.
Miller, a collaborator of Harold C. Urey at the University of Chicago,
prepared a mixture of methane, ammonia, and water vapor in simulation of
the primitive atmosphere postulated for the earth. Stimulated by an
electrode discharge passing through the mixture, within a week it
yielded a variety of organic molecules: amino acids, acetic acid, simple
sugars. Some of these are the building blocks used in the formation of
living cells. If such dramatic growth was possible in such a short
interval of time, under the proper conditions we can expect the same
sort of process to occur on other worlds. This does not mean to imply
that precisely these organic compounds must first be synthesized in
order to allow life to emerge, but that these could have been the
compounds used here on earth for the formation of life. On other worlds
it is conceivable that an original atmosphere rich in hydrogen cyanide
would have produced other organic building blocks. We anticipate some
sort of growth toward increased complexity: increasingly larger organic
macro-molecules, then the convergence of many macro-molecules to
constitute a simple living system, either as a cell with its protective
wall and vital nucleus or as some functional analogue, then the
convergence of many cells to form larger organisms.
Since
Darwin,
this process of evolutionary growth, whereby levels of Increasing
complexity are seen to emerge from simpler ones, has been explained in
terms of the double mechanism of natural selection and chance
variation. Natural selection affords a measure of stability and
durability, for those populations which happen to be best adapted to
their environments continue to survive as other populations tend to die
out. By itself, however, natural selection provides for no evolutionary
advance, for it introduces no novelty, and hence no possibility of
anything more than that which already has been. We must recognize that
in this context ‘‘adaptation’’ is strictly defined in terms of survival
values and that, generally speaking, it is the simpler forms of
organization that possess the greatest staying power: living systems, no
matter how fantastically intricate- and well organized they might be,
have a much shorter span of existence than, say, a rock crystal, or a
single stable atom.34
The stability of
natural selection must be balanced by the novelty of chance variation,
which permits the introduction of new forms of existence. In principle
this is as far as a scientific explanation can go if it proceeds by
strict limitation to efficient causal explanation. Seen most broadly,
any efficient causal explanation restricts itself to that which is
traditional, for it explains the present in terms of the past.
Efficient causality is the way in which the past persists into the
present, and the task of scientific analysis is to discover whatever
regularity exists in this transfer from past to present. Everything
that happens either follows regularly established patterns or just
happens quite accidentally. Ultimately, then, regularity and chance are
our only options, and chance signifies little more than the absence of
scientific causal explanation. Yet, without chance, nothing new could
ever occur, that is, new in the sense of establishing novel causal
patterns and forms of organization. If everything happened strictly
according to deterministic physical laws, there would be no possibility
for the emergence of life, if one assumes that the organization of life,
while dependent upon physical principles, is not reducible to them.
Fortunately, physical laws are probabilistic, with an indeterminacy that
permits the emergence of novelty. Without chance, there can be no
evolutionary advance, yet, strictly speaking, chance explains nothing.
It is merely the absence of any efficient causal explanation.
Now the evolutionary
process is essentially the emergence of new levels of complexity. Given
the character of scientific explanation in terms of efficient causes, it
is quite understandable that such evolutionary advance should be
explained in terms of natural selection and chance variation as the best
possible scientific theory. Chance supplies the novelty, while natural
selection permits the consolidation of gains. Nevertheless, as an
account of the whole story, it is quite incredible.
Essentially, what is
lacking is any account as to why new levels of complexity should ever be
achieved. Chance variation will produce novel forms of organization
which may be more or less complex than that which preceded it. But
should there be any greater tendency for the more complex rather than
for the less complex to persist from such variation? Random activity
should actually tend to favor the less complex for three reasons. (1)
The simpler depends upon fewer specific conditions and has fewer, less
demanding needs; human life, for example, depends upon so many more
factors than single-celled marine life does. (2) The less complex is
more in accord with entropy, the principle that any closed system tends
to decrease in order over time. (3) With time, the possibility that
random variation should produce anything with greater order should
decrease as entropy increases.
God’s cosmological
function consists in supplying that impetus toward greater
complexification that we discover to be operative throughout the natural
order. This does not mean that God acts efficiently as one of the
causal antecedent conditions out of which the present event emerges.
Rather he serves as a lure for actualization, providing novel
possibilities of achievement. Persuasion entails response, not
conformation, and the response is free either to embrace or to reject
the novel aim. We do not mean to suggest that there is much free
response in the universe: atoms and molecules are extremely traditional
in their habits, behaving largely as they have always behaved. Plants,
animals, and even humans are not much better, blindly reiterating that
which went on before. Yet if there is to be any emergence of greater
complexity, then there must be at least a modicum of spontaneous
response possible even on the atomic and molecular levels, occasionally
permitting the actualization of some evolutionary advance. Divine
persuasion is the urge to maximize the possibilities inherent in such
indeterminate response.
In a very real sense
this theory of divine initiative and creaturely response commits us to
some form of neo-Lamarckianism, for we are affirming that the
inheritance of acquired characteristics is fundamen-tal to evolutionary
advance. In appropriating the divine possibility as its own aim, the
creature is acquiring some characteristic which is then transmitted by
means of efficient causality to subsequent generations. Free response
becomes blind habit; novelty becomes tradition; final causality passes
over into efficient causality. As we have noted, the realm of activity
not wholly governed by efficient causal patterns may be vanishingly
small on the simplest levels of existence, but that quantitatively
negligible amount is all important in furthering any increased
complexity. Random mutation is incapable of explaining the directedness
of evolution such response can introduce. Once introduced, however, the
new characteristic may be simply transmitted through blind habit.35
Generally speaking
neo-Lamarckianism, as usually understood, has been properly discredited,
but for the wrong reasons. It is not the inheritance of acquired
characteristics which is erroneous, but the failure to distinguish
properly between “levels” of response. How a given person or animal
responds to his environmental situation will not affect the genetic
makeup of his descendants, for that genetic makeup is determined on the
cellular, perhaps even on the molecular level. If sufficiently
original, human response may shape the common culture inherited by our
fellows, for every tradition blindly received originally had its purpose
and justification, however feeble that might have been. But if we
restrict ourselves to biological inheritance, then we must examine
cellular and molecular response, ignoring all higher responses on the
level of the total organism. Here we can only conjecture, for it is
difficult to appreciate what aims DNA molecules may strive to
actualize. It may be doubted, however, that such alms would embrace
even the relevant aims of the cell to which the DNA molecules belong,
let alone the aims of the total animal body. Precisely in this sense,
we can say that any gene mutations introduced by novel actualizations by
such DNA molecules are random with regard to the future of the total
organism in much the same way that the realization of our personal goals
is usually random with respect to the future of the human race as a
whole.36
Creaturely response
through the appropriation of a novel aim supplied by God, on whatever
level, whether atomic, molecular, cellular, or organismic, becomes the
chief means whereby divine purposes become effective in the world. This
does not mean, however, that the created order proceeds according to
some set plan. Divine persuasion is highly opportunistic, seeking to
maximize possibilities for increasing complexity which are consistent
with the actual conditions imposed by the past through efficient
causation. Moreover, this persuasion is not coercive, so there is no
necessity that every creature must embody the maximum of its
potentialities. Whatever happens, happens as the result of the
creature’s self-activity in utilizing its causal conditions to achieve
its ends, but God is everywhere and at all times seeking that which is
best, given the circumstances. Such gracious activity will not always
be thwarted, so that evolutionary advance, as actualized through free
creaturely response, gradually comes into being.
Thus, for the
universe at large, divine persuasion seeks to evoke life wherever
possible, in the form appropriate to particular local conditions. We
assume that there are comirnon physical laws for the entire observable
universe, and these laws yield universal laws of chemical bonding. We
can be reasonably certain that the way molecules are formed is invariant
throughout the universe, and that the most promising chemical elements
for organic evolution will be the lighter elements toward the center of
the periodic table capable of very supple and complex co-valent bonding.
From this point on,
however, the evolutionary process may branch in many directions, for the
macromolecules formed out of these elements will vary considerably
depending upon the composition and distribution of such elements in the
early stages of that world. One-celled microorganisms, in developing
their metabolism, will depend in turn upon whatever macromolecules are
available, so we should expect every world to have its own way of
organizing simple living systems. As we know from the past history of
evolution on this earth, the development of multicelled organisms with
or without central coordination (that is, animals and plants) can take
many different routes, but these routes might be even more varied if the
basic cellular structure were also radically different. The
possibilities are naturally enormous.
The increase of
freedom may be a divine purpose appropriate to all worlds. Freedom is
essentially self-creation, requiring both the absence of restraint and
the introduction of order by the free agent. On the atomic and
molecular level there is a minimum of spontaneity, for each response is
overwhelmingly the product of blind habit, endlessly reiterating the
same pattern of activity it has inherited. We may think of molecules as
societies of atoms, and molecules have been discovered to have preserved
their structures intact for a good billion years. The decisive
difference between living and lifeless matter, as Whitehead saw, is the
difference between novel and habitual response. This may be a matter of
degree, such that what we designate as living may simply be those
instances where novelty dominates over habit. Homeostatic adjustment
within the living cell requires that it respond to its surroundings in
original ways which supersede the customary behavior of molecules.
At a higher level,
motility frees animals from spatial confinement and renders them open to
a great variety of situations to respond to. Yet without sentience,
such motility would simply lead to random behavior; sight and smell and
touch enable animals to achieve purposeful results meaningful to them.
Intelligence is simply the next step in the quest for greater freedom;
imagination increases our field of action by including the possible as
well as the actual, while reason enables us to order these possibilities
in significant ways.
As the capacity for
novelty expands, con-sciousness emerges. We cannot define
conscious-ness in terms of a centralized nervous system, for there is a
great deal of neurological activity lying below the threshold of
consciousness. Habitual patterns of response, such as getting dressed,
riding a bicycle, using a typewriter, so painfully and self-consciously
learned at the time, become quite unconscious.37 A
centralized nervous system or its close analogue may be the necessary
basis for consciousness, but consciousness itself is the inner
concomitant of the presence of some novelty which has not yet faded into
the background through incessant repetition.
Once intelligence
appears, cultures may develop, varying enormously among themselves, but
sharing the common biological inheritance and common general environment
for that planet. Thus we should expect cultural differentiation on
other worlds, but despite their diversity all would be
characteristically stamped by that biological situation, just as all our
cultures by contrast will be found to have certain peculiarly
“terrestrial” features. We may leave open the question whether
intelligent cultures must further develop into technical civilizations,
that is, into civilizations seeking to transform environmental
conditions to suit their own purposes and needs. It may be that human
technology is essentially an accident owing to the fact that man is
biologically so poorly adapted to his natural surroundings. It is quite
possible, for example, that the dolphins possess a highly refined
culture transmitted orally from generation to generation, but that they
have developed no technology because they have no need of it. Man is a
tool-using animal, but it may not be necessary that all intelligent
species must also become tool-using.
With the emergence of
conscious alternatives of action, ethics becomes possible, for now some
options may be experienced as better and others as worse. What goodness
means for other intelligent beings may well be beyond the bounds of our
imagination, but it might be just possible to define a general criterion
underlying all concrete embodiments. That which fosters the expansion
of freedom and the intensity of experience may be regarded as good,
although the ways in which freedom and intensity are fostered will
depend upon the biological, psychological, social, cultural, political,
economic, and possibly religious situations in which particular
intelligent beings find themselves.
Throughout this
multifarious universe the divine creativity is operative, evoking
greater and greater levels of complexity, thereby permitting the
expansion of freedom and the emergence of intense conscious experience.
With consciousness it becomes possible for creatures to be aware of
God’s directing activity, although on earth this seems to be generally
rather sporadic and intermittent. In general the basic way in which God
acts on the human level is through ethical persuasion; it is by the
worthiness, the attractiveness, the importance of specific ethical ends
envisioned that God lures us on to actualize a world better than what we
have known. Such divine persuasion can be effective wherever man is
willing to be ethically sensitive, quite apart from whether he
consciously affirms or denies the existence of such divine reality. In
this context, we may define God as that dynamic source of values which
lures the evolutionary process to an ever-richer complexity productive
of increasing freedom and intensity of experience. As such, God is
necessarily operative in the development of every life and in every
culture, whether terrestrial or extraterrestrial.
Now in terms of these
speculations, is it possible for us to do justice to the Christian claim
that God acted decisively in Jesus of
Nazareth
for the salvation of all mankind? We have sketched a liberal theology
for the cosmos, but is it also appropriate for our existence here and
now? Or need we surrender the claim of Christ’s decisiveness in the
name of some unproven conjecture?
John bears witness
that the Logos of God, by which he created the world, became flesh and
dwelt among us. Are we then to conclude that God’s only Son became
uniquely incarnate once and for all on the third planet of a rather
ordinary outlying star of a thoroughly undistinguished galaxy? Paul
Tillich argues to the contrary: “Incarnation is unique for the special
group in which it happens, but it is not unique in the sense that other
singular incarnations for other unique worlds are excluded. Man cannot
claim to occupy the only possible place for Incarnation.” 38
Accordingly, we find it useful to make a distinction ignored by our
forefathers in the naive assumption of the uniqueness and exalted status
of man. We understand by the Logos or divine creative Word the sum
totality of all God’s specific creative purposes for all creatures. The
Word or speech of God symbolized the divine activity whereby new
structural possibilities for the emergence of greater complexity become
lures of feeling for further actualization. Yet this creative purpose
is hardly invariant in its specific manifestations: what God says
depends upon the particular situation confronting that individual in his
own world. The speech appropriate to macromolecules capable of
converging to form the nucleus of a living cell is characteristically
different from the ethical imperative addressing twentieth-century
Americans. Both differ sharply from that Word addressing intelligent
creatures who may dwell in some super-civilization centuries ahead of
our own. God’s dynamic Word knows no single form, but assumes that
character expressive of God’s general aim at intensity of experience
appropriate to each circumstance. By this Word the worlds were created,
and by this Word also God has sought the salvation of his people, Israel.
The Logos, then,
refers to the totality of God’s creative aims. We may distinguish this
from the Christ, which signifies that one specific divine creative
purpose addressed to the human situation, designed to bring about our
salvation. To affirm that Jesus is the Christ is to confess that in
Jesus of Nazareth we
behold the embodiment of the divine intent addressed to mankind. The
Word appropriate to our condition becomes incarnate by becoming fully
actualized in the words, deeds, and suffering of Jesus. God has spoken
before and since to man, with fragmentary success; his Word has come
down again and again, but never before has it so taken root and become
flesh. For it must be recognized that the divine Word depends upon
creaturely response for its actualization. All of God’s urging will do
no good unless we act; but then again, we would not be inclined to act
at all unless our ethical and religious sensibilities were aroused by
God’s prompting.
In Christ we have the
promise of God’s salvation for all people, but what does this salvation
mean? When the aged Simeon beheld the Christ child who would save his
people from their sins, he probably understood the liberation of Israel from Roman oppression, the consequence of the people’s sin against
their God. Paul then took this common formula, and transformed the
meaning of salvation, so that we are being saved from the sins
themselves and not merely from their consequences. In its deepest
sense, salvation is that which overcomes our guilt, meaninglessness, and
alienation from the creative source of all value, that which saves us
from ultimate futility.
Salvation is the
application of God’s creative purpose to intelligent life. Everywhere
God’s creative urging toward the establishment of increased levels of
intensity is present, but only with intelligent life can there be any
awareness of this. At the same time, only with intelligent life can
there be any sense of alienation from divine creativity, any awareness
of our capacity to thwart the divine purpose by self-centered activities
randomly conflicting with one another. As the only apparently
intelligent creature on earth, man can sense the meaninglessness of his
life apart from God. Even though the individual life may be cherished
by God forever, its purposes by itself are ridiculously puny. But the
individual need not experience his life in and of itself, but as
participating in the broad sweep of divine creation, contributing in its
small way to the increased intensification of divine experience, making
possible the emergence of new forms of existence beyond man. We shall
consider what one of these newly emergent forms might be in the next
chapter. Here it is important to appreciate the intimate connection
between salvation and creation. Creation in the sense of the emergence
of levels of intensification in concert with divine persuasion is
universal, and the salvation of each (intelligent) level depends upon
its participation in the creation of the next higher level. For
creation is the ultimate, all-inclusive context of meaning and value in
terms of which we can be saved.
Jesus as the Christ
is the incarnation of God’s dynamic Word addressed to us as confessing
Christians, but should we say that he is the only incarnation for
mankind? If we think of incarnation primarily in terms of the
actualization of the divine creative purpose creating that which takes
us beyond man, we may be tempted to reply affirmatively. But John Cobb,
addressing himself to just this problem in Christ in a Pluralistic
Age, is teaching some of us to consider “incarnation” in an
additional, more extended meaning. Here “incarnation” does not refer so
much to the actualization as to the embodiment of divine
aims in the lives of people, whereby the very abstract aims conceptually
entertained in God’s primordial experience are transformed into concrete
possibilities or effective lures for our action and self-understanding.
In this sense God is incarnated in every religious tradition through
every image or symbol which effectively expresses its deepest response
to God’s leading, although the Christian can confess that for him
Christ, the incarnation of God, is supremely exemplified in Jesus.
This may be an
idiosyncratic reading of Christ in a Pluralistic Age,39
yet it follows naturally from Cobb’s proposal that Christ should be
accorded the status of a Whiteheadian proposition.40 Such a
proposition is neither an actuality nor a pure possibility but a hybrid
of both. It functions normally as real or concrete possibility for the
future, sharing with the pure primordial possibilities their
unactualized status, yet being also rooted in the actualities of the
past which form the causal conditions by which it could someday become
actual. Pure possibilities as such are irrelevant to the ongoing course
of the temporal world. They must first become ‘‘incarnate’’ in the
sense of becoming interwoven with the concrete vicissitudes of
historical circumstance in order to become effective lures for the
future. Only those possibilities which are realizable under present
circumstances (or which may shortly become realizable) are live options
for future actualization. The divine Logos, as the primordial mind of
God, contains an infinity of pure possibility, but only those
possibilities specifically addressed to the human situation can save
us. These possibilities are addressed to our situation by becoming
incarnate in our living religious traditions, which clothe abstract
divine aims with the symbolic imagery which speaks to our concrete
needs.
As St. Ambrose has
said, it is not by dialectic that God has been pleased to save his
people.41 Pure abstract concepts have no saving
significance. Religious symbols, not concepts, mediate to us the
divine. These symbols are rooted in historical circumstance, not human
contrivance; they are ‘‘born,’’ “live,’’ and ‘‘die’’ within the life of
the communities shaped by them. We must be wary of reducing the symbols
of other traditions to the bare concepts they embody. This may enable
us to understand them in terms of our own conceptualities, but it robs
them of their particular salvific power. If we see that the very
generation of such effective concrete lures is the incarnation
(in this extended sense) of divine aims, then there is a deeply
Christian reason for affirming the positive valuations of other
traditions on their own terms.
While Cobb’s
proposals about “incarnation” address the problem of the pluralism of
faiths in a most exciting manner, we have deep reservations about his
analysis of incarnation in the more usual, restricted sense as applying
to how Jesus can be the Christ. For Jesus’ specific individuality, Cobb
suggests that the center of his subjectivity is co-constituted by the
divine Logos, understood as the unity of the ideals, aims, and
possibilities that God cherishes for the world. This theme was first
announced in “A Whiteheadian Christology, “42 and here it is
carefully developed in terms of the peculiar authority Jesus claimed
which contemporary witnesses attested to according to recent New
Testament scholars as diverse as Rudolf Bultmann, Norman Penn, Ernest C.
Colwell, and Milan Machovec. Jesus may well have possessed this
peculiar authority, but can we therefore ascribe to him a unique psychic
structure of experience not shared by other human beings? The problem
is not the uniqueness of this structure, for Cobb has already argued
that humanity has possessed a wealth of such psychic structures in the
course of history.43 If there are a great many differing
types, all of which are authentically human ways of experience,
Jesus could possess a unique type and still be fully human. The problem
is rather epistemological: how could we possibly know the inner
psychic experience of another to ascertain uniquely differing features
of his structure? By an analysis of our own structure of experience we
can ascertain its common, generic features, and by the analysis of a
large class of human beings perhaps we can postulate the particular
features of that group’s psychic structure, but the inner structure of
an individual, particularly when it is claimed to be uniquely different
from any other, seems beyond our powers. If we cannot know but only
believe, then the question becomes whether we can have any confidence
that our belief in such a unique psychic structure is even meaningful.
All of these
christological proposals with process theology are strongly influenced
by the classical problem, how the Christ can be both fully divine and
fully human. But as we have seen, this is no longer the central problem
within a Whiteheadian framework. Nor was it the central basis upon
which the proclamation of the early church was founded. The basis for
the early church was the resurrection. Thus Luke records Peter’s speech
at Pentecost: “This Jesus God raised up, and of that we all are
witnesses. . . . Let all the house of
Israel therefore know assuredly that God has made him both Lord and Christ,
this Jesus whom you crucified” (Acts
2:32, 36).
The classic problem of the status of the Christ came much later. The
initial question, which is also the more central question within process
Christology, centers on what basis we proclaim Jesus to be the Christ.
Our own christological proposal shall follow the lead of the early
church, and finds its basis also in the resurrection of Jesus.
Notes
1. IL, p. 112.
2. See ibid., Appendix C, “Objects and Events,” pp. 456-69,
which explores
Thornton’s
appropriation of Whitehead’s categories.
3. RM, pp. 110-11; Thornton quotes this sentence, IL,
p. 463.
4. SMW, pp. 156-57; IL, p. 460.
5. IL,
p. 84.
6. To be sure, he assigns them “an altogether different kind of
permanence” (IL, p.459) from that of enduing objects, but this
difference is left unexplained.
7. IL, p. 396:
But if the Trinity be understood in a purely economic sense, so that the
distinctions correspond only to aspects of God manifested in His
activities of creation, revelation, inspiration or the like, then there
are no eternal relations of self-giving within the divine life of
Absolute Actuality. Thus the principle of self-giving in God, which is
acknowledged to be essential, can find expression only ad extra,
in relations with creation. But this is to make creation necessary to
God, in the sense that the full actuality of God’s life is incomplete
apart from creation. This is to place God under a necessity external
to Himself. God becomes dependent upon creation for the expression
of His nature.
This is meant to be a reductio ad absurdum, but the absurdity is
self-imagined One can almost feel
Thornton’s
horror at the possibility that any aspect of God might be contingent
upon the world
8. Ibid.. p. 417:
The created universe is the product of the twofold creative activity of
the Word and the Spirit. The Word is the eternal object [= Whitehead’s
realm of eternal objects as internally ordered] of the Father’s
self-expression, and the Spirit is the Immanent principle of actuality
and unity in their mutual relations. So we discern in the organic
series a transcendent formative activity of creation weaving patterns of
objects upon events, and an immanent energizing activity underlying
events, and binding their succession into the unity of series and
process upon which enduring objects may be patterned.
9. Ibid.. pp. 158-59;
With man we stand at the summit of the ascending series, where the
progression of the universe and of its modes of revelation and mediation
can apparently advance no further.
10. Ibid., p. 223.
11. Ibid., p. 228.
12. Ibid., p. 225.
13. Ibid., p. 227.
14. Norman Pittenger, The Word Incarnate (New York: Harper and
Brothers, 1959), pp. 107-9. By insisting that Christ enters the series
from beyond, ‘‘he denies the significance of the whole series as the
vehicle of God’s action. For in fact the world is not patient of
deity in any real sense, if at the crucial point it is required that God
thus break into his own ordering of things” (p. 108).
15. Charles E. Raven, Natural Religion and Christian Theology,
vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), p. 102: “Dr.
Thornton’s own doctrine was rendered inconsistent by his insistence that
although the creative process disclosed a series of emergents, life,
mind, spirit, and thereby foreshadowed the culmination of the series in
the coming of Christ, yet that event differed radically from all its
predecessors and signalized not the consummation of the process but the
intrusion into it of a Being wholly distinct and independent.”
16. Dorothy Emmet, Whitehead’s Philosophy of Organism (London: Macmillan, 1st ed. 1932, 2d ed. 1966), p. 254, n. 2:
He
can indeed claim Whitehead’s support for the view that our apprehension
of the eternal order depends upon the fact of a developing incorporation
of that order into the successions of events in Space-Time through an
ascending cosmic series [IL, p. 98]. But this has really no
bearing on the Christology of the latter half of the book, since he
claims that Christ is not a product of the creative organic series but
an irruption of the Logos-Creator (or the absolute eternal order) into
the series.
17. IL, pp. 237 38.
18. See the criticism of D. M. Baillie, God Was in Christ (New
York; Scribner’s, 1948), pp. 91-93, who suggests that The Incarnate
Lord might be understood as a modern version of “the impersonal
humanity of Christ” proposed by Cyril of
Alexandria.
Baillie refers us to a similar critique by J. K. Mozley, The Doctrine
of the Incarnation (London: G. Bles, 1949), pp. 146-47.
19. J. P. Barnhart, “Incarnation and Process Philosophy,”
Religious Studies 2 (1967), 225-32.
20. Ibid., p. 229. Italics his.
21. Ibid.
22. Ibid., p. 231.
23. RM, p. 151.
24. AI, pp. 214, 216; cf. pp. 166-67.
25. Ibid., p. 216.
26. Ibid., pp. 216, 217.
27. For an extensive bibliography on process Christology, see Ewert H.
Cousins, ed., Process Theology: Basic Writings (New York: Newman
Press, 1971), pp. 200-2, 215-16, and 226. See also Delwin Brown’s
bibliographic discussion in Process Philosophy and Christian Thought,
ed. Delwin Brown, Ralph E. James, Jr., and Gene Reeves
(Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1971), pp. 58-61. I have specifically
criticized Ronald L. Williams’s article as paradigmatic of this approach
in “The Possibilities for Process Christology,” Encounter 35/4
(Autumn 1974), 281-94, esp. pp. 283-86. For my additional comments on
Griffin’s
A Process Christology, see pp. 286-94.
28. PC, p. 218.
29. Ibid., p. 220; italics his.
30. Ibid., p. 218. Here God’s eternal character and purpose
refer to his personal attributes which can to some extent be embodied by
a finite being sharing the same character and purpose, in
contradistinction to God’s metaphysical attributes, which indicate his
uniqueness from all finite beings (PC, pp. 191-92).
Nevertheless, both are aspects of God’s uncreated abstract essence.
Griffin does not avail himself of the distinction proposed by Pailin,
whereby God’s personal attributes are those values which God has in fact
chosen for all occasions in this actual world, in either case, however,
such personal attributes would be knowable in the same way that his
metaphysical attributes are, namely, by way of philosophical inquiry.
See David A. Pailin, “The Incarnation as a Continuing Reality,”
Religious Studies 6/4 (December 1970), 303-27, and my response, “The
incarnation as a Contingent Reality,’’ Religious Studies 8/2
(June 1972), 169-73.
31. PC, p. 220.
32. I. S.
Shklovskii and Carl Sagan, Intelligent Life in the Universe (San
Francisco: Holden-Day, 1966), p. 166.
33. Paul Tillich, Systematic Theology, vol. 2 (Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 1957), p. 95.
34. Individual cells within a complex organism, to be sure, apparently
have a shorter life-span than their host. It may be, however, that the
kind of organization whereby the individual cells are knit together is
itself simpler than the organization of the cell. Bureaucracies and
institutions are less organically structured than individual human
beings, yet they can outlast a score of human life-spans. If survival,
that is, that persistence of a given state of organization, is our sole
criterion of value, then there is a lot to be said for institutional
inertia. It is highly adaptive in its ability to survive most anything.
35. Sir Alister Hardy, The Living Stream: Evolution and Man
(London: William Collins, 1965).
36. The argument of this paragraph is heavily dependent upon Richard
H. Overman, Evolution and the Christian Doctrine of Creation
(Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1967), pp. 203-1l.
37. Erwin Schrodinger, Mind and Matter (Cambridge University
press, 1959). pp. 4-5.
38. Tillich, Systematic Theology, vol. 2, p. 96.
39. Cobb’s theory of incarnation is complex, and perhaps best
understood by considering it in a simpler version, as presented in
chapter 6 of Process Theology, An Introductory Exposition. by
John B. Cobb, Jr., and David Ray Griffin (Philadelphia: Westminster
Press, 1976). There Christ signifies not only Jesus but any
incarnation of the Word or Logos of God. Since the Logos is identified
with God’s primordial nature, that is. with the totality of the
possibilities God envisages for the world, Christ, its incarnation, is
seen in the actualization of any radically new and creative
possibilities derived from God. Hence we can see that such
actualization must result in creative transformation. This theme of
Christ as creative transformation is emphasized in Christ in a
Pluralistic Age, but it is overlaid by another account of
Christ, namely, as the particularization of divine aims in images or
symbols capable of evoking deep human response. There are thus two
layers of meaning as to Christ in this work, neither of which allows for
the conventional simple identification of Christ with Jesus only.
40. Cobb acknowledges his indebtedness for the idea to William
Beardslee, A House for Hope (Philadelphia: Westminster Press,
1972): see CPA, pp. 14-15.
Beardslee reports that the thesis of Donald W. Sherburne’s A
Whiteheadian Aesthetic (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1961),
that a work of art has the ontological status of a Whiteheadian
proposition, suggested the idea to him.
41. Whitehead quotes these words from the frontispiece of Cardinal
Newman’s Grammar of Assent, AI 380: ‘Non in dialectica
complacuit Deo salvum facere populum suum.
42. John Cobb, Jr., “A Whiteheadian Christology,” in Process
Philosophy and Christian Thought, pp. 382-98.
43. John Cobb, Jr.,
The Structure of Christian Existence (Philadelphia: Westminster
Press, 1967) describes eight types for human existence. Now Cobb sees
these types as ranged along a continuum.
Posted June 13,
2007
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