Epilogue
Since the impetus for
process theism has primarily come from the philosophies of Whitehead and
Hartshorne, it is not surprising that most process theology heretofore
has been largely preoccupied with the problems and questions they have
left us. It is time, however, we fleshed out the thinness of these
philosophical abstractions with the concreteness of the biblical witness
to God’s interaction with
Israel and with the church. For process theism recognizes both the necessary
and the contingent aspects of God. Philosophy properly and adequately
analyzes God’s necessary aspects, but cannot tell us what his contingent
aspects are, other than the bare assertion that there are such
contingent aspects, features of God’s activity which happen to be so but
just as well could have been otherwise. The Bible’s insistence upon
historical and geographical particularity (e.g.,
Abraham,
Israel, Zion), often an embarrassment to theological universality, has marked it
out as the primary source for man’s witness to the involvement of God in
history. The radical contingency of this involvement, known to us
through the Scriptures, thus precisely complements the abstract
conceptuality process theism offers, while this conceptuality in turn
illumines the way in which we today can appropriate this rich heritage.
If this common
history of God and man is truly contingent, then man’s free response is
an essential element in the story. This in turn undercuts the
traditional assumption that God controls the future (or at least knows
it in detail), and has everything already planned out (chapter 2).
God’s power is persuasive, not controlling. His is the power of the
future operative in the present, providing those possibilities which, if
fully actualized in our creaturely response, will bring about the
achievement of the good. This is the power of divine lure, expressed in
the vision of the future reigning of God (chapter 3).
This divine
persuasion reached a critical point of intensity in the event of Jesus,
where through his life, death, and resurrection a new level in the
creation of the world was achieved, the transhuman reality of the living
body of Christ (chapter 5). “Christ” for us is not simply identical
with the Logos, the second member of the Trinity, which is the totality
of the rational features of God available for (partial) actualization in
the world. Christ is that divine Word effectively addressed to the
human condition. Since our existence and condition are radically
contingent, so is that divine address, which can only be discovered
through revelation (chapter 4). That contingent divine address may be
variously understood, but we have interpreted it in terms of the
emergent body of Christ.
In speaking of Jesus’
resurrection in terms of the body of Christ, we mean to steer a middle
course between two opposite extremes. On the one hand, we wish to
challenge the implicit individualism inherent in the traditional
understanding of the Risen Christ as a separate individual existing
apart from his Christian followers, either in some resuscitated form
during those forty days Luke speaks of (Acts 1:3) or as assimilated
within the Godhead. On the other hand, we do not wish to be
misunderstood as claiming that the Risen Christ is merely the collective
spirit of the church, as if it were just the dynamism achieved through
the merging of many humans in a common task. The analogy of a living
animal organism might be helpful here. The collective spirit of the
church would be like the common life of the body, which is simply the
merging of the vitalities of the individual cells. It could perhaps be
enough to explain the activity of the body, were it only sleeping. But
when it is awake and alert, any animal body is coordinated in its
activity by its mind. To be sure, this mind may not exist apart from
its body, but neither can the body fully act as an alert living organism
apart from the mind. The Risen Christ is just such a mind for his
body. And just as the higher forms of mind enjoy consciousness, we
should expect that the mind of this transhuman reality enjoys an even
more intense form of consciousness of its own, distinct from temporal
humans. It is also distinct from God’s consciousness, for there was a
time, namely, at the resurrection, when this consciousness came to be.
Jesus’ death bears
ultimate significance for us because of the resurrection. Without that
stamp of divine approval, his death would have been another of the
deaths of the martyrs. But the death of God’s chosen One reveals the
depths of anguish and suffering of God at the hands of creaturely evil,
for he has pledged to accept the unacceptable, even at such cost. The
cross also marks the defeat of God, momentarily stymied from effecting
his purposes, but the resurrection shows that God is able to triumph
over such defeat (chapter 6). This, as we have just seen in the
preceding chapter, is our ultimate basis for hope in the future course
of the world under God.
The Christian
community’s concern for the role of Christ within a strictly
monotheistic economy gave rise to the traditional problem of the
Trinity. Since we conceive of the Risen Christ with his body as a level
of reality distinct from both God and man, our solution is closer to
Paul’s original subordinationism (God-Christ-Spirit) than to the
eventual coordinationism (Father-Son-Spirit) adopted at
Nicaea.
Yet the doctrine of the Trinity also expresses some speculative insights
most congenial to Christian philosophy which process theism can
appropriate (chapter 7). The classical description of the Father
begetting the Son before all worlds can also describe the way in which
God, in the Whiteheadian conceptuality, creates himself by envisaging
all the pure forms as constituting the metaphysical order God and the
world exemplify. Moreover, the Logos (=Son) and the Spirit are closely
correlated with the two natures of God whereby he exemplifies that
order, the primordial and the consequent natures.
Besides all this, the
specific relation between the Father and the Logos is most important in
safeguarding two truths, often obscured in theology’s ongoing dialogue
with philosophy:
(1) God does not
simply transcend all rational structures whatsoever, but stands revealed
in the Logos. This insures that philosophical analysis of the nature of
God is both possible and proper. As we have seen, such knowledge is not
sufficient for it cannot speak effectively to our human contingent
condition, but this does not mean that in its own sphere it is not
necessary and valid.
This stricture is
often honored in its breach, as in mysticism, Neoplatonism, the negative
theology of the early Greek fathers, or in the contemporary insistence
by Tillich that the divine being-itself is beyond all beings. All such
formulations implicitly elevate God the Father (or the underlying divine
substance) to a higher ultimacy than the other members of the Trinity,
and then treat this element as really God. If the Trinity is not to be
understood tritheistically, the generation of the Logos from the Father
is God’s self-expression, whereby God’s nature is articulated in ways at
least partially accessible to discursive reason.
(2) On the other
hand, God is not subject to some uncreated metaphysical structure.
There is no ultimate pattern of being, independently discover-able by
reason, to which he must conform. Such a thesis was carried to its
extreme by Leibniz, who argued that God must choose the best of the
compossible worlds. These compossibilities could be ranked quite
independently of God’s choosing, and he had only to call the one ranked
best into being. In contrast, Whitehead asserts that God both
“exemplifies and establishes the categoreal conditions.” 1 He
is their ultimate source. They receive their value for his valuing, not
vice versa.
This is very much in
accord with the ancient Hebrew understanding of God’s name: “I am who I
am” (Ex. 3:14).
Thomas Aquinas took this to mean that God is pure being, being-itself,
but that interpretation ignores the role of the reiterated first person
singular. This phrase, combining an open-ended imperfect verb (in
either the active or causative mood) with a highly indefinite relative
pronoun, can be interpreted in a great many different ways. I regard as
basic the proclamation of sovereign freedom: “I will be what I will be,”
fashioned analogously to the words: ‘‘I will be gracious to whom I will
be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy” (Ex.
33:19).
According to this
reading it is all too easy to conclude that the original Hebraic
understanding claimed God was radically without any nature, radically
free to constitute himself anew in any moment. Such an existentialist
interpretation violates our first stricture that God stands revealed in
the rational structure of the Logos. It also ignores the
counterbalancing factor present in the ancient Hebraic view, namely,
that this sovereign Lord freely enters into covenants with men, with
Noah, with Abraham, and with the whole house of
Israel assembled at Sinai. Also, this Lord is faithful to his promises. In
this historical and political context, the promises of God provide that
sort of ultimate stability later sought in metaphysics.
In a human life this
combination of freedom and faithfulness is praiseworthy for the
integrity it achieves. Human integrity should be judged by two
criteria: (1) the steadfastness of character it expresses, and (2) the
values chosen as the basis for that integrity, for they must be
sufficiently inclusive in order to serve as a satisfactory guide for the
resolution of all particular crises. Such integrity can only be
manifested in a temporal series of free decisions because we never
confront the totality of those situations comprising our lives all at
once. We choose our values hopefully, tentatively, awaiting future
developments to see whether we can afford to reaffirm them. A complete
restructuring of values, such as the “radical conversion” Sartre
envisions, is always possible, for we may well discover that the values
we have lived by are inadequate as guides for handling present crises.
In that case Sartre’s strictures against inauthenticity are quite
pertinent. It will not do to reaffirm the old values mechanically,
despite present need. We must then have the courage to tear down and
reshape our structure of values. A deeper integrity might thereby
arise, since we may find ourselves embodying richer and more inclusive
values. Nevertheless a break has occurred. The original integrity has
been judged and found wanting. Human integrity cannot thus be an
inherent quality, given at the outset, but an achievement only
tentatively and gradually achieved. We can never know how well it is
achieved until we can review a man’s total life.
The biblical drama is
the biography of God, whereby the integrity of his values are gradually
made manifest in the vicissitudes of the concrete situations of
Israel, Jesus, and the church. These values in all of their complex richness
cannot be simply given at the outset; they must be temporally emergent
as layer upon layer is added to the account of God’s dealings with man.
The concrete character of each situation needs to be explored.
Nevertheless there is
a profound difference between divine and human Integrity. In addition,
to confront each situation immediately at hand, and to bring it to a
definite conclusion, God has the task of ordering all conceivable
possibilities. This cosmic ordering cannot be simply temporal, for in
that case we face two equally unacceptable alternatives: (1) Suppose God
changes his ordering from time to time, according to which possibilities
are judged to be better or worse. Then what was better now becomes
worse, and vice versa. Given God’s first ordering, no other ordering
can be justified. Or, given some later ordering, no earlier one can be
justified. With different orderings values would become totally
arbitrary, relative not merely to changing circumstance or cultural
milieu, or to different individuals, but also to the passing whims of a
cosmic ruler. (2) Suppose, to avoid these evils, we conceive God’s
first temporal decision to be perfect and complete. It could not be
tentative and incomplete, for then it would be subject to the
uncertainty that it might prove to be inadequate in some later
situation. This would pack all of God’s decision-making back into some
first temporal moment, a very problematic notion in itself. Then all
God’s decisions from that moment on would merely be mechanical
reaffirmations of that original choice.
What is needed is an
openness and tentativeness allowing for the ongoing exercise of divine
freedom coupled with an underlying integrity which cannot possibly be
threatened by whatever happens. This we find in Whitehead’s conception
of the primordial envisagement of all pure possibilities. This one,
ultimate decision is basically nontemporal, whereby all the
possibilities are ordered, and God determines himself to be the sort of
God he is. It is thereby God’s act of self-creation. Or, to express it
in classical terms, it is the way the Father (=the originating power)
generates the Son (=the Logos, the order of all possibility) “before all
worlds” (=nontemporally). This basically nontemporal ordering is then
temporally emergent in God’s interaction with the world. It is never
fully given in any temporal moment.
Thus while the nature
of God is ultimately derived from a divine decision, it is not a merely
temporal decision. This then qualifies the thrust of that declaration,
“I will be what I will be.’’ While God may respond differently to
differing circumstances, there is an underlying consistency of character
and value that is open to philosophical examination. While process
theism welcomes expressions of God’s dynamic activity, I for one am
hesitant ever to endorse any change in God’s values not dictated by a
change in the objective situation. Yet God is portrayed as not having
determined the wickedness of Sodom and Gomorrah prior to his consultation with Abraham (Gen. 18:21), and Moses
successfully averts God’s original intention to destroy the Israelites,
although Israel’s idolatry with the golden calf remains just what it was
before Moses’ intercession (Ex. 32:7 -14).2
The biblical writers
have not been particularly sensitive to the demand for an underlying
consistency of character among the differing portrayals of God. Various
scholars have noticed and emphasized the resulting incompatibilities.
John L. McKenzie has written:
We simply do not
believe in the Great Warrior who exterminated the Canaanites. Some who
shared our faith did. They also professed belief in Jesus Christ the
Son of God who said that he who would save his life must lose it, and
who implied that a good way to lose it quickly is to love those who hate
you and pray for those who persecute you. How does one speak of a god
who exhibits both these features? Lam compelled to say simply he does
not exist, and that those who professed this monstrous faith worshipped
an idol.3
These logical
inconsistencies, which so trouble us today because of the implicit way
in which we have accepted the perspective of Greek rationality, did not
concern the biblical thinkers. Even after we have been admonished to
love our enemies and to “be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect”
(Matt. 5:44, 48), Paul can quote with approval the divine decision: “Jacob
I loved, but Esau I hated” (Rom.
9:13,
quoting from Mal. 1:2-3). It is a logical contradiction for God to love
all men, including his enemies, and yet also hate Esau, but this does
not seem to bother Paul at all. For there is an inconsistency only if
we introduce the philosopher’s assumption that God has an unchanging
nature, such that the way we now experience divine activity must also
characterize God’s activity in the past. Paul’s understanding of God,
however, was primarily historical. He apprehended God in terms of his
present activity, as presently understood, but also accepted without
challenge the authoritative witness to divine activity in the past. In
appealing to this rejection of Esau, Paul was not arguing that the
chosenness of Jacob must require the rejection of Esau, let alone trying
to justify any hatred for the Edomites. He was simply trying to justify
his present understanding of God, involving as it did notions of
election and predestination, and for this purpose the authoritative word
of the tradition was sufficient. He does not inquire whether the
interpretive patterns employed by the historical witness were the same
as his own, or even compatible with them. This is a modern
preoccupation, growing out of our concern with universality.
It may be precisely
this lack of concern for temporal consistency which makes it possible
for biblical literature to give us such a rich account of the activity
of God. It allows for the accumulation of many different perspectives,
each roughly consistent within itself but not necessarily with the
others. Had a strict demand for consistency among these various
perspectives been present, no new understanding of God could have
emerged without a repudiation of the old. Given the conservative nature
of religious practice, it is more than likely that the old view would
have won out every time, stifling all new creative imagination. The
genius of the Hebrew imagination was that it was able to accept and
affirm the witness to God’s former acts, even as understood from an
older perspective, while at the same time proclaiming what God was about
to do as grasped from a newer standpoint. Moreover, it was precisely
the acceptance of the old which provided a rich matrix for present
creative imagination to reach new levels of insight. This combination
of the old and the new was experienced as a living reality, for God,
having graciously acted on behalf of Israel, was now prepared to do a
new thing.
The danger of a
premature demand for consis-tency may be seen in the Greek experience.
Here heightened moral sensitivity was not handled historically, but
became part of philosophy’s general criticism of its inherited myth.
The notion that it is most appropriate for the divine to be unchanging
enters the philosophical tradition very early. If Aristotle’s report
carries over the words of Anaximander (and not merely some later
inference), Anaximander, himself already so conceived his basic
principle, the apeiron (the indefinite): “And this, they say, is
the divine. For it is immortal and indestructible, as Anaximander and
most of the natural philosophers maintain.”4 At any rate,
Xenophanes emphatically claims that God:
. . . ever abides
In the selfsame place
without moving; nor is it fitting
For him to move
hither and thither, changing his place.5
The result of this
conception of the divine was devastating. With one blow the Olympian
gods were consigned to oblivion. How could there be strife or any sort
of interaction among the gods if only the unchanging could really be
perfect? Xenophanes seems to have had a fierce belief in his one divine
being, but it seems to have been too vague to capture the imagination of
his compatriots. They were only too aware of the incisiveness of his
critique against the Homeric deities, and in fact the Greeks gradually
lost faith in these gods during the ensuing century. Greek philosophy
sought to conceive some underlying divinity which Zeus, Hermes,
Aphrodite, and the rest all participated in, but in the process lost the
personality of God, and with it all popular allegiance. Faced with the
many gods of antiquity, the biblical tradition took an approach that was
wiser.- It did not initially insist upon their nonexistence. The
injunction was clear and practical: “Thou shalt have no other gods
before me.” This is primarily a vow of fidelity, with no necessary
theoretical implications. If in marriage a man and woman take each
other, forswearing all others, this by no means implies they are the
only ones in existence. Yet the eventual outcome of the biblical
experience, initially elevating one God above all competing powers, was
the discovery that these gods were no gods at all. Thus monotheism can
grow out of an earlier henotheism, with apparently little awareness of
the diverse theological views of the differing historical layers.
In the course of many
centuries the biblical record has left us with an impressive compendium
of historical testimony to God’s dealings with Israel, expressed in
terms of a wide variety of diverse and often conflicting perspectives,
which so perplexed the Greek mind as it tried to come to terms with the
foundations of Christian theology. No wonder it so often sought refuge
in allegory! Many biblical theologians are suspicious of the use the
church has made of philosophy in understanding this heritage, yet even
they accept the demand for philosophical consistency. And it is
precisely this demand which shatters the thought-world of the biblical
writers themselves. For now it becomes no longer possible to
incorporate other perspectives within one’s own simply because they
authoritatively witness to God’s past actions. We must now show how the
total range of testimony can be accommodated, more or less, within a
single, consistent perspective. This requirement brings us to
philosophy, for it is the one discipline best suited for the
construction of such all-embracing concepts.
History has served
the cause of God well. In no other culture or span of time has man’s
understanding of God’s ways progressed so much as in ancient
Israel. At the time of the Judges, Yahweh was conceived as simply one of the
various tribal deities, along with Molech of
Moab and Chemosh of Ammon (see Judg.
11:24), yet barely six centuries later Second Isaiah can proclaim with
monotheistic fervor the glories of the Lord as creator of the world and
redeemer of
Israel. Nothing in the history of Christian doctrine since the New
Testament, certainly not since
Nicaea, can
rival this for growth in increased sensitivity. In the light of this it
is very tempting to want to continue to exploit the paradigm of
historical interpretation for our understanding of God today.
Unfortunately it is a paradigm that has outlived its usefulness, for at
least two reasons:
(1) The book of Job
now stands in its way as a massive roadblock. The righteous are not
always rewarded, nor the wicked punished. This observation was already
causing concern to the thoughtful during the last years of
Judah’s monarchy. According to the historian of Kings, Manasseh was one of
the worst kings to sit on the throne of
Judah, and Josiah one of the very best. Yet Manasseh has a long and
peaceful reign of some fifty-five years, and Josiah is cut down in
battle before he was yet forty, despite Huldah’s word from the Lord that
he would die in peace (2 Kings 22:20; cf. 23:29). Jeremiah and Habakkuk
questioned the justice of God, as did many of those exiled in
Babylon.
Why should they be required to pay for the sins of their forefathers,
particularly in the light of the emerging realization that each man
should be answerable for his own sins? (Jer. 31:27-30; Ezek. 18:1-4).
The author of the book of Job faced this question squarely,6
and resolved it as best he could dramatically, but no resolution is
really possible, given the presuppositions of the time.
It is a commonplace
to observe that Job undercuts the easy assumptions of the wisdom school
or of the Deuteronomic historian. It is not equally realized that it
undercuts the basis for the whole prophetic interpretation of history.
Amos and Hosea could threaten doom upon
Israel in the confidence that this was God’s just punishment for its sin. If
in fact there is no correlation between conduct and consequence, the
nerve of this sort of interpretation of history is severed.
We seek to understand
God as purely persuasive. But what if this persuasion proves
ineffective, because the people are recalcitrant? The king can compel
obedience by punishing the rebellious, and this same model was
transferred to God. But, as we have seen, any such coercive measures
depend upon creaturely agencies partially beyond God’s control. The gap
between the ‘‘ought’’ and the “is’’ applies equally well to any theory
of rewards and punishments. Measures which, if directly controlled by
God, should be interpreted as instances of God’s wrath may not have been
so intended. Thus it is possible that Huldah’s prophecy concerning
Josiah properly reflected the aims of God, in this case frustrated by
Pharaoh Necho and the king’s own miscalculation as to the probable
consequences of that confrontation between
Egypt and Israel.
According to the law
of the prophet, if the word spoken in the name of the Lord does not come
to pass, then the prophet has spoken falsely (Deut. 18:22). But that law presupposes that God directly controls man’s destiny,
to insure that his threats or promises would be carried Out. Yet, even
at the time,
Israel understood prophecy as the open-ended proclamation of divine intent,
modifiable in terms of its response. This is the point of the story of
Jonah, and Jeremiah had a lively sense of its truth (see, e.g., Jer.
26:3, or 18:1-11). The nonfulfillment of Micah’s prophecy against the
temple was understood in Jeremiah’s time as the result of Hezekiah’s
repentance (Jer. 26:16-19). Perhaps we should evaluate the truth or
falsity of prophecy in terms of whether it correctly reflects God’s
intentions in that particular situation, not how it was in fact carried
out. In that case Jeremiah’s prediction of a bad end for Jehoiakim (Jer.
22:19; 36:30-31), while it was apparently never fulfilled, nevertheless
remains authentic prophetic declaration. As I read them, both Isaiah
and Micah fully expected the destruction of
Jerusalem
and Judah at the hands of Sennacherib,7 and by their lights this is
what ought to have happened. This may be truer prophecy than the later
legendary accretions in which Isaiah predicts the Lord’s miraculous
deliverance of the city of Jerusalem from the Assyrian siege (Isa.
36-37), even though that reinterpretation of the prophet’s role may have
saved the book of Isaiah for the canon.
Most of the prophetic
writings we now have are clustered around three major crises in
Israel’s history: (1) the fall of
Samaria in
722 BC., (2) the invasion by Sennacherib in 701 BC., and (3) the fall of
Jerusalem
in 586 BC. In the case of the first and third instances, these events
could be truly interpreted as the execution of God’s wrath. Thus the
prophetic declaration of divine intent based on what ought to be the
case could coincide with fulfilled prediction. If in hindsight Israel
collected only those prophecies which could be understood as properly
fulfilled prediction, in accordance with the Deuteronomic law of the
prophet, there is no way of determining how many other “true” prophets
there may have been, ‘‘true’’ in the sense that they accurately
proclaimed the character of God’s intent.
(2) The prophetic
interpretation of history was plausible when only Israel and its Lord
were the protagonists, and the other nations were simply onlookers or
instrumentalities of God’s will. When the horizon is widened to embrace
all the nations, God’s will has to be reconceived from their standpoint
as well. In the Exodus traditions the Israelites could enjoy a good
fight with
Egypt, since this conflict was regarded as simply the means whereby God
redeemed them out of the house of bondage. But what is God’s purpose
vis-à-vis the Egyptians? The status of God’s instrumentalities becomes
even more enigmatic, because it is only the arrogance, greed, and
aggressiveness of the Assyrians and the Babylonians which make them
unconscious tools for God’s punishment. Habakkuk protests: “Why dost
thou look on faithless men, and art silent when the wicked swallows up
the man more righteous then he?” (1:13). Jeremiah can only proclaim
God’s judgment against all the nations at the hands of Babylon,
and then Babylon is to be judged in turn (25:8-14).
Thus in the end, the
apocalyptic writers who use the horizon of universal history have
recourse to angelic instrumentalities of God’s will. Angels can
directly and unambiguously accomplish the divine purpose, for in theory
they lack the creaturely freedom that so distorts the course of
history. Yet, in doing so, the presupposition underlying divine
persuasion is destroyed.
If Whitehead is right
that “God’s purpose in the creative advance is the evocation of
intensities”8 for each creature or group as it arises, and
that history must be conceived “as the theatre of diverse groups of
idealists respectively urging ideals incompatible for conjoint
realization,” 9 then perhaps we should see God as encouraging
each to pursue the good it envisages, despite the conflict this may
entail. (To be sure, compromise and the harmonization of interests may
well be among the goods the parties are also enjoined to pursue.) The
complexity and diversity of interests and values represented in
universal history, coupled with the radical uncertainty about any
connection between performance and deserts, make it impossible today to
discern God’s providential hand in it with the confidence of Israel’s prophets.
The prophetic corpus
of the Old Testament oversimplifies history in two directions. It sees
a direct correlation between conduct and consequence, and it
concentrates its attention narrowly on
Israel. It cannot do justice to the complexities of universal history. Yet
this was a most important oversimplification, for it made possible for
the Jews to accept their fate as the just punishment of God, and to
accept the Torah as the book by which they would live. Without that
credibility of the prophetic oversimplification, the exiled Jews might
have lost their identity as the people of God.
Israel might have vanished before the Christ of
Israel could appear.
If for no other
reason, the universality of the Christian proclamation of salvation for
all requires that the particularity of historical categories be replaced
by the universality of philosophical concepts. But it is important that
there be no premature abandonment of history’s nurturing role, as the
fate of Greek religious sensibility indicates. Had the question of a
monarchy in
Israel been addressed in the absolutistic terms of political philosophy, the
result could very well have been disastrous. On the one hand, if the
Israelite monarchy were seen as essential, then the whole foundation of
Israel would have collapsed when
Jerusalem
was taken by Nebuchadnezzar. On the other hand, if the monarchy were
understood as inimical to true theism,
Israel at the time of Samuel and Saul might have succumbed to the
Philistines. Without a royal theology, it is difficult to imagine how
the anticipation of a future king could have arisen. Jesus’ own role,
at least in the eyes of his disciples and the later church, would have
had less justification without this rich matrix of messianic
expectation.
History provides the
proper way into theology, but philosophy is the critic of the
consistency of its perspectives. Theology today must be articulated by
means of philosophical concepts, and these should be evaluated according
to purely philosophical criteria of consistency, coherence, adequacy,
and applicability. Yet if these concepts are to be adequate and
applicable to all experience, this experience must also include the
experience of biblical man. While philosophy may judge the consistency
of his interpretive standpoints, it cannot gainsay his witness to the
contingencies of divine action.
Process theism is the
natural ally of biblical history, for process is history abstractly
conceived. Process theism can provide the contemporary conceptuality by
which we can appropriate this ancient literature, while the biblical
tradition can provide those concrete particularities whereby our lives
are given final meaning.
Notes
1.
PR, p. 522.
2.
For an incisive analysis of this last incident, see George W. Coats,
‘‘The King’s Loyal Opposition: Obedience and Authority in Exodus 32-34,”
pp. 91-109 in Canon and Authority. Essays in Old Testament and
Theology, ed. George W. Coats and Burke O. Long (Philadelphia:
Fortress, 1977).
3.
John L.McKenzie, “Biblical Anthropomorphism and the Humaneness of God,”
p. 182 in Religion and the Humanizing of Man, ed. James M.
Robinson (Waterloo Ontario: Council on the Study of Religion, 1972).
4.
Aristotle, Physics iii. 4, about 203b12. See Werner Jaeger’s
discussion of this passage in The Theology of the Early Greek
Philosophers (New York: Oxford University Press, 1947), p. 25.
5.
Xenophanes B26, in Herman Diels, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker,
ed. Walther Kranz, 5th ed. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1934-35).
6.
I take Job 3-42:6 to be an exilic composition inserted in a traditional
folktale which now frames the encounter of Job with his three friends
and with God.
7.
For Isaiah, Isa. 29:1-4 is the key passage. I take verses 5-8 to be a
later reinterpretation by another hand, based upon the ambiguity of the
preposition in v. 3, which can be interpreted either as “against” or as
“upon.”
8.
PR, p. 161.
9.
Al, p. 356-57.
Posted June 13,
2007
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