Tag: Augustine

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Another Metaphysical Mystery for Theists

By Jim Spiegel

As a follow up to my recent post on the “ultimate mystery,” I want to touch on another mystery pertaining to God and the cosmos.

One of the distinctive aspects of an orthodox Christian doctrine of creation is that of divine creation ex nihilo—the notion that God created the cosmos “out of nothing.” That is, God did not use any pre-existing materials to make the world. This sharply contrasts with many Eastern cosmologies as well as that of the ancient Greeks. Plato, for example, though a theist, regarded matter as co-eternal with God. Similarly with Aristotle. According to him, God was necessary to explain change in the world but not the existence of the world itself.

The biblical picture of divine creation is that God spoke every aspect of the cosmos into existence. The first century A.D. Jewish scholar Philo of Alexandria might have been the first to formalized this into the concept of creation ex nihilo. The first Christian thinker to articulate the doctrine was Theophilus of Antioch a century later. By the time Augustine affirmed the doctrine a few centuries after that, the concept of creation ex nihilo was becoming a firmly established pillar of church doctrine.

It is easy to see why early Christian scholars so readily embraced this idea, as the alternative view, creation ex materia (the notion that matter is eternal and divine creation is simply a reforming of this primordial material) does seem to conflict with the Genesis creation account and the general biblical portrait of God as alone eternal.

But here is an interesting question as regards divine creation—and I suppose it is as much of a quandary for the ex materia as it is for the ex nihilo view: where did God derive his ideas for creating the things he made—planets, stars, plants, animals, insects, etc.? The easy—and not very useful—answer is that God simply thought of these things out of his own infinite imagination. But how? Without any pre-existing things to prompt or inspire creative possibilities, what could have been the basis of the content of God’s creative choices?

Whenever human beings create we always do so with existing resources, things we have seen, heard, read, or otherwise experienced. So none of what we make is creative in the ultimate sense. Even our most “original” works are somehow derivative. So how does a mind come up with ideas purely and simply? We have no category for such a thing.

This is actually the hardest thing to comprehend about divine creation ex nihilo. It is not the act of creation ex nihilo—which I take to be essentially the sharing of ideas with other minds—so much as the devising of the ideas to share. It is this conceptual first step that boggles my mind. How did God conceive of the idea of a dog or a tree or even biological systems in the first place? This invites the question, out of what divine stuff did God conceive of these original ideas? Here we see the temptation to entertain some kind of Platonism which posits the eternal existence of certain ideas or forms. But, alas, such a view encounters the same problems that plague creation ex materia, as it affirms things that are co-eternal with God.

Another option would be to say that there are eternal ideas but they are not external to God but in God. This alternative essentially places the Platonic field of forms within the divine mind. But this option faces other difficulties, such as making sense of why just certain ideas are fundamental to the divine mind and not others (when, after all, there is presumably no reason to think that the idea of, say, a dog or tree is a necessary aspect of the divine mind). Here one might be tempted to avoid this problem by supposing that all possible ideas are eternally in the divine mind. But this faces the problematic implication that the mind of God is eternally loaded not only with rich and wonderful ideas but also with frivolous and random ideas from feces and pimples to hideously ugly potential plants and animals.

In any case, these are vexing questions, and I welcome any suggestions for potentially promising theories. Oh, and for more ruminations on the metaphysics of the divine mind, check out the book Four Views on Christian Metaphysics, a volume to which I contributed the chapter on idealism.

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Seven Reasons for the Liberal Arts—Part 1

By Jim Spiegel

The school where I teach, Taylor University, is a Christian liberal arts college.  Sometimes I am asked for a rationale for the liberal arts and, specifically, why a liberal arts education is important from a Christian point of view.  In this and my next post, I will provide such a rationale.

I considered giving my reasons in the form of a top ten list.  But top ten lists are cliché.  So I’m going to do something completely different.  I’m going to use a top seven list.  I will propose seven good reasons for studying the liberal arts—seven reasons why disciples of Jesus should be intellectually versatile.

By “liberal arts” I mean, of course, that wide range of studies that includes the humanities and sciences, from art to zoology.  So why as Christians should we be committed to liberal arts learning?

Reason #1:  Studying the liberal arts enables you to better appreciate the wisdom and beauty of God.  God is the source of all truths of science, math, history, psychology, theology, and every other discipline.  As the apostle Paul says, in Christ “are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge” (Col. 2:3).  So to study in literally any discipline is to understand Christ better.  Even the most abstract or minute insights about differential equations, mallard migration patterns, or the history of the French Revolution reveal something about the genius of God.  And any insight into the divine is a profound insight.

Also, all of the beauty found in the creative arts, from painting to poetry to music and theater, is ultimately derived from the beauty of God.  As Alain de Botton puts it, “beauty…is a fragment of the divine…  The qualities of beautiful objects are those of a God from whom we live far removed, in a world mired in sin . . . but bittersweet tokens of a goodness to which we still aspire.”[1]  God is the source of all aesthetic excellence wherever it might be found, so to experience beauty in any domain is to indirectly experience God’s beauty.  And liberal arts training gives us the greatest exposure to that beauty.

Reason #2:  Studying the liberal arts helps you to avoid embarrassing your faith.  To explain what I mean, consider these words from St. Augustine that are just as relevant today as they were when he wrote them 1600 years ago:

Usually, even a non-Christian knows something about the earth, the heavens, and other elements of this world, about the motion and orbit of the stars an even their size . . . , and this knowledge he holds to as being certain from reason and experience.  Now it is a disgraceful and dangerous thing for an infidel to hear a Christian, presumably giving the meaning of the Holy Scripture, talking nonsense on these topics; and we should take all means to prevent such an embarrassing situation, in which people show up vast ignorance in a Christian and laugh it to scorn . . . .  If they find a Christian mistaken in a field which they themselves know well and hear him maintaining his foolish opinions about our books, how are they going to believe those books in matters concerning the resurrection of the dead, the hope of eternal life, and the kingdom of heaven . . . ?”[2]

Augustine’s concern here is that fellow Christians in his day were reflecting poorly on Christ by announcing false and uninformed views about various issues—issues that today we would call scientific.  By publicly sharing their ignorance, these Christians undermined any credibility they might have had in proclaiming the Gospel.  For if a person is easily duped about geology and astronomy, then they are just as vulnerable and untrustworthy when it comes to theology.

By giving you a substantive exposure to all of the disciplines, a liberal arts education prevents this sort of thing.  You will be less likely to ignorantly pontificate about a subject because, well, you won’t be ignorant about it.  So liberal arts training helps you to avoid associating the Gospel with ignorance and thus tarnishing the name of Christ.  That’s a big deal.  But now let me expand on this a bit more positively.

Reason #3:  Studying the liberal arts makes you a better ambassador for Christ.  By becoming broadly knowledgeable, you make yourself a more interesting and circumspect person, and thereby you become a more compelling witness for Jesus.  There are a lot of evangelistic “methods” and programs out there, and all of them attempt a shortcut past the best and most biblical way of drawing others to Christ.

The apostle Peter sums it up like this: “Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us” (1 Pet. 2:12).  A Christian liberal arts education doesn’t just equip you for this or that vocation or set of tasks.  Rather, it turns you into a certain kind of person—a person who is a good thinker, imaginative, and intellectually versatile; you will become a person who has more interests and is therefore more interesting.  In short, you will become a person such that people will want to know what your ultimate life commitments are.  And no evangelistic method or program can match the power of that.

[1] Alain de Botton, The Architecture of Happiness (Vintage, 2008), 149.

[2] St. Augustine, The Literal Meaning of Genesis, 2 Vols., Ancient Christian Writers, nos. 41-42, trans. John Hammond Taylor (New York: Newman Press, 1982), 1:42-43.

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Augustine, the Roman Empire, and an American Cultural Deity

By Jim Spiegel

This summer I have been reading through Augustine’s City of God (unabridged version—nearly 900 pages).  It has been fascinating to see how deftly he moves from history to theology to philosophy to cultural analysis.  And his insights and wisdom in each of these topical spheres is impressive (though, of course, he shows his fallibility on many issues along the way as well).

In the first few hundred pages of the book Augustine discusses various aspects of the collapse of the Roman Empire.  And several times he mentions how Christians were blamed for this, specifically because of their critique and rejection of making sacrifices to the gods.  Many people thought this failure to appease the gods angered them and that the problems throughout the empire were a consequence of the gods’ vengeance or spiteful refusal to provide assistance.  So now the Roman Empire was crumbling, and it was all the Christians’ fault.  We are tempted to smile at such a silly and misguided accusation, but of course it was no laughing matter, as many Christians were seriously persecuted as a result of this accusation.

The situation in 21st century American culture bears some similarities to that in Augustine’s time.  All around us we see signs of cultural decay and social breakdown.  And our political system, too, is vulnerable to eventual collapse.  It is also interesting to note that Christians today, as in Augustine’s day, are often blamed for our social troubles, such as because of our pro-life advocacy and promotion of monogamy and traditional marriage (of course, not all Christians take these views, but most do).  It is also interesting to note how our stance on these issues constitutes a certain refusal to sacrifice to one of the most prominent deities of American culture, namely the god of sexual autonomy.  Americans make daily sacrifices to this deity in the form of promiscuity and the termination of unborn lives.  And Christians who oppose these sacrifices are often vilified and blamed for opposing social goods, even undermining the American way of life.

This is just one of the ways in which Augustine’s 1500-year-old analysis of ancient Rome is still relevant today.  While I hope our country doesn’t go the way of Rome any time soon (though, like all nations, it will eventually), the lessons we can glean from their history may be a source of cultural insight and practical wisdom.

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Amish Farms, Chuck E. Cheese, and Augustine’s Two Cities

By Amy Spiegel

Recently I had a day with divine handwriting all over it—like taking a half day tour of the City of God and ending with a tour of the City of Man. As you might know, several years back Jim and I de-meated our diet as a matter of conscience. I can still hear the documentaries Jim researched for an ethics class (I say hear because I didn’t have the nerve to actually watch them.). This, along with his reading on the subject, was enough to push us over the cliff that all crazies must jump off to land in the world of vegetarians. Unfortunately, we have recently discovered that our oldest, Bailey, is allergic not only to peanuts, which we have known for a while, but all related legumes, including lentils, soybeans, and peas of all sorts. So I have gone back to the drawing board a bit with regard to meal time. Since our objections are to factory farming and not carnivorousness per se, I have started seeking sources for free-range meat.

The other day the kids and I set off for a farm in the area that looked promising. I must confess to having a certain, but by no means negative, picture of the typical Indiana farmer.  And since I had found this particular farm on the internet and acquired directions on the phone, I was more than a little surprised when were greeted by a strikingly Amish-looking man. He very politely showed the kids around the farm which included several horses and buggies. I am not sure of his family’s exact convictions but we had an interesting conversation concerning his misgivings of grocery stores and what it means to depend on the land. (When Jim and I “depend on the land” this means we rely on someone else’s farming and their produce for which we happily pay.) The kids had a great time trying to feed the cows, watching the chickens, and clambering over hay bales. We paid our bill and went on our way. Then, since the farm was a bit of a drive, I decided to reward the kids for their patience by taking them to Chuck E. Cheese.

Now I must confess to having a rather low opinion of this establishment which I often refer to as “Children’s Las Vegas.” Still, I had a coupon and sternly declared that we were only staying until the first wave of tokens was gone. They rushed the doors like bargain seekers in the pre-dawn hours of Black Friday. But their glee quickly receded in the face of their greed. To stretch our dollar, I made them play one game at a time, waiting until their brother or sister had finished before they could move on. Even with this torturous methodology, it wasn’t long before my pockets were mercifully empty. I told them they could play on the indoor playground for a few minutes and then we had to go. I laughed a bit to see how the whining subsided as Sam and Maggie quickly devised an imaginative game involving half the square footage of the place and absolutely no money. Andrew plopped down at one of the racing games and happily pretended to drive, though I am not sure he knew he was pretending. They were back to the kids who had so much fun slopping through the mud an hour before.

As much as I would have liked to smugly judge my children for desiring what is manufactured and hollow, I fear that would be hypocritical of me. How often does the warmth and comfort of my own personal Chuck E. Cheese win out over my higher calling? I am not talking about hitting the snooze button rather than enjoying a pre-dawn quiet time. While we are surely called to study the Word and pray, my failures are often much more personal. To me, one the greatest virtues of the farm is the interdependence that it demands—between the animals and people, the people and the land, and the people with each other. But frankly, when it comes to my own life, I often value my independence and privacy to the detriment of relationships with others. I want to be a part of the body of Christ when it means that I am saved from eternal damnation but when it means asking someone how they are really doing and being prepared to actually listen, I sometimes resent being so fused to my fellow believers.

The City of Man is like Chuck E. Cheese—sterile (minus a few snot-smeared control handles) and cold, both literally and figuratively. The frenetic atmosphere charged with a blood lust of consumerism doesn’t allow for much interpersonal connectivity. If the City of God is anything like the farms I have visited, there is a different pace of life that is warm and everything seems somehow more real. But it all comes from a great deal of sweat-inducing work (and a large quantity of poop). The City of God is substantive and it is substance that we build or rather that is built through us and for us by our great Architect.

Leaving with my ears still ringing, I saw with more clarity how the bricks of those fabled mansions are made as we connect more deeply with one another and perhaps held together at least in part with the crap of this life.

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Ten Lessons from Great Christian Minds

By Jim Spiegel

Recently, I was invited to give a “last sermon,” as is a popular trend these days.  At first I pondered various topics that are dear to me.  Then I considered how I would want to be sure my words lived on after me.  I realized there was no better way to ensure this than by echoing the words of those whose profound teachings have already proven the test of time and/or rigorous scrutiny. 

Also, in the rabbinic tradition, I thought it appropriate to use a method that would be given to easy memorization.  So I decided to exploit that most revered method of the top ten list.  In addition to being an outline of my hypothetical “last sermon,” I intend this to be a handy reference for those of you who are now putting together your summer reading list. 

So here we go—profound lessons from ten great Christian minds.  All of these lessons are practical, but some are more personal than others.  I will begin with the more public and civic themes and drive to those which are moral and personal.  Also, I tried to order these chronologically, but couldn’t quite pull that off.  Still, with a few exceptions, they do go in chronological order.

Lesson #1—Augustine (5th century):  Remember that you are a citizen of another kingdom.  Augustine is the greatest theologian of the first millennium of the Christian era, and his ideas have shaped the thoughts of every Christian since, to one degree or another.  In his magnum opus, The City of God, Augustine notes that there are two great cities:  the earthly city—a perishing, imperfect order, with human rulers, typified by the Roman Empire—and the heavenly city, an imperishable, perfect order where God rules.  These cities are distinguished by their loves, respectively of self and of God.  When the two come into conflict, remember where your ultimate citizenship lies.

Lesson #2—Martin Luther (16th century):  Expect politicians to be corrupt.  Have you ever wondered why politicians tend to be so corrupt?  Have you ever considered why God allows this to happen—why he permits such smarmy people as the former Illinois governor, Rod Blagojevich, to get into power?  Luther gives a simple and strangely encouraging answer:  It is because our leaders reflect us.  As a people, frankly, we don’t deserve any better.  In fact, having corrupt leaders keeps us humble and reminds us of the heavenly city of which we are citizens first.  As Luther puts it in his powerful little essay “On Secular Authority,” “Frogs must have their storks.”  Keep this in mind, and you’ll be wiser without becoming cynical.  You’ll be wiser because you won’t be gullible, and you won’t be cynical because you’ll know that God does occasionally bless us with some morally decent public leaders, though they may be rare.

Lesson #3—Thomas Aquinas (13th century):  God has made himself known in nature.  Aquinas was a Dominican priest who has been more influential than perhaps any other Christian theologian.  In his massive Summa Theologica he emphasized the fact that while scripture gives us a wealth of theological knowledge, nature and experience also provide knowledge of God, which Aquinas calls “natural theology.”  This is crucial because:  1) it reminds us that no one has an excuse not to believe in God (as Paul explains the first chapter of Romans) and 2) it inspires us to learn about God in all that we study, not just scripture.  Science, history, psychology, math, and every other subject teach us about God.  In fact, this idea is the inspiration of the concept of a liberal arts college, like the one where I teach.

Lesson #4—John Calvin (16th century):  God is sovereign over all, including our suffering.  Calvin was not only a great Church Reformer, but he wrote the only systematic theology to come out of the Protestant Reformation:  The Institutes of the Christian Religion. The lesson of God’s sovereignty is far from being uniquely Calvinist, since it was emphasized by Augustine and Luther and many other great Christian theologians.  But for various reasons it is most commonly associated with Calvin, perhaps partly because he articulated this point as clearly and eloquently as anyone.  In any case, it is a teaching plainly taught in Scripture, most clearly in such passages as Psalm 139, James 1:2-4, and Romans 8:28.

Lesson #5—Jonathan Edwards (18th century):  God is beautiful, and all beauty is divine.  The fine historian Mark Noll—who spoke here at Taylor last week—has called Jonathan Edwards the “greatest evangelical mind.”  If that isn’t an incentive to study this man’s brilliant work, then nothing is.  Like Augustine, Luther, and Calvin, Edwards emphasized the sovereignty of God.  Everything God does, he does for his own glory.  This is, in fact, the point of history and the point of your life and mine:  the glory of God.  But Edwards recognized that the concept of glory is essentially an aesthetic concept.  It falls within the category of beauty.  So what this world is all about is showing the beauty of God.  And all of our longing for beauty—whether in the form of art, good music, good films, poetry, or the beauty of other people—is really an aspect of our longing for the One who is beauty itself.  And all of the finitely beautiful things we experience are so many expressions of God’s beauty.

Lesson #6—Thomas a’Kempis (15th century):  Practice self-denial with a passion.  Born in Prussia in 1380 to a peasant family, Thomas entered a monastery in the Netherlands at age 20.  As a monk he penned the great classic Of the Imitation of Christ, which has been translated into more languages than any other book except the Bible.  The theme of the book regards how to faithfully follow Christ, but more specifically it is focused on humility and self-denial, the defining characteristics of Christ, as we learn in Philippians 2:5-11, where Paul tells us to imitate Christ in being a radical servant.  If even the God-man refused to lay claim to his rights, then what does this say about the approach we should take?  a’Kempis unpacks this theme in profound ways that will transform your life if you put them into practice.

Lesson #7—John Wesley (18th century):  Be disciplined and make the best use of your time.  Wesley was the founder of the Methodist church and very much a social activist, known as much for his organizational and motivational skills as for his Christian preaching.  Wesley worked especially hard on two major social justice issues of his day:  prison reform and the abolition of slavery.  He also devoted himself diligently to the spiritual disciplines and the pursuit of holiness and personal sanctification.  Wesley was never idle but worked constantly.  Early on in his life he resolved to live on a certain modest amount of money, and despite the huge increases in his personal income, he died with few possessions, having given away his wealth to people in need.

Lesson #8—Fyodor Dostoevsky (19th century):  God’s grace can reach anyone.  Dostoevsky was a Russian novelist who is sometimes regarded as the greatest writer next to Shakespeare.  His insight into human nature is profound, and this, combined with his Christian sensibility, make reading him immensely profitable.  Dostoevsky nearly didn’t survive to have a long writing career.  When he was in his twenties he was arrested for being part of an insurrection and sentenced to death, but the death sentence was revoked and he was sent to a prison camp instead—an experience which had a lasting impact on his life and thought.  In his classic novel Crime and Punishment, Dostoevsky paints the portrait of a young man, Raskolnikov, who dares to challenge the concept of moral law through murder.  As Raskolnikov is consumed by guilt, so is the reader.  But the reader also vicariously participates in the severe divine grace that finds this seemingly hopeless man.  Nowhere else in the history of literature is there a more compelling picture of Christian redemption.

Lesson #9—Dietrich Bonhoeffer (20th century):  Beware of cheap grace.  Bonhoeffer was another Christian thinker who took part in an insurrection (a plot to kill Adolf Hitler).  Bonhoeffer, too, was sentenced to death.  In this case, however, the death sentence was not revoked and he was hung with his conspirators just prior to the end of World War II.  Fortunately, however, Bonhoeffer had already completed many great works of theology, including his classic book The Cost of Discipleship.  This work contains profound insights into the importance of self-denial and suffering for the Christian, thus echoing the same emphasis in Augustine, a’Kempis, Calvin, and Edwards.  Bonhoeffer distinguishes between cheap grace (preaching forgiveness without repentance) and costly grace (which is premised upon repentance).  There is no such thing as cheap grace, Bonhoeffer reminds us.  Jesus tells us to take up our cross and turn from sin.  If we don’t do so, then we are not truly under grace.

Lesson #10—Alvin Plantinga (21st century):  Moral virtue is crucial for intellectual health.  Plantinga is one of the premier Christian thinkers of the last generation.  At a time when theists were retreating in the philosophical community, he had the temerity to suggest that belief in God is not only reasonable but is in fact a proper starting placefor knowledge.  This was, of course, axiomatic for the Reformers, but Plantinga made a persuasive philosophical case for the idea.  In light of this insight, he has developed a rich Christian psychology (especially in his Warranted Christian Belief), complete with an arresting account of how sin corrupts cognition and how, correlatively, right living is crucial for the proper function of our cognitive faculties.  Virtue, as it turns out, is as important for the mind as the mind is for the life of virtue.