<!–[if gte vml 1]&gt; &lt;![endif]–><!–[if !vml]–><!–[endif]–>I’ve just finished reading Thomas Talbott’s remarkable book on universal reconciliation, The Inescapable Love of God, and I must say that overall I thought very highly of it. The book is both well-organized and well-written, and the author’s perspective on the controversial subject matter is deeply engaging. Professor Talbott has gone a long ways toward showing that Universalism is a sound doctrine biblically, morally, and logically; and indeed that on the same grounds the Reformed picture of God, with its doctrines of limited atonement and the eternal damnation of the non-elect, is irreconcilably inconsistent in those same areas.

Talbott divides his book into three parts. Part One is mostly autobiographical in nature and starts out by describing the author’s early experiences with theology. After a conservative and sheltered childhood in a loving Christian family, the young Talbott found his faith directly challenged for the first time in a college philosophy class led by an atheistic professor. Talbott remarks that

“…when I first encountered the argument from evil as an undergraduate, my instinct was to turn to the great theologians of the past upon whose shoulders I was quite prepared to stand. Little did I anticipate, however, the shock and the crisis of faith in store for me when I did just that. For though it came as a complete surprise to me, I found the writings of Christian theologians to be far more disturbing—and a far greater threat to my faith, as I understood it—than those of any atheistic thinker whom I had encountered. The problem was that I kept bumping up against this awkward fact: I seemed unable to find a single mainline Christian theologian who truly believed, any more than my atheistic professor did, in a loving God. They all claimed to believe in a just and a holy God, but this God seemed not to care enough about created persons even to will or to desire the good for all of them. And anything less than a perfectly loving God, I was already persuaded, would be far worse than no God at all. So in the end, the shock of discovering what the mainline theologians actually taught—and asked me to believe—precipitated a very real crisis of faith.”

Talbott’s early crisis of faith sets the stage in his book for a somewhat in-depth study of what he calls a “demonic picture of God;” a picture which has pervaded Western theology in one form or another since the days of Augustine, and which, he argues, has contributed more than anything to a centuries-old “legacy of fear and persecution” within Christianity, from Augustine’s support of the persecution of the Donatists to the execution of Servetus by John Calvin to the persecution of the Anabaptists by Protestants and Catholics alike. Talbott makes the preliminary argument that the picture of God as described by Jonathan Edwards, for example—a God to whom we are “ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours”—is incorrect. In contrast to religion of fear, he quotes the Apostle John: “perfect love casts out fear, for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love.” Talbott believes that “God is love; that is the rock-bottom fact about God,” and he spends the rest of the book trying to prove it.

Part Two of The Inescapable Love of God is entitled “Universal Reconciliation and the New Testament”, and in it Talbott examines the biblical evidence for universalism, particularly in the writings of St. Paul. First, though, he presents a fascinating set of three inconsistent propositions:

“(1) It is God’s redemptive purpose for the world (and therefore his will) to reconcile all sinners to himself;

(2) It is within God’s power to achieve his redemptive purpose for the world;

(3) Some sinners will never be reconciled to God, and God will therefore either consign them to a place of eternal punishment, from which there will be no hope of escape, or put them out of existence altogether.”

Talbott notes that although there are ample theological and scriptural arguments which would seem to support each statement, logically at least one of these statements must be false. Furthermore he notes that, depending on which statement one chooses to reject, one will classify himself into one of three categories. Augustinians (or Calvinists) reject the first statement, claiming that God only wants certain people (the ‘elect’) to be reconciled to him. Arminians reject the second statement, claiming that human free will can ultimately prevent God’s desire for the salvation of all. Finally, Universalists reject the third statement, claiming that hell is neither everlasting nor retributive, but restorative, and that all people will eventually freely repent and be reconciled to God.

Confronted with these three different pictures of God—Augustinian, Arminian, and Universalist—Talbott proceeds to look at the scriptural basis for each one. In particular, he notes that the proponents of each view read their presuppositions into the text, as for example when Calvin reads 1 Timothy 2:4 (the statement that God “desires everyone to be saved and come to the knowledge of the truth.”) and comments (in his Institutes) that “Paul surely means only that God has not closed the door to any order of men…” In other words, advocates of each position will have their own standard ways of explaining away difficult texts in the Bible.

By far the most interesting segment of Talbott’s scriptural analysis comes in Chapter 5 “The Universalism of St. Paul”, where he argues that “Paul clearly did anticipate a time when all created persons would be reconciled to God.” He begins with Romans 5:18: “Therefore just as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all.” Admitting, of course, that the text is lifted out of context, he proceeds to ask whether there are good reasons in the surrounding text or in the wider reaches of Paul’s thought for believing that Paul did not mean exactly what he appears to mean. His argument is complex, and reaches out to include the similar parallel structures of Romans 11:32 (“For God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all”) and 1 Corinthians 15:22 (“for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ”). Of particular interest as well are Philippians 2:10-11 (“that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord”) and Colossians 1:16-20 (ending with “For God was pleased [through Jesus] to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross.”) Talbott’s in-depth analysis of these and a number of other passages both examines and refutes in detail a number of attempts by respected scholars to explain them away.

Talbott’s case for St. Paul’s universalism is, I think, a very strong one; however he has a much weaker case when confronting other non-Pauline texts in the New Testament. He develops some very interesting explanations for the passages which teach the doctrine of eternal damnation, which in some cases are quite compelling, but in others are sadly about as convincing as the Calvinists’ attempts to explain away the verses which contradict their picture of God. I find it much more likely that the contradictions in the New Testament are irreconcilable, and although I do accept Talbott’s conclusion that Paul was a universalist, I do not accept that all the other NT writers necessarily were.

The third and final section of The Inescapable Love of God is called “The Logic of Divine Love” and presents the author’s theological and philosophical argument for Universalism and against both Calvinism and Arminianism. This section, along with Chapter 5 on Paul’s universalism, is really where Talbott shines. He argues that love is inclusive by nature, that love binds human interest together in such a way that what is good for Jacob is also necessarily what is good for Esau, and that it is logically impossible for God to will the maximum good for one without also willing it for the other. Furthermore, he attacks the retributive theory of Divine justice, arguing that the very idea of eternal punishment is by its very nature opposed to justice—that the only way to ‘fix’ a sin is through restoration, redemption, and forgiveness, and not through purposeless punishment and torture. Talbott acknowledges that this true justice will likely look very much like torture, the more so for those in need of more correction. Using a famous Nazi mass-murderer as an example, Talbott says,

“So long as an Adolf Eichmann remains merely a monster, an irrational remnant of a person, nothing he might endure spitefully, like a tormented animal, will teach him the hard lesson we want him to learn. Do we not want him to reclaim enough of his humanity to admit that he was wrong and to appreciate why he was wrong? Do we not want his illusions stripped away, so he can stand naked before his Creator? Only when the light finally breaks into his darkened understanding, only when the divine forgiveness begins its work of transformation, will he begin to appreciate the meaning of his punishment and the true nature of his evil deeds; and then, of course, he will already be on the road to redemption.”

Talbott continues his argument with what is by far the most compelling theodicy (explanation for the existence of evil) that I have ever read, though I will not attempt to summarize it here. He goes on to examine Divine Omnipotence and human freedom, and argues against the traditional logical arguments for the competing views of Calvinism and Arminianism. Finally, he wraps up his argument in a gloriously optimistic theology of suffering and a hope for Love’s final victory, when, according to St. Paul,

“Then comes the end, when he hands over the kingdom to God the Father, after he has destroyed every rule and every authority and power. For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death. […] When all things are subjected to him, then the Son himself will also be subjected to him who put all things in subjection under him, so that God may be all in all. (1 Corinthians 15: 25-26, 28)

In conclusion, I highly recommend Thomas Talbott’s book The Inescapable Love of God. Despite a few notable flaws it is overall one of the best and most engaging Christian books I have read recently, and extremely valuable for those who, like myself, struggle to reconcile God’s wrath and love, His justice and mercy.

Update:

For those interested in the evangelical response to Thomas Talbott’s arguments, I recommend John Piper’s article entitled How Does A Sovereign God Love? A Reply to Thomas Talbott from his Desiring God website. Piper gives an extremely harsh critique of Talbott’s logical argument for Universalism (written before The Inescapable Love of God was published). Reading Piper’s response convinces me all the more that Talbott’s view is the more correct; however please don’t take my word for it.

“For the Lord disciplines the one he loves, and chastises every son whom he receives. […] He disciplines us for our good, that we may share his holiness.” Hebrews 12:6, 10

“Love loves unto purity. Love has ever in view the absolute loveliness of that which it beholds. […] Therefore all that is not beautiful in the beloved, all that comes between and is not of love’s kind, must be destroyed. And our God is a consuming fire.” George MacDonald, Unspoken Sermons

“It pertains to goodness, that, supposing an evil to be present, sorrow or pain should ensue.” Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica

People have a curious and badly mistaken tendency to equate love with softness. They suppose that to love somebody means to be primarily concerned with their comfort and ease; with saying only those things which they want to hear; with preserving a peaceful state of mind at all costs. To love somebody, they say, means to always make them feel good about themselves. The very word “love” conjures up all sorts of cutesy images: teddy bears and red roses and pink hearts, chocolates and flowers and naked babies with wings. When confronted with the statement that “God is love”, it is therefore no surprise that many people hear instead the words “God is soft and sweet and makes me feel good”. It is true that divine love does include a great deal of warmth and comfort; but it is a terrible mistake to assume that because God loves us, he is therefore concerned primarily with making sure that we are always warm and comfortable.

Love is not soft, except as a lion’s paws are soft when the claws are retracted. Love is not warm, but rather burning hot with holy fire. Love is not pink, but red with blood and white with purity. Comforting? Yes, love is comforting. But its comfort may be akin to the comfort in knowing that an uncomfortable operation will ultimately make you better: in the meantime the healing hands of the doctor are rough and painful. Yes, God is love—and to creatures that are not completely lovely, love hurts.

Love is action; it seeks loveliness. Where loveliness is incomplete, says George MacDonald, and love cannot love its fill of loving, it spends itself to make more lovely, that it may love more; it strives for perfection, even that itself may be perfected—not in itself, but in the object. We are the objects of God’s love; and whether we like it or not, God in his love for us spends himself to make us lovely where we are not. He loves us, not as we are, but as we shall be, and we are quite foolish if we suppose that getting from here to there is necessarily going to be a very pleasant ride.

The Lord disciplines the one he loves. His goal is not our immediate comfort and warmth, but rather our regeneration and growth. He hurts us sometimes—when there is no other way to make us grow he uses pain and hardship to accomplish the task. If this seems cruel, consider that the alternative would be crueler. Discipline leading to growth is unpleasant in the same way that getting a spanking for playing in the street is unpleasant; the pain of correction is insignificant compared to the pain which would result from not being corrected. It would be far more horrible to be allowed not to grow, for that would be to shrivel and die.

God’s love is often contrasted with his wrath. The picture usually ends up muddled, describing a great Father God who loves all his children, but who gets very angry when we break his law and has to visit retributive punishment on us in order to uphold his own holiness. This picture is incorrect. It is not God’s holiness that is in jeopardy when we sin, but our own. It is not for retribution that he shows his wrath, but for restoration. He is angry with us because of, not in spite of, his love for us. If he did not love us, what would it be to him if we stopped growing? The wrath that he shows us when we refuse to grow, or when we do things harmful to ourselves, is simply the restorative and disciplinary side of his love for us. The wrath of God and the love of God are one and the same.

The most obvious possible objection to this view of love and wrath is regarding the Christian doctrine of hell. The idea of eternal damnation is often described as God’s retributive punishment for sin, a sort of ‘paying back’ to unrepentant people for all they have done wrong. Clearly, if this is the case, then God’s wrath is no longer restorative and disciplinary, but punitive; and his wrath apparently outlasts his love for some people. How are we to make sense of this vindictive picture of God? Does the Maker of the Universe still punish when no good can come out of it?

God is one God: perfect, good, holy, and loving. In him there is no contradiction; in him there is no shadow of turning. There is no division in God’s nature. There is never a time when he is not wholly and completely himself. If it is true that God is love, then God is always and completely loving in everything he does. As we have already seen, this includes actions which do not always seem loving, just as a doctor does not always seem to be healing when he is setting a broken leg. However, we should be able to trust that God is always concerned with what is truly good for us and what will make us better.

The idea of hell implies that the possibility exists for a human soul to reach a point past which it is no longer possible to be made better. God spends his love upon us to urge us to grow. He is the gardener, pruning our branches and watering and nourishing our soil in order that we might produce fruit. But ultimately the choice is ours; we can cooperate or we can refuse, and he will not force us to be fruitful. If we are stubborn he will be patient and work with us, but we are warned that there comes a time when our choice to refuse him ceases to be a choice, and becomes undoable. In the same way a person may choose to be lazy at his schoolwork for only so long before he reaches the point where the habit is too strong for him to choose not to be lazy. C. S. Lewis shows us a fascinating scene in The Great Divorce about a woman who is very nearly overcome by her habit of complaining. He says (through the mouth of one of the inhabitants of heaven),

“The question is whether she is a grumbler, or only a grumble. If there is a real woman—even the least trace of one—still there inside the grumbling, it can be brought to life again. If there’s one wee spark under all those ashes, we’ll blow it till the whole pile is red and clear. But if there’s nothing but ashes we’ll not go on blowing them in our own eyes forever. They must be swept up.”

This idea of ‘sweeping up’ is what the tragedy of hell is all about. As long as there is any hope for repentance leading to growth, the opportunity is given. But when it becomes clear that no fruit is coming; that the choice to refuse God has been irrevocably made; that the human soul, having cut itself off from its only source of life, is now dead; when this becomes clear there is nothing to be done but to sweep up the remains and toss them in the trash. God never stops loving any person as long as there is a real person there to love, but if once a person has become a lie all the way through, what is there left to love? There is no object left for love or wrath; love and wrath exist solely for the good of their objects, and these ex-humans have taken themselves out of the reach of goodness. Hell is not a place of God’s wrath, but rather a place without God.

Talking about such things is depressing; there is yet the greatest of hopes. It is for nobody save God alone to know the fate of a human soul; in the meantime it remains for us to love our brothers and sisters, and not to judge them, lest we be judged. Hell exists as a possibility and a warning, a reminder that the only alternative to growth is death. Of the final state of all things we can know nothing. It may be that only a remnant will be saved; or it may be that in Christ shall all be made alive. The fact is that each person’s story is a very private affair between them and God, and far be it from us to assume that we know anything about their ultimate fate. There is great hope that all things will turn out well in the end.

“For I and he are of such different kinds that no service which is vile can be done to me, and none which is not vile can be done to him. Therefore if any man swear by Tash and keep his oath for the oath’s sake, it is by me that he has truly sworn, though he know it not, and it is I who reward him. And if any man do a cruelty in my name, then, though he says the name Aslan, it is Tash whom he serves and by Tash his deed is accepted. Dost thou understand, Child?”

C. S. Lewis, The Last Battle

“For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all, bestowing his riches on all who call on him. For ‘everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.’ ”

Romans 10:12-13

“Not everyone who says to me ‘Lord, Lord’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven.”

Matthew 7:21

What’s in a name? A worthy question in Shakespeare’s time as in our own. “Who are you?” is a deeply profound question, to which the answer “I’m (insert your name here)” is woefully inadequate. That is what you are called; but who ARE you? The question is referring to your character, not your title, and it is a question that no human can answer.

When Paul says, quoting the prophet Joel, that “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved,” he is talking about something much more real than a title. There is nothing magical about the word “Jesus”. Like any other word, it is a symbol; though in this case a very profound one. Any other word could have been chosen to represent the living character of God, and any other word may still be used. The symbol is important only for communication and understanding among people: it is an arbitrary sign pointing to a reality of utmost importance.

To call on ‘the name of the Lord’ is to call upon God’s character, not his title. It is entirely possible to use the word “Jesus” without any understanding whatsoever of who he was or why he came. As atheist Gore Vidal points out, “More people have been killed in the name of Jesus Christ than any other name in the history of the world.” It’s true. The history of Christianity is filled with people saying “Lord, Lord” while committing brutal acts of violence and hatred in his name. They somehow missed the words of John:

“If anyone says, “I love God,” and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen.”

1 John 4:20

Just as it is possible to use the name of the Lord without seeing or understanding his character, so it is also possible to see and understand something of his character without knowing his name. Paul, speaking of all mankind, says that

“For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made.”

Romans 1:19-20

All the religions of the world have some element of truth. Some of them go horribly, wickedly wrong; and all of them, Christianity most certainly included, go wrong in places. Nevertheless, no human society has ever existed or ever will exist that is completely without knowledge of who God is. They do not know the name “Jesus”, and they do not know the story of his death and resurrection, but then neither did Abraham, Moses, David, or any other of the Old Testament heroes. Even we who know the story of what he has done for us do not know very much. All that we do know comes to this: that God has done everything for us, and that anyone who calls on his name will be saved. God’s name is his character, and his character has been perceived…since the creation of the world. Jesus truly is the only way to God: all who come to God do so only through his death and resurrection. Yet not all who come to God have heard the story, and of those who have, not a single one has understood it. Death, resurrection, and eternal life are symbols of things beyond our experience and comprehension, and if we are honest we will admit that we do not know what they mean. That is why we call on the name of the Lord, on his character, on his goodness and holiness and love, to complete in us the incomprehensible work of salvation. And if “we” can call on what we do not know, then so can “they”, for there is no “we” and “they”, but there is no distinction: for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:22-23).

I am not in any way saying that all religions are true. I am saying that all religions are ultimately false, and that only God is true. I believe that Buddhists, Muslims, and Christians alike may be saved; I deny that they any of them can achieve it through their religions. It is God alone who saves, and who will save anyone who calls on him—not by title but by character. The Christian picture is the most complete—but it is still a picture, and the knowledge gives us no salvation “advantage”. Christianity itself tells us this, though it is not always well-recognized from within.

It is not by good actions that we are saved, but good actions are evidence of a relationship at some level with God. As John says,

“Love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.”

(1 John 4:7-8)

A loving Pagan knows much more of the ‘name of the Lord’ than a hating Christian. It is entirely possible to have all the words and miss the meaning, just as it is possible to miss the words and catch the meaning.

I am fully aware that my position on this is contrary to the usual teachings of the churches. Discussion is welcome and invited.

I wanted to comment on the tagline that I chose for this blog. From T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets:

                                        Do not let me hear

Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,

Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,

Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.

The only wisdom we can hope to acquire

Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

When I read these lines for the first time, a little over a year ago, they shocked me. It has been my goal to ‘be wise’, however presumptuous that may sound, since I was a teenager. My father told me as a child that wisdom was the thing to seek above all, and I’ve never entirely forgotten it. But my ideas of wisdom have always involved lofty visions of books and studies and doctoral theses. I always assumed (though I never stopped to think about it) that intelligence and wisdom were mutually connected. The result was a ridiculous arrogance which I hardly noticed, though others did. There was always an idea in the back of my mind that I, seeking wisdom, was therefore much better and wiser than all those other fools out there. And thus I became the greatest fool of them all.

I find it ironic that I really did find what I was seeking in my books, but it was exactly the opposite of what I was expecting. I thought to find in logic and intellect the key to the universe. I disciplined myself and learned everything I could learn, letting friendships and relationships go in a narcissistic pursuit of a vague absolute which I called “the Truth”. I neglected my everyday responsibilities to concentrate on ‘big’ problems; I philosophized and pontificated and generally made an ass out of myself (which I still do on a regular basis), and in doing so lost everything in life that was really important.

It took two people—one dead and one living—to painfully knock some sense into my ever-swelling head. One of them talked incessantly about Love: not as one of many worthwhile things in life, but as the only worthwhile thing. The other called for absolute Humility: not a wishy-washy pretense at it, but a firm and honest knowledge that you are not your own, for you were bought with a price. This is the true wisdom, and this is the only wisdom. The wisdom of humility and the wisdom of love are one and the same, for it is impossible to be humble except through loving others, and it is impossible to love others except through humility. And it is impossible to do either without a complete surrender, a letting go of the fear of possession, of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.

And this too is impossible. But we thank God that one day not so long ago he sent the Impossible to become Actual.

Humility is endless.

In my last post, I drew an analogy between the sciences of cartography and theology. I explained the similarity in purpose and scope between them, and argued my first point: that reality always transcends the symbols we use to represent it. In this post it is my intention to show, using the same analogy, that the use of symbols to represent any transcendental reality must always result in the distortion of certain parts of that reality.

I wonder how many people grew up as I did, believing wrongly that Greenland and South America are roughly the same size. It is a perfectly understandable mistake to make, looking at the famous Mercator world map, which really does make the two land masses appear nearly equal in area. But it is entirely incorrect. The Mercator world map truly represents the four compass directions at all points, but in doing so necessarily causes extreme size distortion in the northern and southern parts of the world. Greenland, which is represented as being similar in size to South America, is in reality approximately the size of Mexico. The true shape and size of the landforms has been distorted in order to accurately represent true direction; but a map that accurately represented true size and shape could do so only by distorting true direction.

The analogy becomes interesting when distortion in mapmaking is compared to theology. My suggestion (and it is only that, a suggestion) is that a similar principle holds: that trying to theologically ‘map’ one attribute of God will always result in the distortion of his other attributes. Distortion in cartography occurs because the spherical nature of the earth entirely transcends the flatness of a sheet of paper; distortion in theology similarly occurs because the divine nature of God entirely transcends the flatness of human thought and experience. Aquinas pointed out that all thinking about God is analogical—that we can only describe the unknown symbolically in terms of the known. Dorothy Sayers says in her book The Mind of the Maker that

“To forbid the making of pictures about God would be to forbid thinking about God at all, for man is so made that he has no way to think except in pictures.”

Theology deals with ‘pictures’ of God, just as cartography deals with pictures of the world. Pictures represent, but pictures also deceive. Any theological map of God is an analogy from the known to the unknown, and analogies can only be carried so far. There are two things to remember when thinking systematically about God: (1) Every theological system ultimately deceives, and (2) In the world of analogy (though not in reality), contradictions do exist.

Consider again the Mercator world map. The Mercator projection maps the world using one primary requirement: true direction must always be accurately represented. The user of the resulting map can easily and accurately determine North, South, East, West, and any combination thereof using a straightedge. However, if she wants to determine the shortest path between New York and Paris she will not be so well accommodated, because the shortest distance between two points on a Mercator world map is usually not a straight line, but an arc. And if she wants to compare the relative sizes of Alaska and Australia she will find the map to be of little use whatsoever due to the size distortion at higher latitudes. Thus the map is useful for certain things, and worthless for others.

Fortunately, the Mercator projection is not the only one available. The Gnomonic projection, for example, maps portions of the earth in such a way that the shortest distance between two points is always a straight line. This is useful in some cases for navigators planning travel routes, but comes only at the cost of severely distorting the size and shape of landmasses, and representing the directions of East and West as curved lines. Many other projection systems exist, as well. Some of them try, like the Mercator and Gnomonic systems, to get just one thing right and accept the distortion of everything else, and others try to avoid serious distortion at certain points by allowing a mild distortion in everything. It is rather like pushing down bubbles in a sheet of cellophane—they always come back up in other places.

I here restate my suggestion: Trying to theologically map one aspect of God’s divine nature will always result in the distortion of the other aspects. Perhaps the best and most well-known example of this can be seen in the age-old debate between Calvinism and Arminianism over predestination and free will. Calvinism chooses to map divine nature in such a way that it is always clear that God is in control of things. Just as the Mercator world map always shows true direction, the Calvinist theological map always shows God’s sovereignty. God is clearly and accurately pictured in Calvinism as being totally holy, and in total control of everything, but in so picturing him everything else gets distorted. The ‘doctrine of limited atonement’ makes God appear arbitrary and evil, like a father who loves two of his undeserving children at random, and locks the other seven up in the basement to be tortured. The ‘doctrine of irresistible grace’ makes man out to be robotic, destroying our knowledge of choice. In making God look perfectly holy there is no room left to see him as perfectly loving, and in making him look perfectly sovereign there is no room left for us to be human.

The distortion, however, becomes just as bad when the divine nature is mapped giving primary consideration to other aspects. The counterpart to Calvinism, Arminianism, focuses on showing, very truly, that God’s love is not arbitrary, and that he really has given man the freedom of choice. But again, ‘getting these things right’ results in getting everything else more or less wrong. The ‘doctrine of human ability’ makes it look as if those people who accept God have the right to self-congratulation on their superior choice—that they merited their salvation; and the ‘doctrine of conditional election’ makes it look as if God’s will can be thwarted by humans. Looking at our God-given humanity seems to leave no room for God’s sovereignty.

Most of the major theological arguments within Christianity can be examined this way. People disagree violently on what the most important thing about God is: some say that it is his holiness, others that it is his love; some that it his sovereignty, others that it is his extension of free will to man. I suspect that the argument is a rather silly one, like a bunch of explorers arguing about whether a straight line on the surface of the earth represents true direction or shortest distance, never realizing that in reality both are true, and that the contradiction exists only in their symbolic maps. In the same way, there is no ‘most important thing about God’; there is just God. I AM WHO I AM is a statement of profound simplicity. We may understand him only in contradictory terms, but in him there is no contradiction—the paradox only shows the imperfection of our symbolic thought.

I want to end by making clear what I am NOT saying. I am not suggesting that theology should not be discussed or argued about, any more than I would suggest that all atlases be thrown out because all maps distort. I am also not suggesting that just because more than one theological system may be true, that they are all therefore true. I accept a number of different map-projection systems; but I would not accept one that put Hawaii off the coast of Italy. God has given us tools for sorting out truth from lies: among them are reason, intuition, and moral conscience, but superior to them all is love. Without love, theology only makes men worse, and I am certain that love in its purest form has no need whatsoever for theology. In our present state, though, the two ought to complement each other and test each other.

When perfection comes, the imperfect disappears…

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

In this post I venture to suggest an analogy between the sciences of cartography (mapmaking) and theology, with the intention of examining some of the difficulties, disagreements, and common errors associated with the latter. Like any analogy, it only goes so far, so I will try to show both the similarities and differences between the two disciplines. I openly acknowledge my debt to C. S. Lewis (see the chapter entitled ‘Making and Begetting’ in his book Mere Christianity) for the original idea which I am expanding on here.

We may begin by looking at the similarity in purpose and scope of cartography and theology:

The description of life as a “spiritual journey” is a common metaphor in religious literature, from Dante’s Divine Comedy to Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. I suggest that theology is to the spiritual journeyer what mapmaking is to the explorer: it is a convenient representation of other people’s experiences and observations in a form which is useful for understanding, and perhaps having, similar experiences. Lewis and Clark mapped the American wilderness, and Livingstone the African; pioneers like Paul, John, Augustine and Aquinas have accomplished similar feats with the spiritual wilderness. The systems built by these and many other great thinkers and writers serve as guides for those who wish to journey, giving us directional aids, warning us of dangers, and in general trying to keep us from getting lost. Without these ‘maps’ of theology, a ‘religious experience’ is nothing more than an existential moment—beautiful, fleeting, and frustratingly meaningless. Theology provides the framework for understanding these experiences, and gives direction to those who, having had such experiences, seek to know what they mean. T. S. Eliot says that

We had the experience but missed the meaning,

And approach to the meaning restores the experience

In a different form.

Theology is an approach to the meaning of human religious experience. Like a map, it is drier and more abstract, often ‘not much like the experience at all’, but providing a big-picture understanding of what the significance of the experience is, what it means, and how to proceed. Theology does not replace experience, but rather the two are necessary complements to each other. As C. S. Lewis observes,

You will not get to Newfoundland by studying the Atlantic [by watching the waves from the beach], and you will not get eternal life by simply feeling the presence of God in flowers or music. Neither will you get anywhere by looking at maps without going to sea. Nor will you be very safe if you go to sea without a map.

Having observed that cartography systematizes geographical experience and that theology systematizes spiritual experience, the next step in the analogy is to compare the nature of representation within the two disciplines:

In both mapmaking and theology, a higher reality must be represented symbolically in terms of a lower medium. The contour map of Mt. Everest, studied from the comfort of your own living room, is obviously not 29,028 feet tall, nor is it covered with snow and ice, nor is studying it likely, as climbing the real mountain would be, to kill you. The world is said to be spherical, but the world map on your wall pictures it as flat and rectangular. The lower medium—the flat sheet of paper on which the map is printed—is said to symbolize the higher reality of the three-dimensional earth. The higher reality—the three-dimensional surface of the earth—is said to transcend the lower medium of two-dimensional paper. To transcend something means to ‘rise above’ or ‘go beyond’ it. This is the first of two central points in my analogy: that reality always transcends the symbols we use to represent it. In the study of God this is particularly true, and has been well understood since ancient times. The writers of the Old and New Testaments alike use ‘vertical’ imagery to suggest the complete transcendence of God over man. He is called Lord Most High; and he looks down from his holy height. To him we lift up our eyes. Jacob dreams of the Lord standing above a ladder reaching from earth to heaven; Jesus ascends into heaven after his resurrection; Paul talks of the Second Coming when believers will be caught up in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air. This sort of vertical imagery is certainly not suggesting that things become holier when they are farther from the surface of the earth; it is used to illustrate—to symbolize—the fact that God transcends all human thought and experience.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord,

For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.

My first point in drawing an analogy between cartography and theology is, as already stated, to show that reality always transcends the symbols used to represent it. My second point, which I believe to follow the first out of necessity, is to show that symbolic representation by its very nature always distorts certain aspects of what it represents. I will explain what I mean by this in my next post.

Image Source: http://www.mapsanddirections.us/

“Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past

Into different lives, or into any future;

You are not the same people who left that station

Or who will arrive at any terminus,

While the narrowing rails slide together behind you.”

T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.”

Heraclitus

I ended my last post with the basic question of how a wrong can be made right, intending to examine the idea of redemption next. Instead, I think it is first necessary to look at the nature of what is being redeemed: our own selves, involved in past, present, and future.

The meaning of the word “I” is among the most insoluble mysteries in all of human experience. I, me, myself: we use these terms every day without hardly a thought as to what we are referring to. Philosophers have argued for millennia about the nature of body, soul, spirit, and mind, trying to define and express that which is indefinite and inexpressible. A fool’s errand perhaps (like trying to calculate infinity), but then such impossible efforts often turn out to be beneficial. Trying to calculate infinity will obviously never yield a satisfactory answer, but when we have exhausted our efforts we may find that we have come to a much better understanding of what infinity means. The very action of calling something “inexpressible” is expressing some new knowledge about it. Thus we may benefit from trying to understand the mystery of who we are, though it be impossible to discover.

We live in time. Behind us stretches the petrified stone record of time past, fixed and motionless, the events and actions of a thousand choices frozen forever beyond our reach, yet forever having significant import to us. Ahead of us stretches the unknown and unknowable possibilities of time future, full of conflicting hopes and fears, not real to us because not yet experienced, but clearly having some sort of reality independent of ourselves. These are the mysteries of time past and future, and caught between them both is the deeper mystery of time present. In time present only do we live our lives of action and experience. The present moment—the infinitesimal mathematical point on the straight line continuum that we call time—is all we have. In the present moment we see time future perpetually becoming time past, and experience the terrible power and responsibility of willful action.

I stated at the beginning of the last paragraph that we live in time. Do we? Have you ever considered what exactly we mean when we say that time is passing? If we state that a train is passing us, it follows that we are not in the train. We are standing still. In the same way what we call “consciousness” is the experience of standing still in the present moment, as the future becomes the past all around us. We are ever conscious of time passing: passing without us, for we remain in the present, but passing with us, for we also remain in the past.

This is the great paradox of time and eternity. If we live in time, then why do we experience the passage of time? But if we live outside of time, then why do we speak of past and future? In other words, consciousness suggests eternal reality while memory and anticipation suggest temporal reality, and we cannot imagine existence without either.

It is very difficult to think about this paradox of time and eternity, and it is doubtful whether any fully satisfactory answer can be given in human terms. At this point we are nearing the horizon of human understanding, beyond which no one can see. There have, however, been some revealing attempts to make sense of this paradox. T. S. Eliot and C. S. Lewis (and others before them, I am told) both speak of the present moment in which we live as being somehow the intersection of time and eternity, or the point at which time is most like eternity. This is still frustratingly vague, of course, but the point of it is that both sides of the paradox are true in their own right, and neither perspective is complete without the other. We are stuck at the crossroads, between time and timelessness, between movement and rest. At the still point of the turning world. The Teacher in Ecclesiastes was right: God has indeed “put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from beginning to end.”

The point of this post is to examine the nature of self-identity. If the present moment in which we live is an intersection—a coexistence of time and eternity—then the paradox of time will extend also to become the paradox of identity. The self, living in this intersection, is also an intersection—a coexistence of eternal and temporal nature. (By “coexistence” I mean that by human standards it is impossible to separate or even completely distinguish between the two, though they seem paradoxical at every step.) These two natures may loosely be thought of as the eternal soul and the temporal mind and body, but I am hesitant to categorize.

Here is an illustration to help clarify the meaning of the identity paradox. Imagine your life as a long series of photographs. Every moment in your life from birth to death is represented in a picture, and they are hung in order along the walls of an endless hallway. This series of photographs represents time, and the hallway is eternity. Your temporal nature is shown in the photographs, making choices in every one of them for good or evil, always seeing only the picture he is in as the “present moment.” Your eternal nature is in the hallway, seeing every picture simultaneously as the “present moment”. But this illustration suggests that the two natures are separate, and we must remember that they are not. The self in the hallway of eternity is the same as the self in the pictures, and the two are coexistent in each and all. The two selves intersect in each picture, just as each picture is an intersection with the hallway.

I realize that this is confusing, and if it doesn’t help you please don’t bother with it. But as previously mentioned I do believe that it is beneficial to try to comprehend incomprehensible truth, just as it is beneficial to try to attain unattainable perfection.

“But to apprehend

The point of intersection of the timeless

With time, is an occupation for the saint—

No occupation either, but something given

And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,

Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.”

T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

“When I remember them

They leave me alone: when I forget them

Only for an instant of inattention

They are roused again, the sleepless hunters

That will not let me sleep. At the moment before sleep

I always see their claws distended

Quietly, as if they had never stirred.”

T. S. Eliot, The Family Reunion

“Of all of these things I’m so much afraid,

Scared out of my mind by the demons I’ve made.”

Jars of Clay, “Much Afraid”

What is the nature of a sinful act? What is it about a wrong action in the past that continues, filling the present with sharp regret and burning shame at its memory? The lie that I told to my parents as a teen has been forgiven and forgotten by all persons involved except myself. Why then does it persist in my memory as an object of pain? The employee that I fired for a stupid reason four years ago has surely moved on to much better work environments. Why then do I still see her in my mind, bursting into tears and running out of the store, over and over again? And how is it that certain unloving words spoken by myself at the age of seven, can to this day make me draw up in midstride, cheeks burning with shame? I am assuredly the only person alive who remembers them.

I ask again, what is the nature of a sinful act? Why does it grow like a living thing? The ancient Eastern idea of karma has at least this much truth to it: that our actions are not confined to the moment they take place in, but follow us throughout our lives. Time moves on, but the action remains, unalterable and accusing.

These, then, are the Furies: the living offspring of every wrong action in our past, the eternal reality behind each sin. They are the tormenting accusers of men and women, the “sleepless hunters” of our souls. “Look,” they say in the quiet moment. “Look what you did.” “See? You’re no good.” “Boy, you really screwed THAT one up.” One after another they point the finger—an endless procession of condemnation. And they are quite correct. We are no good. Even if we could, from this moment forth, do only good and no evil, those actions in our past would remain, and the Furies along with them. That is the whole problem with the Furies: we cannot for the life of us get rid of them. The past is unalterable reality, a string of mistakes that remain forever.

There are other Furies, too, that are not associated with shame but only with pain. I will never forget the sound of my mother’s voice on the telephone when she told me my father had just suffered a fatal heart attack. Three years have passed, and life continues, but that moment of choking grief is set forever in the stone of time past. Time the destroyer is time the preserver, says Eliot. People change, and smile: but the agony abides.

We are powerless against these Furies of hurt and shame. They are planted firmly in the inaccessible past, and no time-bound mortal may uproot them. Yet we feel that we must be rid of them. They are a torment to us, a continual reminder that all is not well. We are caught between a horror and an impossibility—we cannot be perfect and we cannot bear our imperfection. We cannot be healthy, and our sickness is killing us.

This is the problem of redemption. How can a Fury be killed? How can a wrong be made right? How can what is crooked be made straight?

I will attempt this subject in a later post.

“And last, the rending pain of re-enactment

Of all that you have done, and been; the shame

Of motives late revealed, and the awareness

Of things ill done and done to others’ harm

Which once you took for exercise of virtue.

Then fools’ approval stings, and honour stains.

From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit

Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire

Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.”

T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets