Relocating To Elfland

Recent exploration of the “covenant of life” has got me thinking about how all of human thought (epistemology) and all of human life (ethics) are covenantally conditioned. Here is the proposed exegetical background, followed by a few ruminations:

Traditional Reformed theology has understood the covenant of life to arise in Genesis 2:16–17, “You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” I wonder, though, if the exegetical basis for the covenant should be broadened to include Genesis 2:15, “The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.” If all this was part of the covenantal arrangement, then it looked something like this: Man was to act as Yahweh’s king-priest, working (cultivating) in His sanctuary and guarding it against defilement (v. 15). In this work, he was to be sustained from the fruit of his labor (v. 16); but his thinking and acting were at every point to be subject to Yahweh’s word. Verses 15–16 describe the covenantal task of man, and the blessedness of it. Verse 17 sets forth the qualification, i.e., absolute submission to Yahweh. Autonomous thought and life are comprehensively (and graciously) prohibited.

This means that from the very beginning man was either keeping covenant or breaking covenant, both in his epistemology (autonomous interpretation of any fact apart from Yahweh’s word was sin) and in his ethics (autonomous work, whether cultivating or guarding, was sin). And this, in turn, helps us see why unbelievers are properly regarded as ignorant and wicked even where they know a great deal and accomplish great good: not to know and do all things under the authority of (in creaturely submissiveness to) God’s revelation is simply not to know and do according to the covenant – meaning that great knowledge and great accomplishments may yet be great sin. Man was made to know and to cultivate. In a sense he cannot help these things – they are in his nature. Yet his knowledge and cultural activity are rebellious if he knows anything apart from its revealed relationship to the Creator, or builds culture without regard for the Creator’s mandate to do so. What makes the unbelieving geneticist’s research “wrong” or “bad” is not technical errors but his insistence that genomes have nothing to do with God. What makes the pagan musician’s compositions “wrong” or “bad” is not their technical deficiencies (they may, in fact, be brilliant) but his refusal to make music in joyful response to the invitation of his Maker. The geneticist is ignorant of what is most fundamental about genomes; the musician is robbing God of His glory with every note.

I think this notion of covenantal conditioning may enable us to appreciate rather than depreciate the insights and cultural accomplishments of unbelievers, without thereby “sanitizing” them of their moral evil and culpability.

“The Theologian is absolutely dependent upon the pleasure of God, either to impart or not to impart knowledge of Himself. Even verification is here absolutely excluded. When a man reveals something of himself to me, I can verify this, and if necessary pass criticism upon it. But when the Theologian stands in the presence of God, and God gives him some explanation of His existence as God, every idea of testing this self-communication of God by something else is absurd; hence, in the absence of such a touchstone, there can be no verification, and consequently no room for criticism.” (Abraham Kuyper, Encyclopedia of Sacred Theology, p. 251)

If grace restores nature, then life under the dominion of grace does not become unnatural. One “under” grace does not breathe different air, walk on different concrete, wear different clothing, or ride a camel (unless, of course, that is the thing to do where he lives). He doesn’t need to buy a “Christian” iPod, a “Christian” house, a “Christian” lawnmower, or “Christian” beer. What makes him different is not that he sits in a closet and sings hymns for a living, but rather that his entire life is pervaded by the revelation of God in Jesus Christ. All created things are, for him, gifts from above. All his work and play aim at showing off his God. The law of love binds his heart and conscience; the seed of his faith bears the fair fruit of holiness. He is at war with all that displeases and dishonors God, and rejoices in all truth, goodness, and beauty because he delights in God. To meet him is to meet a true human, not an alien. What is different about him is that sin is no longer natural.

Some months ago I read this remarkable passage in John Webster’s Confessing God:

“The doctrine of creatio ex nihilo is to be the ‘head and pattern’ of theological thinking about space, above all because that doctrine articulates the utter gratuity and contingency of created being . . . . Space is therefore not absolute or unoriginate, some sort of pre-existent medium; nor is it simply a register of acts and attitudes on the part of creatures who make space for themselves by disposing of themselves in the world. In both cases . . . space has become detached from God’s acts of creating and maintaining the creaturely realm and reconciling it to himself. In effect, space is secularized . . . .” (pp. 104–105)

Subsequent dabbling in Oscar Cullman’s Christ and Time and in the work of Rosenstock-Huessy has convinced me something similar must be said of the time-dimension of creaturely existence. Space and time are not “simply there” any more than anything else in creation is “simply there.” The concept of “space” articulates God-ordained dimensions and relations; the concept of “time” articulates God-ordained dynamics and developments. To think or speak of time and space apart from God is secularism: it surrenders to pagan unbelief things over which He claims absolute ownership and authority.

So what? Well, to begin with, this means the sacredness of space is the result of creation, not the Mosaic Covenant; and so what I do with space God has entrusted to me matters. I may not have been given a specific plot of land in Canaan which I am not free to sell in perpetuity (as was the case for my Israelite fathers), but it is still the case that where God has placed any space under my jurisdiction, the call to holiness comes with it. No less in the New Covenant than in the Old, if “anyone comes . . . and does not bring [the teaching of Christ], do not receive him into your house” (3 Jn 10), because your house is holy space. Territory under the jurisdiction of a disciple of King Jesus is territory claimed by the King in His dominion-taking work in the earth, and the disciple stewarding it (we may call him a king-priest) will have an eye open for serpents. One must ask also if there is not something in the old epigram, “cleanliness is next to godliness.” The homemaker who keeps picking up toys and putting up curtains is obeying the gospel, because the Spirit doesn’t just order God’s space, He also beautifies it.

In the time-dimension, leaving aside the obvious significance of the centrality of Christ in history (powerfully expressed, among others, by Lesslie Newbigin in his Finality of Christ), we must look square in the face the sheer sinfulness of modern piety that is so unaware of the past and so unconcerned about the future. Not to know history is to ignore the glory of God and to deafen ourselves to what He has been teaching His church for generations. Not to prepare for the future (perhaps because we are hunkered down hoping He will return tomorrow, and can see little point in anything so this-worldly) is to come dangerously close to hiding His deposit in a napkin. Such chronological obliviousness extracts our lives from His lordship over all time, and in doing so secularizes (however unwittingly) the present. My present life is part of God’s working out His purposes in the earth; what possible hope do I have of doing His will now if I have no idea what He has been doing or plans to do? “Knowing the time,” says the apostle (Rom 13:11), we take up the mantle of our fathers, and give ourselves for things we will never live to see. If our sons and daughters are wise, they too will take up the deposit in time, and serve the Lord their God in their generation. And so on until He comes.

A lot more needs to be said about all of this . . . .

Here is the December 1, 2009, debate between Daniel Pipes and Wafa Sultan at the Middle East Forum in Philadelphia. An illuminating exchange.

Listening to Wafa Sultan, I was reminded of Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns (see www.khaledhosseini.com), one of the more moving works I have ever read.

Ever since I was a young child, I have had an unwilling fascination with torture and execution. I wish I had money for every hour I have lain awake in the night, trying to comprehend the brutality of human beings toward one of their own, and the humiliation, helplessness, agony, and forsakenness of the victim. What is it like to be utterly alone before the power of those who enjoy your screams of pain? (Those too dull of imagination to appreciate the question should view one particular scene in the 2007 film Rendition.) What is it like when the trap door falls, the piano wire snaps taut, and there is only curiosity and delight among those watching you die? And many other and darker questions might be asked.

I think I keep returning to these morbid problems for several reasons. First, I simply can’t fathom how humans become so insensate as to enjoy the spectacle of suffering. Is such cauterization of sympathy possible? I’m not talking about rejoicing in justice – there is something in every one of us that wants to see retribution on those we perceive as wicked, and for good reason. I’m talking about enjoying someone else’s pain so as to make it an end in itself: opening the door to cruelty toward one’s enemies, and worse still, toward defenseless innocents. How do we keep prattling on about the moral progress of man? We have not taken a single step forward since Cain.

Second, I am a Christian, and I have a lot of forefathers who died under torture. I want to enter into their sacrifice so as to honor it; and I want to prepare myself for the possibility that I may be called on one day to imitate their example. Could I do it, I ask myself? Could I die with dignity in the midst of public humiliation and mockery? Could I keep my head up and honor my Lord in the face of my fear, against the terror of pain and of utter aloneness?

An image comes to me of Aslan padding slowly toward the Stone Table. The metaphor, moving as it is, cannot match the reality: the Son of God bound, bloodied, the friendless plaything of the Praetorium guard, hanging by nails, hated by men and devils and even (may we dare utter such things?) of God Himself. There is no tenderness for Him, no comfort, no vinegar to dull His agonies. But – and this is where Christianity subverts the wholesale evil I have been describing – “herein is love.” This is God entering our estate, knowing our suffering and absorbing it, bearing in Himself our pain and death so that for us one day “death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore.” This is what gave courage to the martyrs of old (and gives it still to the martyrs of the present), and it is what I pray would give me courage were I to face the cruelties of man on account of my faith.

But there is more. The death and resurrection of Christ is the beginning of the new creation, the terminus whereof is a final day in which the Creator who made us to image His Triune love will come to judge the living and the dead. And in that day, by the standard of His own perfection of goodness, He will right all wrongs that have been committed under the sun. He will expunge the atrocities of men, their crimes and cruelties, their violence and victimization, so that it will be visible to all (and acknowledged by all) that righteousness has triumphed in full, that evil has not had the final word in anything perpetuated on the earth. Not one tear of Ivan Karamazov’s little girl will go unavenged, for mighty is the Lord God who judges her. There is One above the jeering crowd who knows all, in whose heart there is no pleasure in our pain, and who will bring every deed into judgment. Here is the courage of the martyr, and here is the hope of every victim in this blighted world.

Reading the latest development in the health care debate made me wonder if the establishment is really trying to lose, come November. I can’t confirm  whether this is an oft-used procedure, as Pelosi claims, but it may rank as the political gaffe of the decade to pull it out right now, on this issue. Way to reassure the voting public.

In this same section, Bavinck makes the following point:

“A religion that fails to furnish comfort and satisfaction to the moral needs of people is certainly false. Conversely, not every religion in which people look for comfort or satisfaction is true.” (p. 1.552)

Many evangelicals today hold to Christianity because they think it meets their felt needs (e.g., comfort and satisfaction). But the fundamental question is not whether Christianity meets my felt needs (and thus accords with my value judgments), but rather whether it is true.

A Christianity that simply affords pleasing experiences, that merely supplies  me with things I personal value, is a Christianity that is ultimately nothing more than a competitor to psychotropic drugs. I really don’t need a Christian praise-band to give me the emotions that attend music. I don’t need a Christian counselor to hold my hand and affirm my self-esteem. I don’t need to go to church to get a latte. I can find other religions (and for that matter non-religious groups) that teach kindness and respect toward one’s neighbor. I can even find other ideologies that offer comfort on my deathbed. And I can get all this without a pastor telling me I am a sinner who can be saved from everlasting ruin only through the blood-letting of the Son of God. All the good stuff is available elsewhere.

“Value judgments either depend on factual judgments or are illusory.” (Bavinck, p. 1.548)

Hence, for example, the impossibility of distinguishing the “historical Jesus” from the Christ of faith, as liberal theology attempts to do.

Hence also the impossibility of constructing human ethics (what ought to be) without a warranted theory of reality (what is). Value judgments, constantly made everywhere by theists and anti-theists alike, must themselves be grounded in something else. It is not enough to say, “I (or we) believe this is good,” or, “That is how things ought to be,” without a defensible basis outside the value judgment itself. This may seem obvious, but it is remarkable how many people think that because they hold to a certain structure of values, and make judgments based on those values, that should be the end of all discussion.

“In Praise of Solid People”
by C. S. Lewis

Thank God that there are solid folk
Who water flowers and roll the lawn,
And sit and sew and talk and smoke,
And snore all through the summer dawn.

Who pass untroubled nights and days
Full-fed and sleepily content,
Rejoicing in each other’s praise,
Respectable and innocent.

Who feel the things that all men feel,
And think in well-worn grooves of thought,
Whose honest spirits never reel
Before man’s mystery, overwrought.

Yet not unfaithful nor unkind,
With work-day virtues surely staid,
Theirs is the sane and humble mind,
And dull affections undismayed.

O happy people! I have seen
No verse yet written in your praise,
And, truth to tell, the time has been
I would have scorned your easy ways.

But now thro’ weariness and strife
I learn your worthiness indeed,
The world is better for such life
As stout, suburban people lead.

Too often have I sat alone
When the wet night falls heavily,
And fretting winds around me moan,
And homeless longing vexes me

For lore that I shall never know,
And visions none can hope to see,
Till brooding works upon me so
A childish fear steals over me.

I look around the empty room,
The clock still ticking in its place,
And all else silent as the tomb,
Till suddenly, I think, a face

Grows from the darkness just beside.
I turn, and lo! it fades away,
And soon another phantom tide
Of shifting dreams begins to play,

And dusky galleys past me sail,
Full freighted on a faerie sea;
I hear the silken merchants hail
Across the ringing waves to me

—Then suddenly, again, the room,
Familiar books about me piled,
And I alone amid the gloom,
By one more mocking dream beguiled.

And still no nearer to the Light,
And still no further from myself,
Alone and lost in clinging night
—(The clock’s still ticking on the shelf).

Then do I envy solid folk
Who sit of evenings by the fire,
After their work and doze and smoke,
And are not fretted by desire.

(from Spirits in Bondage: A Cycle of Lyrics)