Category Archives: Theological Aesthetics

Nature, Grace, and Apocalypse Revisited

In previous discussions on a theology of apocalypse, the issue of nature and grace continued to come up as a crucial issue. It seems  that the key question to those espousing an apocalyptic theology relates to what sort of doctrine of creation one would have to uphold to preserve a radically apocalyptic theology of discontinuity between nature and grace (which I think the New Testament requires). Do we have to posit a notion of sin that is so radical that creation essentially loses its status as creation and as such must be completely anihiliated by grace in order for redemption to take place? Are the options either the complete and total destruction of creation by grace on the one hand, or the analogia entis and natural theology on the other? 

I suggest that there is a way forward if we rightly conceptualize the apocalyptic relationship between nature and grace as grounded in creation’s finitude rather than its fallenness. The Reformed notion of finitum non capax infiniti might be an important axiom for how we understand the relationship between nature and grace and the issue of analogy. Could it be that by virtue of it’s finitude, the entrance of the triune God’s infinite grace and love into creation in the story of Christ must always and only appear as an apocalypse? Certainly it is sin that renders this apocalypse violent, but could it not be the case that creation as finite will always stand in an apocalyptic relationship with the triune God? Could it be that we will never be seamlessly enfolded into the Trinitarian communion, instead being always erotically enraptured, ek-statically dislocated ever and again in an endless apocalypse of divine glory for all eternity? Perhaps the beatific vision, in this perspective, is not a final event of optical immediacy in which we finally see it “all” (as Dante does at the end of the Divine Comedy), but rather the beginning of the eternal, true apocalypse, which, purged of the violence of sin now becomes the endless rapture of having our visage constantly shattered, our consciousness infinitely exceeded by the boundless effulgence of the Trinitarian glory. 

In this perspective, the apocalyptic character of divine action is not ultimately determined by the reality of sin. Sin is merely a passing moment within the eternal apocalypse that all creatures experience in being saved and brought into the life of God. God’s action toward creation is apocalyptic, not because of sin; sin is completely incidental to how God is God towards us. As David Bentley Hart points out, “God simply continues to give, freely, inexhaustibly, regardless of rejection. God gives and forgives; he fore-gives and gives again. There is no calculable economy in this Trinitarian discourse of love, to which creation is graciously admitted.” (The Beauty of the Infinite, p. 351) God’s action towards us is apocalyptic, not because of sin, but rather because of the radical difference between God and God’s creatures. Precisely because the Trinitarian discourse of love is incalculable, it will always be disruptive, invasive, dislocating, as it draws us ever deeper into the infinitely alien riches of divine splendor. In the effusion of God’s infinite beauty into finite creation, the occurrence of communion between the infinite and the finite cannot be anything other than an apocalypse, an apocalypse of divine radiance and luminosity which endlessly and eternally draws us ever further up and further into the inexhaustible depths of God’s Trinitarian plenitude.

God’s action is apocalyptic because the unveiling of an infinite, transcendental beauty, can always and only be entirely beyond what can be assimilated by a finite creature. This is precisely why the revelation of God as Jesus Christ is so enigmatic, so scandalous, such a stumbling block to our finite, created rationality.  But this beyondness in which God is never apprehended is not an apophaticism, if anything it is some sort of super-kataphatism; we are not proceeding by the via negativa but rather by an overabundance of revelation. It is not that we cannot rightly speak of God, it is that we cannot speak enough of God with our created tongues. The event of Pentecost seems to be an apocalyptic event of precisely this sort.

What apocalyptic thinking does for us, then, is to reorient our notion of what it means share in the life of God as a creature. To share, as a finite creature, in the life of the infinite God is to be eternally disrupted, constantly dislocated, endlessly bewildered by “the beauty of the infinite.” Because we are finite, our experience of beatific participation in God cannot be anything other than this sort of apocalyptic experience. As seen in the resurrection, the work of God is, as Hart says “a transgression of the categories of truth governing the world, precisely because it is an aesthetic event, eyes and hands can tell it, time comprehends it, it has shape and quantity and splendor, it allows scrutiny and contemplation and astonishment, it intrudes and invites and seizes up with it strangeness and its beauty.” (The Beauty of the Infinite, 335) Thus, we must conceptualize God’s Trinitarian action in the world for our salvation as apocalyptic, not because of a theology of creation exhaustively immolated by sin, but rather because the infinitude of God’s Trinitarian being always exceeds the capacity of finite creatures to plumb its depths. It at once evokes and evades, invites and intrudes, reveals and veils. As such, our experience of participation God’s life is one of constant dislocation in our homecoming, an endlessly jarring, ever surprising existence of being changed from glory to glory. The beatific vision is eternally iconoclastic and eternally koinonial. This is the great mystery of God’s apocalypic salvation of all created reality.

The Aesthetics of the Apocalypse

Lately there have been some good discussions on the nature of New Testament apocalyptic and how such an apocalyptic orientation should inform Christian theology. One of the points of tension involves the propensity of apocalyptic language to become merely a discourse of rupture and irruption, of pure negation rather than as the moment of God’s No being uttered within the overarching melodies of God’s Yes. Perhaps one way to address this potential problematic is to redefine the locus of the conversation. Too often these discussions about the apocalyptic nature of the Messianic events of resurrection and Pentecost end up becoming discussions about sin, nature, and grace. How deeply has sin affected creation? Does grace destroy and recreate nature, or does grace perfect nature, merely purging it of the privation of sin? These questions make for interesting discussion, which must continue to be pursued, but they also rarely have much resolution, even between people who are clearly both searching for a way to express their fundamental affinity within their theological-linguistic disagreements.

Here I would like to offer a suggestion for another way of discussing the matter. Instead of trying to figure out how thoroughly sin has pervaded creation and thus how deep of an apocalypse we need to address the problem, I submit that we should instead be thinking primarily of how to best describe the apocalyptic visions of divine glory, and the attending doxology that it evokes from the people of God. Thus, our talk about the divine apocalypse should be formulated more in terms of the irreducible radiance of the trinitarian glory, of God’s inexhaustible beauty, which is unveiled in Christ (getting back to the etymology of apocalypse). In other words, what we need is to avoid some sort of anthropocentric way of deploying the language of apocalypse in which we become fixated on the way in which nature as we know it is ruptured by God in Christ. Our focus must not be on the rupture in itself, but rather on the infinite koinonial and doxological plenitude that is unleashed through what we experience as the rupture of God’s trinitarian invasion of the world in Christ and the Spirit.

This would not be to back off from the radicality of the language of apocalypse, but to simply be more biblical and to give proper credence the Johannine along with the Pauline. The most explicitly apocalyptic texts of the New Testament seem to be intentionally directing our attention away from the catastrophic collision of the powers of evil with the infinite love of the triune God, aligning our vision instead simply towards the visio dei itself. Here there is a helpful connection to the work of David Bentley Hart, who as it turns out, may be an apocalyptic theologian of sorts himself. His vision of the infinite beauty of the triune God who frees us from the “veil of the sublime” is precisely what we see in the un-veiling that takes place in what we talk about as the divine apocalypse. The subliminity of a broken creation gives way to the inexhaustible beauty of the trinitarian luminescence of divine love. Thus, in beholding God’s apocalypse in Christ and the Spirit, our vision does not, indeed cannot, ultimately focus on the cataclysmic battle between Christ and Antichrist, between life and death. Rather, our eyes are constantly drawn away from the penultimate battle towards the truly compelling visage of trinitarian beauty. Ultimately our eyes can only focus on the enveloping, inexhaustible, unsurpassable glory of the triune God. The divine apocalypse, in which the forces of Antichrist, Babylon, and Satan assail the Lamb and his people must ultimately and at every point direct our vision toward beholding the glory of the throne of God and of the Lamb. The battle between Christ and Antichrist occurs as but a moment in the eschatological symphony of Alpha and Omega. The battle of the Logos (Balthasar) is ultimately only seen as the the prelude to great transformation: death is swallowed up in victory (1 Cor 15:54 cf. Isa 25:8).

Hart and Jenson: Locating the Disagreement

I’m currently re-reading David Bentley Hart’s The Beauty of the Infinite and am loving going back through this text again. This is truly a magnificent work of Christian theology that deserves extensive thoughtful engagement. After my initial reading of Hart’s book, I found myself giving a profoundly negative assessment thereto; however after letting the book sit and digest over the last year or so and now reading it again, I am finding it more and more joyous an experience.

Ultimately, I think that my own differences with Hart occur at the same theological locale that defines Hart’s argument with Robert Jenson. In the actual discussion of Jenson’s theology and Hart’s argument with him, the disagreement seems to be based on — as Hart says in the preface to the book — a different understanding of the economic and immanent trinities. Particularly there seems to a wide divergence over the issue of what Hart perceives as Jenson’s historicization of God’s being. For Hart it is essential to assert that creation is not necessary to God, that it adds nothing to God’s being, being a purely gratuitous gift of God which neither adds nor detracts from God’s plenitude. For Jenson, however, the revelation of God in Israel and Jesus requires us to identify God’s own self-definition by and as particular historical events, supremely the event of the resurrection which defines and indeed, constitutes God’s own eternal life. For Jenson, “If Jesus is not risen, this God simply is not.”

However, in the course of Hart’s book he makes claims that sound utterly Jensonian, from his musical ontology through which he describes the beatific vision to his Trinitarian theology of divine beauty, Hart and Jenson sound much more alike than unlike one another. The real locus of their disagreement, I suggest is located at the level of their respective theologies of time. Hart’s whole project, including his geneological assault on continental philosophy, is predicated on the positing of a primordial, protological harmony, an original peace that is definitive of creation. This original peace forms the ontological ground of Hart’s entire project. Violence is privatio boni, a secondary intrusion of negation into an ocean of beatific plenitude that the world, as creatio ex nihilo is imbued with. For Hart, it is all about origin. The key to his understanding of the Christian gospel, as a rhetoric of peace is grounded in the positing of an original ontological harmony, a protological ontology of serendipity.

For Jenson, by contrast, the Christian evangel is not primarily constituted by its appeal to an original created harmony, but rather by its proclamation of an irreducible future of eschatological abundance which is the outcome of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead. For Jenson, the ontological ground of the Christian gospel does not reside in the past, as a primordial harmony to which we hope to be restored, but rather in the future which is an eschatological superabundance of resurrection life, overturning the world of sin and death in a dynamic confrontation between the powers of death and the life of the Triune God.

Hart’s magnificent Trinitarian aesthetics is grounded protologically; Jenson’s is grounded eschatologically. Herein, I think lies the true difference between the two thinkers. This is seen even in terms of how much attention they respectively give to the doctrines of creation and eschatology respectively. Jenson does not even begin to treat the doctrine of creation until the second volume of his Systematic Theology, only beginning to discuss it after establishing a doctrine of God that is radically determined by the resurrection and eschatology. Hart, by contrast, devotes over a hundred and fifty pages to establishing the doctrines of the analogia entis, divine apatheia, and a doctrine of creation and only then turns to salvation and eschatology, only devoting a mere 18 pages or so to eschatology when he does get there. And even in his discussion of eschatology, the first words thereof are that Christian eschatology affirms the goodness of created difference, again taking recourse back to Hart’s grounding principle of protological harmony.

My point in all this is not to attempt to adjudicate the disagreement between Hart and Jenson. On the whole I find Jenson’s theology to better conform to the ratio of the Christian gospel, which begins with the eschatological proclamation of Jesus’ resurrection then proceeds to retroactively read that overriding reality back into our understandings of God as Trinity and God’s creation. Hart seems to invert this scheme, moving instead from an original metaphysical vision of God and creation to an evaluation and incorporation of the significance of the resurrected Messiah. Ultimately, the difference really lies in the area of ontology: does the being of creation (and God?) take its form and ratio from an original protological harmony, or an irreducible future of superabundance? Or is some sort of third way possible as Jenson seems to hint in his review of Hart in Pro Ecclesia? How one answers that question will probably determine whether one finds Hart or Jenson more persuasive to one’s theological sensibilities.

Theological Music

“The end is music.”  Thus Robert Jenson ends his magnificent systematic theology in describing the visio dei in distinctly aural terms.  The vision of God, the beatific vision is here conceived not first and foremost as seeing, but as hearing, as listening to the intonations, harmonies, and rhythms of the eternal discourse of the Trinitarian persons.

This vision is rooted in a central theological sentiment, namely that music has incredible theological vitality and power.  However, what is it that makes music theological?  And what constituted good theological music?  How are such aesthetic judgments to be made in the theological task?

Balthasar: Being Seized by Beauty

“Both the person who is transported by natural beauty and the one snatched up by the beauty of Christ must appear to the world to be fools, and the world will attempt to explain their state in terms of psychological or even physiological laws (Acts 2.13).  But they know what they have seen, and they care not one farthing what people may say.  They suffer because of their love, and it it is only the fact that they have been inflamed by the most sublime of beauties — a beauty crowned with thorns and crucified — that justifies their sharing in that suffering.”

–Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics, Volume I: Seeing the Form (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1982), 33.

The Gift of the Martyrs

“Christ crucified must thus remain ‘metahermenutical’; he stands outside modernity, outside the market, outside every human order of power, as a real and visible beauty.  Nor can worldly power ever overcome him in his mystical body, because, again, the very gesture of the rhetoric of his form is one of donation, of martyrdom, and one that the powers of this world can suppress only through a violence that creates martyrs, and so confirms – contrary to all it intends – the witness of a peace that is infinite.  In the time of sin, governed by an eschatological hope that has already been imparted in history but that is still deferred, Christian rhetoric can be only a declaration of witness, and a gift.  A gift of martyrs – which is the name that must, finally be given to the Christian practice of persuasion – can never be returned violently, as the Same; because this gift is always peace and beauty, violence can ‘receive’ the gift, but never return it.”

–David Bentley Hart, The Beauty of the Infinite: The Aesthetics of Christian Truth (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 441-442.

David Bentley Hart in one Sentence

Earlier today one of my housemates saw my copy of David Bentley Hart’s The Beauty of the Infinite lying on the table where I was reading, and after looking through it briefly asked me, “So, what’s his main point in this book?”

I responded without hesitation:  “Christianity is awesome and beautiful and everything else sucks.”

David Bentley Hart on Modernity

Modern persons will never find rest for their restless hearts without Christ, for modern culture is nothing but the wasteland from which the gods have departed, and so this restlessness has become its own deity; and, deprived of the shelter of the sacred and the consoling myths of sacrifice, the modern person must wander or drift, vainly attempting one or another accommodation with death, never escaping anxiety or ennui, and driven as a result to a ceaseless labor of distraction, or acquisition, or willful idiocy. And, where it works its sublimest magic, our culture of empty spectacle can so stupefy the intellect as to blind it to its own disquiet, and induce a spiritual torpor more deplorable than mere despair.But we Christians—while not ignoring how appalling such a condition is—should yet rejoice that modernity offers no religious comforts to those who would seek them. In this time of waiting, in this age marked only by the absence of faith in Christ, it is well that the modern soul should lack repose, piety, peace, or nobility, and should find the world outside the Church barren of spiritual rapture or mystery, and should discover no beautiful or terrible or merciful gods upon which to cast itself. With Christ came judgment into the world, a light of discrimination from which there is neither retreat nor sanctuary. And this means that, as a quite concrete historical condition, the only choice that remains for the children of post-Christian culture is not whom to serve, but whether to serve Him whom Christ has revealed or to serve nothing—the nothing. No third way lies open for us now, because—as all of us now know, whether we acknowledge it consciously or not—all things have been made subject to Him, all the thrones and dominions of the high places have been put beneath His feet, until the very end of the world, and—simply said—there is no other god.

–David Bentley Hart, “Christ and Nothing“, First Things (October 2003).

David Bentley Hart on the Church as Christ’s Counterhistory

Christ’s moment of most absolute particularity – the absolute dereliction of the cross – is the moment in which the glory of God, his power to be where and when he will be, is displayed before the eyes of the world. When the full course of Christ’s life is completed and is raised up by the Father, his “hiddenness” is shown to be a different kind of substantial presence, one that is only in being handed over in love, surrendered, and given anew; thus his “hiddenness” is in fact that openness with which his presence is embodied in the church’s practices, the exchange of signs of peace, the sacramental transparency of the community of the body of Christ. The church exists in order to become the counterhistory, nature restored, the alternative way of being that Christ opens up: the way of return. It is in this sense, principally, that the Word assumes human nature (as Irenaeus understood): by entering into the corporate identity of the body of the old Adam, the body of death, to raise all humanity up again in his body of glory.

David Bentley Hart, The Beauty of the Infinite: The Aesthetics of Christian Truth (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 327.

The Beauty of the Infinite :A Review

I posted this at Amazon over a year ago, but recently I’ve noticed this book getting a fair bit of attention on different blogs, so I thought it might be worth duplicating here. Against the stream of most who have read this book I must name myself as one of Hart’s detractors. His book, though an incredible achievement and in many ways beautiful and groundbreaking is, in my opinion significantly flawed.

This work is a remarkable and groundbreaking piece of theological work if it is anything. David Bentley Hart, an Eastern Orthodox theologian offers here a potent critique of postmodernism through a Christian theological aesthetics.

In brief, Hart’s argument is that Christian thought offers a rhetoric of peace which stands in contrast to Modernity and Postmodernity (indeed all autonomous philosophies) which propound a rhetoric of ontological violence. Rhetoric is a central theme that unifies Hart’s work. Foundational to his argument is that all metaphysic’s, ontologies and narratives must eventually resort to an “appeal to beauty” to legitimate their claims. Claims to truth are not based on some myth of disinterested rationality, but rather are rhetorical constructions that seek to persuade others on the basis of their aesthetic appeal.

On this basis, then Hart goes on to demonstrate that Christian thought offers the most compelling account of beauty conceivable. He argues that the Trinitarian God in his dynamic infinity is pure beauty. To establish this, Hart spends the bulk of his work articulating a dogmatica minora focusing on the doctrines of the Trinity, Creation, Salvation and Eschaton. Hart focuses first on the doctrine of the Trinity, arguing that because God is Triune he is infinitely beautiful, being a perichoresis of love, joy, delight and feasting. He develops his doctrine of the Trinity largely by focusing on the nature of the divine perichoresis as infinite peace and plenitude from which an economy of mutuality and self-donation emerge. Cutting against the grain of much of contemporary theology, Hart rejects any theology of divine passibility or temporality, arguing instead for the classical notions of impassibility and timeless eternity. This stems from his understanding of divine infinity as the lack of all boundaries in God. (See below for more on this).

Following on the heals of this discussion, Hart moves into a fascinating discussion of Creation. He situates the doctrine of creation firmly in the context of the perichoretic dynamism of the Trinitarian life which freely and unnecessarily flows forth in creating a world out of nothing save Triune love. An excellent discussion of the concept of the gift follows. The gift, much debated in phenomenological discussion has become quite an issue of controversy for theology and philosophy. Basically, critics of the possibility of giving the gift argue that all giving is motivated by the desire for the gift to be reciprocated and thus is not truly and economy of gift, but one of exchange. Hart does a good job of exploding this argument by showing how thoroughly Kantian it is. The fundamental element of the gift lies not in some subjective motivation, but in the act of giving itself. The desire for reciprocation does not invalidate the gift, because the gift has been given. In fact the desire for reciprocation is actually part of the economy of gift which is inherently erotic rather than apathetic. Hart goes on to offer an interesting discussion of Creation as participating in the music that is God’s Trinitarian life (on the point the work of Robert Jenson is perhaps a bit more helpful and coherent).

Hart then goes on to discuss Salvation. He offers a great discussion of salvation as recapitulation in which God’s Triune movement toward the world in Christ Also included here is a fascinating treatment of the atonement through the work of Anselm. Hart argues quite cogently that Anselm’s “satisfaction theory” of the atonement is not the product of Anselm himself, but of his interpreters. Rather, Hart shows, Anselm’s doctrine of the atonement is centered on an economy of gift wherein God’s self-donation in Christ exceeds any debt that could have been counted against us. Hart’s arguments are interesting, and I think very possibly correct.

Finally, Hart offers some brief reflections on eschatology. He argues that Christian eschatology affirms created reality and exhibits the infinite beauty of God in the final coming of the kingdom. There is also some very interesting discussion of hell. It seems that Hart very much wants to hold to some kind of universalism, but shies away from it out of deference to the Orthodox tradition. The book concludes with some final discussions of the nature of Christianity as a rhetoric of peace in the context of Postmodernity and the possibilities of the church’s practice of the peace of Christ as being a viable alternative in a world of violence.

There is certainly much to commend in this incredibly creative and innovative book. The following are some of the major features of this book that I found helpful:

  • The way that Hart establishes Christianity as a form of rhetorical persuasion is very helpful. Understanding the nature of Christian proclamation and divesting Christianity from the myth of disinterested rationality is absolutely essential for the church to proclaim the gospel in the postmodern context.
  • Hart’s formulation of Trinitarian doctrine highlights perhaps better than any other work the radical implications of the Trinity as the fullness of peace. Understanding that peace is the most ontologically primary reality and violence is nothing more than the privation of God’s greater peaceableness has huge implications for Christian theology and practice. Since peace is the form of Christ and the way in which he confronts evil through the cross and resurrection, so our lives muse engage evil in the same way, not capitulating to violence, but embodying God’s order of Trinitarian peace animated by the hope of the resurrection. 
  • The musical ontology that Hart develops is also a wonderful image that I think merits much further reflection in Trinitarian discussions. It also offers the fascinating opportunity to expound a theological aesthetics that is not primarily visual, but aural, that is to say musical. 
  • As mentioned above, Hart’s work on the concept of the gift is superb. I think he has decisively turned the philosophical debates about the possibility of the gift by taking it out of a Kantian context. 
  • Finally, Hart’s treatment of Nietzsche is quite engaging and helpful. I think he is quite right to recognize that Nietzsche is the paradigmatic postmodern philosopher and indeed the most radical one of them all. Hart’s critique of his is also incisive.

Nevertheless, despite this book’s many strengths and contributions, however I see a number of crucial problems that attend Hart’s work as well.

 

 

  • Perhaps most central is Hart’s definition of divine infinity which is largely negative: the lack of any boundaries. This militates against a more positive and biblical definition which would hold that divine infinity is the overcoming of all boundaries. Hart’s missing this crucial detail is what debilitates him in his discussion of impassibility and timelessness. These notions are of course, thoroughly Greek in their origin. They have no biblical support whatsoever (on this see Robert Jenson, Systematic Theology: The Triune God and Colin Gunton, Act and Being: Toward a Doctrine of the Divine Attributes). Hart’s understanding of divine infinity in negative terms keeps him from being able to embrace the biblical descriptions of God as suffering and as being temporal. If Hart were able to realize that divine infinity is God’s overcoming of all boundaries it would become clear that God’s experience of time and suffering does not detract from his infinity, but rather his infinity expresses itself precisely by fully experiencing suffering and overcoming it (in the death and resurrection of Christ) and by bringing history to its eschatological destiny through time. If Hart could make this connection, I think it would alleviate most or all of the problems and contradictions that attend his project.
  • Related to the previous issue, there is a troubling lack of serious engagement with Scripture and particuarly the biblical narratives of the workd of Christ that pervades Hart’s account. The incarnation and the theology of the cross only come up occasionally in Hart’s treatment and are then artificially circumscribed within Hart’s convoluted Greek notions of divine impassibility and timelessness. Hart even goes so far to make the absurd argument that the Son is, in some real sense from all eternity past incarnate as Jesus of Nazareth. Hart also engages in a rather heinous misreading of Cyril attempting to argue that in his human career, Christ only suffered in his humanity with his diety remaining unmoved and impassible. This neo-Nestorian Christology represents a horrible failing on Hart’s part to reckon with all the truths that Athansius, Irenaeus and Gregory of Nyssa formulated so well regarding the humanity of Christ. The importance of this Christological failure in Hart’s account can hardly be overstated.
  • All of this is symptomatic of the fact that Hart has not been able to totally divest himself of the influence of neoplatonic though and its notions of divinity. Hart is at his best when he is expounding the dynamic nature of the Trinitarian life of eternal joy, plenitude, and peace. But always on the heals of such reflections he ends up oscillating back to neoplatonic notions of divinity which subvert his desire for a truly dynamic (indeed truly beautiful) Trinitarian aesthetic. 
  • Another puzzling issue that attends this book is the rhetoric that Hart employs in his own attempt to make his case. I find it utterly ironic that a book dedicated to establishing Christianity as a rhetoric of peace would employ the kind of rhetorical violence that Hart seems to exult in. He is constantly demeaning and virulently mocking his dialog partners. Indeed this often becomes a substitute for actual dialog with them. One is left wondering if all postmodern philosophers are really as dumb as Hart makes them out to be. Or perhaps he has not read them closely enough?
  • There is also an unfortunate neglect of ecclesiology in this book. When Hart does reflect on the nature and purpose of the church, his reflections are helpful, but they are far to brief and vague to be of any real aid to those seeking to integrate his theological claims with Christian practice (and the implications are quite important, so this is no small flaw).  
  • I was also thoroughly disappointed to see Hart constantly backpedal on the ethical implications of his ontology of peace. After arguing brilliantly for the ontological priority of peace to violence and the full reality of the cross and resurrection of Christ as forbidding violence, he then goes on to blast any form of pacifism and argue instead that we should simply seek to limit coercion to a minimum (p. 342). It seems that Hart does not really believe the radical implications of his Trinitarian ontology are a reality that can or should be lived out when the rubber meets the road. I certainly hope that I have read him wrong on the point and later claims in the book may indicate that I have (p. 349), but it seems more likely that Hart has simply backed his “political realist” sensibilities into a theological corner but refuses to give them up. A healthy dose of Stanley Hauerwas would help Hart on this point quite a bit.
  • Finally, I was disappointed by the ways in which Hart caricatures his theological interlocutors whom he critiqued (particularly Eberhard Jungel, Karl Barth, and Hans Urs von Balthasar). There was a surprising lack of serious engagement with the important aspects of the work of these thinkers which Hart simply dismisses or scorns. This is simply bad scholarship and an unfortunate stain on a remarkable book.

In sum, this book exhilarates, provokes, and energizes while also disappointing, puzzling, frustrating and often enraging the discerning reader. It is without doubt a very important work and deserves to be widely read and remembered as such. However, this book is not the last word in the discussion it enters, and I fear its many problems cast far too heavy a heavy burden on its helpful points.

Nevertheless, I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in the contemporary theological scene in North America. This book is an inestimably interesting and important contribution to that discussion. This book is fruitfully read in conversation with Alan Lewis’s Between Cross and Resurrection: A Theology of Holy Saturday and Oliver Davies’ A Theology of Compassion: Metaphysics of Difference and the Renewal of Tradition. Both of these authors engage in similar theological and philosophical work on the nature of the Trinity, ontology and redemption while beautifully succeeding in some of the places where Hart falls short.

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