On Heroes and the Heroic
September 1, 2010
The recent criticism from a member of the Missouri Synod, concerning Reformed church planting in Germany, was rooted in part in what the critic (in the comments section) articulated as a frustration with the constant attempts of the Reformed to claim Luther as their own. To the uninitiated, this may be something of a shock and so I want to give a little background and offer some thoughts on the ways in which I, as Reformed, can legitimately see Luther as a father in the faith.
The polemical point the pastor made on his webpage is interesting because, for the record, Luther repudiated the Reformed in general, and specifically the Zwinglians, claiming they were 'of a different spirit,' i.e., not Christians at all. The reason was the Reformed rejection of the real presence of Christ's humanity in, with, and under the sacramental elements. For Luther, this represented a simple rejection of the plain meaning of Christ's words of institution, a lack of faith, and a transformation of the gospel (the promise of God in Christ given in the eucharist and received simply by faith) into law (something we do for our own benefit, e.g., an action that helps us remember etc.) Later Lutheranism divided over this, and other positions, with the more moderate Phillipists, followers of Luther's close colleague and collaborator, Melanchthon, being more concessive to Reformed sacramental sensibilities, whilst the guardians of the Luther flame, the so-called Gnesio-Lutherans, maintained the stricter position of Luther himself, and developed a raft of careful Christological distinctions in order to accomplish this.
Given this, strange to tell, I can understand this Lutheran pastor's frustration at his man being co-opted by the Reformed; and, indeed, I think many Reformed and evangelical people, having few sacramental sensibilities themselves, do not appreciate how central to Lutheran theology the division from the Reformed on the sacraments is; if it were not so, frankly, there would be no Lutheran church; and it is good that there are Lutherans out there who take their confession seriously enough to express concern about their man being casually claimed by others.
That said, the incident raises for me the whole issue of the extent to which one can appropriate the thought of, or identify with, figures from church history who stand outside one's immediate tradition.
As I look around my office at Westminster, there are signs all over the place of my various `heroes,' theological and otherwise: pictures of Luther, Cromwell, Hugh Miller, Thomas Chalmers, an icon of Gregory Nazianzus, a book with the complete lyrics of Bob Dylan, Liebling's writings on boxing, a drawer with cds by Mozart, Rush and Dylan (again), a shelf full of books by John Owen, and a ragbag collection of works by and about Aquinas, Pascal, Newman, Kierkegaard, Swift, and Augustine. That's a pretty varied collection of influences; and, with the exception of Miller and Chalmers, none of them would qualify as Presbyterians. Do I have the right to claim them as my own? Indeed, is it right that I should claim them as my own?
I would suggest three ways of thinking of such figures.
First, to the extent that their work is consistent with biblical teaching (i.e., to the extent that it makes sense of what the Bible says), then it really belongs to the whole church, to every Christian. Rush would fail somewhat dramatically at this point (the chorus of Freewill being perhaps the most logically coherent argument for Pelagianism of which I am aware -- but note the complete absence of biblical exegesis and the fact that there are no footnote references to Derek Thomas, Ligon Duncan, or the minutes of any OPC General Assembly); but Aquinas on the same issue does give fascinating and helpful insights into the issue. Just because I disagree with him on, say, baptism and aspects of the church does not mean that I cannot benefit from his arguments here. The same goes with any theologian. The fact that I disagree with Luther on the communication of attributes does not mean that I cannot identify with his teaching on justification as expressed in `The Freedom of the Christian' or The Augsburg Confession. Sure, he may not regard me and my church as Christian; but I do not have to repay the compliment in kind.
Second, there is always benefit to seeing a great mind in action. When I read Augustine's Confessions or Aquinas's Summa or Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling, i do not simply benefit from those parts which open up scriptural teaching for me. I also benefit from the parts which fail miserably to express biblical truth but where the very thought processes of the writer, including the mistakes and missteps which he makes, are instructive. It is both encouraging that greater minds than mine cannot grasp all truth; and helpful to see how and why they sometimes go astray.
Third, from paying attention to both of the above, I can learn about the very structures of Christian truth. Tracing debates through history is one of the best ways to develop an understanding why theology looks the way it does For the pastor so upset at the idea of Reformed church planting in Germany, there is presumably a necessary connection between the gospel and the communication of properties in the Incarnation, to the extent that a rejection of the Lutheran position on the latter involves more or less a repudiation of the former. I dissent from this, not because I am ignorant of Luther (if I can indulge in a moment of Pauline boasting, if any of you has cause to claim to know Luther, I have more: a PhD on the reception of his writings in the English Reformation context, nearly twenty years of teaching his thought to others, a bobblehead of the great man on the desk in my office, a giant beer growler with the Diet of Worms painted on the side.....); rather, because studying his thought in comparison with that of others, both his contemporaries and mine, has convinced me that his fundamental insights into justification are quite separable from his position on the Lord's Supper. I would also say that this case is at least arguable from Luther's own writings: it is not until the crisis with Karlstadt and the Zwickau Prophets in 1522 that Luther begins to focus on the connection between faith, justification, and the metaphysics of sacramental presence, along with the necessary Christological assumptions.
Luther is a hero of mine, along with Nazianzus, Augustine, Aquinas, Owen, and Newman. It does not mean I agree with him (or them) on all points or even in some cases many points; it does not mean he would even have regarded me as a Christian; but it does mean he is an exceptional person from whom I have learned an enormous amount; and in reading him (and them) my own theology has been sharpened, and my understanding of the grace and beauty of God in Christ has been deepened. There is a heroic quality to the thought of men who are willing to tackle the greatest themes relating to God, creation, salvation, and the church: even when they make mistakes, they make magnificent mistakes from which we can all learn. In a day of small men and small minds, we should be grateful that the Lord is truly good, and has provided such brilliant men to inform the great traditions of the church and to provide us with immense resources of theology and devotion; I would be a true carl (in the Chaucerian sense of the word) to neglect such a treasury. And for that reason, I want to start a series on Ref21, "Turbulent Priests," introducing some of these men to a wider church audience. `Priests' because their calling was teaching about God; `turbulent' because their lives and thought changed things in important and often unpopular ways -- and, of course, because troublemakers are always more interesting.
I will begin with Gregory by the week's end.
And, for the record, if the Lutherans are preaching the gospel of God's grace in Germany, I for one rejoice, whether they regard such rejoicing as that of a theologian of glory or whatever.
The polemical point the pastor made on his webpage is interesting because, for the record, Luther repudiated the Reformed in general, and specifically the Zwinglians, claiming they were 'of a different spirit,' i.e., not Christians at all. The reason was the Reformed rejection of the real presence of Christ's humanity in, with, and under the sacramental elements. For Luther, this represented a simple rejection of the plain meaning of Christ's words of institution, a lack of faith, and a transformation of the gospel (the promise of God in Christ given in the eucharist and received simply by faith) into law (something we do for our own benefit, e.g., an action that helps us remember etc.) Later Lutheranism divided over this, and other positions, with the more moderate Phillipists, followers of Luther's close colleague and collaborator, Melanchthon, being more concessive to Reformed sacramental sensibilities, whilst the guardians of the Luther flame, the so-called Gnesio-Lutherans, maintained the stricter position of Luther himself, and developed a raft of careful Christological distinctions in order to accomplish this.
Given this, strange to tell, I can understand this Lutheran pastor's frustration at his man being co-opted by the Reformed; and, indeed, I think many Reformed and evangelical people, having few sacramental sensibilities themselves, do not appreciate how central to Lutheran theology the division from the Reformed on the sacraments is; if it were not so, frankly, there would be no Lutheran church; and it is good that there are Lutherans out there who take their confession seriously enough to express concern about their man being casually claimed by others.
That said, the incident raises for me the whole issue of the extent to which one can appropriate the thought of, or identify with, figures from church history who stand outside one's immediate tradition.
As I look around my office at Westminster, there are signs all over the place of my various `heroes,' theological and otherwise: pictures of Luther, Cromwell, Hugh Miller, Thomas Chalmers, an icon of Gregory Nazianzus, a book with the complete lyrics of Bob Dylan, Liebling's writings on boxing, a drawer with cds by Mozart, Rush and Dylan (again), a shelf full of books by John Owen, and a ragbag collection of works by and about Aquinas, Pascal, Newman, Kierkegaard, Swift, and Augustine. That's a pretty varied collection of influences; and, with the exception of Miller and Chalmers, none of them would qualify as Presbyterians. Do I have the right to claim them as my own? Indeed, is it right that I should claim them as my own?
I would suggest three ways of thinking of such figures.
First, to the extent that their work is consistent with biblical teaching (i.e., to the extent that it makes sense of what the Bible says), then it really belongs to the whole church, to every Christian. Rush would fail somewhat dramatically at this point (the chorus of Freewill being perhaps the most logically coherent argument for Pelagianism of which I am aware -- but note the complete absence of biblical exegesis and the fact that there are no footnote references to Derek Thomas, Ligon Duncan, or the minutes of any OPC General Assembly); but Aquinas on the same issue does give fascinating and helpful insights into the issue. Just because I disagree with him on, say, baptism and aspects of the church does not mean that I cannot benefit from his arguments here. The same goes with any theologian. The fact that I disagree with Luther on the communication of attributes does not mean that I cannot identify with his teaching on justification as expressed in `The Freedom of the Christian' or The Augsburg Confession. Sure, he may not regard me and my church as Christian; but I do not have to repay the compliment in kind.
Second, there is always benefit to seeing a great mind in action. When I read Augustine's Confessions or Aquinas's Summa or Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling, i do not simply benefit from those parts which open up scriptural teaching for me. I also benefit from the parts which fail miserably to express biblical truth but where the very thought processes of the writer, including the mistakes and missteps which he makes, are instructive. It is both encouraging that greater minds than mine cannot grasp all truth; and helpful to see how and why they sometimes go astray.
Third, from paying attention to both of the above, I can learn about the very structures of Christian truth. Tracing debates through history is one of the best ways to develop an understanding why theology looks the way it does For the pastor so upset at the idea of Reformed church planting in Germany, there is presumably a necessary connection between the gospel and the communication of properties in the Incarnation, to the extent that a rejection of the Lutheran position on the latter involves more or less a repudiation of the former. I dissent from this, not because I am ignorant of Luther (if I can indulge in a moment of Pauline boasting, if any of you has cause to claim to know Luther, I have more: a PhD on the reception of his writings in the English Reformation context, nearly twenty years of teaching his thought to others, a bobblehead of the great man on the desk in my office, a giant beer growler with the Diet of Worms painted on the side.....); rather, because studying his thought in comparison with that of others, both his contemporaries and mine, has convinced me that his fundamental insights into justification are quite separable from his position on the Lord's Supper. I would also say that this case is at least arguable from Luther's own writings: it is not until the crisis with Karlstadt and the Zwickau Prophets in 1522 that Luther begins to focus on the connection between faith, justification, and the metaphysics of sacramental presence, along with the necessary Christological assumptions.
Luther is a hero of mine, along with Nazianzus, Augustine, Aquinas, Owen, and Newman. It does not mean I agree with him (or them) on all points or even in some cases many points; it does not mean he would even have regarded me as a Christian; but it does mean he is an exceptional person from whom I have learned an enormous amount; and in reading him (and them) my own theology has been sharpened, and my understanding of the grace and beauty of God in Christ has been deepened. There is a heroic quality to the thought of men who are willing to tackle the greatest themes relating to God, creation, salvation, and the church: even when they make mistakes, they make magnificent mistakes from which we can all learn. In a day of small men and small minds, we should be grateful that the Lord is truly good, and has provided such brilliant men to inform the great traditions of the church and to provide us with immense resources of theology and devotion; I would be a true carl (in the Chaucerian sense of the word) to neglect such a treasury. And for that reason, I want to start a series on Ref21, "Turbulent Priests," introducing some of these men to a wider church audience. `Priests' because their calling was teaching about God; `turbulent' because their lives and thought changed things in important and often unpopular ways -- and, of course, because troublemakers are always more interesting.
I will begin with Gregory by the week's end.
And, for the record, if the Lutherans are preaching the gospel of God's grace in Germany, I for one rejoice, whether they regard such rejoicing as that of a theologian of glory or whatever.
