The Nature of Theological Language
The Nature of Theological Language
Theology is “talk about God.” But how can God ever be described or discussed using human language? Ludwig Wittgenstein made this point forcefully: ifhuman words are incapable of describing the distinctive aroma of coffee, how could they possibly cope with something as subtle as God?
Does Theological Language Refer to Anything?
One of the more interesting debates in theology during the past two centuries has concerned whether theological language refers to anything – such as an external reality that we designate “God.” Most Christian theologians have adopted what we might term a “realist” position, holding that there is an external referent for theological language. For example, Thomas F. Torrance developed a rigorous form of theological realism, insisting that theology gives an account of the reality of things. “Theology and every scientific inquiry operate with the correlation of the intelligible and the intelligent.”
Similarly, Alister McGrath (the author of this book) argues intellectual disciplines or sciences are under an intrinsic obligation to give an account of reality according to its distinct nature. Theology is an attempt to represent the distinct nature and character of God, while being mindful of the limited ability of human language and ideas to do justice to God.
A distinction is often drawn between a “naïve realism,” which holds that reality impacts directly upon the human mind, without any reflection on the part of the human knower, and a “critical realism,” which recognizes that the human mind attempts to express and accommodate that reality as best it can with the tools at its disposal – such as mathematical formulae or mental models.
The key feature of a “critical realism” is its recognition that the human mind is active in the process of perception. Far from being a passive recipient of knowledge of the external world, it actively constructs this knowledge using “mental maps.” The New Testament scholar N. T. Wright (born 1948) adopts such a “critical realist” approach, which he describes as:
a way of describing the process of “knowing” that acknowledges the reality of the thing known, as something other than the knower (hence “realism”), while also fully acknowledging that the only access we have to this reality lies along the spiralling path of appropriate dialogue or conversation between the knower and the thing known (hence “critical”).
This position does not pose a challenge to the notion that there exists a world independent of the observer. It is to acknowledge that the knower is involved in the process of knowing, and that this involvement must somehow be expressed within a realist perspective on the world.
Others, however, take the view that religious language does not refer to God and is best seen as describing human experience or ideals. Ludwig Feuerbach (1804–72) argued that human beings construct the idea of God, so that religious language refers primarily to our ideas about God, but not to any independent reality called God.
Non-realism is well represented by the radical Anglican philosopher of religion Don Cupitt (born 1934), who argues we must “abandon ideas of objective and eternal truth, and instead see all truth as a human improvisation.” Instead of responding to reality, we create whatever we choose to regard as real. Reality is something which we construct, not something to which we respond. “We constructed all the world-views, we made all the theories. [...] They depend on us, not we on them.”
Apophatic and Kataphatic Approaches
A classic debate in Christian theology concerns what may be said about God. This debate is often framed in terms of apophatic and kataphatic approaches to theology. Each of these terms needs explanation.
While generalizations are dangerous, the apophatic approach tends to be found in eastern Orthodoxy, whereas the western theological tradition has tended to be much more kataphatic.
The point at issue is difficult, but important. The western approach is easier to understand. Writers such as Thomas Aquinas argue that it is possible to make positive, affirmative statements about God, such as the following:
God is here described in positive terms. For example, in describing God as Father, Aquinas argues that Christian theology is recognizing that we are able to speak meaningfully about God using human language. While Aquinas is careful to stress the limits of such language, he nevertheless insists that, following the use of the Bible and the Christian tradition, we are justified in making such positive statements in terms of ideas and images that are familiar and accessible to the human mind. Theological reflection is thus based on considering these ideas and images, and extracting as much understanding from them as possible through the proper use of human reason.
Apophatic theology, in contrast, argues that the limitations placed upon human language are such that it can never do justice to God, and runs the risk of reducing God to the level of humanity. The Cappadocian fathers are often cited as representative of this tradition. For example, Basil of Caesarea remarks, in speaking of God:
I know that God exists. Yet I consider his essence to be beyond intelligence. [...] The object of our worship is not that of which we comprehend the essence, but of which we comprehend that the essence exists.
The point that Basil is making is that, while we can indeed say that God exists, human language is totally unable to comprehend God's nature. It does not have the capacity to enfold God. It is impossible for human reason to grasp the nature of God, even though it can handle the somewhat less demanding insight that God exists.
The two approaches have their respective strengths and weaknesses, and we may note a few in bringing this section to a close. The kataphatic approach allows us to say positive things about God – for example, that “God is love.” This is helpful in explaining the basics of Christianity to those outside the church. However, it runs the risk of reducing God to the level of human love, while God is clearly far more than can be conveyed by this human term. The apophatic approach preserves the mystery of God through its emphasis on the limitations of language. However, many find its principled refusal to make positive statements frustrating because it implies that we are doomed to remain ignorant of even the most basic knowledge of what God is like. The debate continues today.
In what follows, we shall focus on the kataphatic tradition and ask how it calibrates its language about God to avoid the potential problems identified by exponents of the apophatic approach.
Analogy
How can we speak meaningfully and positively about God? How can we use human language to speak about God, without reducing God to the human level? Perhaps the most basic idea which underlies the theological reply to such questions is usually referred to as “the principle of analogy.” The fact that God created the world points to a fundamental “analogy of being” (Latin: analogia entis) between God and the world. There is a continuity between God and the world on account of the expression of the being of God in the being of the world.
For this reason, Aquinas argues that it is legitimate to use entities within the created order as analogies for God, provided the limits of the approach are understood and acknowledged. By doing this, theology does not reduce God to the level of a created object or being; it merely affirms that there is a likeness or correspondence between God and that being which allows the latter to act as a signpost to God. A created entity can be like God, without being identical to God.
Consider the statement “God is our father.” Aquinas argues that this should be understood to mean that God is like a human father. In other words, God is analogous to a father. In some ways, God is like a human father, and in others not. There are genuine points of similarity. God cares for us, as human fathers care for their children (note Matthew 7: 9–11). God is the ultimate source of our existence, just as our fathers brought us into being. God exercises authority over us, as do human fathers. Equally, there are genuine points of dissimilarity. God is not a human being, for example. Nor does the necessity of a human mother point to the need for a divine mother – that is, two gods.
Aquinas argues that divine revelation makes use of images and ideas which tie in with our world of everyday existence yet which do not reduce God to that everyday world. To say that “God is our father” is not to say that God is just yet another human father. Nor, as we shall later explore, does it mean that God is to be thought of as male (see pp. 175–7). Rather, it is to say that thinking about human fathers helps us to think about God. They are analogies. Like all analogies, they break down at points. However, they are still extremely useful and vivid ways of thinking about God, which allow us to use the vocabulary and images of our own world to describe something which ultimately lies beyond it.
In saying that “God is love,” we are referring to our own capacity to love, in order to try to imagine this love in all its full perfection in God. We are not reducing the “love of God” to the level of human love. Rather, it is being suggested that human love provides a pointer toward the love of God, which, to some limited extent, it is capable of mirroring.
But, as we all know from experience, analogies break down. There comes a point when they cannot be pressed further. There are two major problems that have to be confronted here. First, and most obviously, we might mistakenly assume that an analogy is actually an identity. Instead of thinking that “God is like a rock” – to pick up on one of the Old Testament's favorite analogies (see Psalms 28: 1; 31: 2–3) – we mistakenly think that God is a rock. This fails to take account of the way in which human language struggles to represent the divine. This is one of the reasons why Aquinas shrewdly commented that “mistakes about creatures lead to mistaken knowledge about God.” If we misunderstand an analogy, we end up by misunderstanding God as well.
So how do we know when analogies break down? When we have pressed them too far? To illustrate this problem, we may consider an example from another area of theology, before moving on to consider its solution. The New Testament talks about Jesus giving his life as a “ransom” for sinners (Mark 10: 45; 1 Timothy 2: 6). What does this analogy mean? The everyday use of the word “ransom” suggests three ideas:
These three ideas thus seem to be implied by speaking of Jesus's death as a “ransom” for sinners. But are they all present in Scripture? There is no doubt whatsoever that the New Testament proclaims that we have been liberated from captivity through the death and resurrection of Jesus. We have been set free from captivity to sin and to the fear of death (Romans 8: 21; Hebrews 2: 15). It is also clear that the New Testament understands the death of Jesus as the price that had to be paid to achieve our liberation (1 Corinthians 6: 20; 7: 23). Our liberation is a costly and precious matter. In these two respects, the scriptural use of “redemption” corresponds to the everyday use of the word. But what of the third aspect?
There is not a hint in the New Testament that Jesus's death was the price paid to some specific person or spiritual force (such as the devil) to achieve our liberation. Some of the writers of the first four centuries, however, assumed that they could press this analogy to its limits, and declared that God had delivered us from the power of the devil by offering Jesus as the price of our liberation (see pp. 255–7). This idea surfaces repeatedly in patristic discussions of the meaning of the death of Christ. Yet it needs to be asked whether it rests upon pressing an analogy beyond its acceptable limits.
So how do we know whether an analogy has been pressed too far? How can the limits of such analogies be tested? Such questions have been debated throughout Christian history. An important twentieth-century discussion of this point may be found in British philosopher of religion Ian T. Ramsey's (1915–72) Christian Discourse: Some Logical Explorations (1965), which puts forward the idea that models or analogies are not freestanding but interact with and qualify each other.
Ramsey argues that Scripture does not give us one single analogy (or “model”) of God or of salvation, but uses a range of analogies. Each of these analogies or models illuminates certain aspects of our understanding of God, or the nature of salvation. However, these analogies also interact with each other. They modify each other. They help us understand the limits of other analogies. No analogy or parable is exhaustive in itself; taken together, however, the range of analogies and parables builds up to give a comprehensive and consistent understanding of God and salvation.
An example of how images interact may make this point clearer. Take the analogies of king, father, and shepherd. Each of these three analogies conveys the idea of authority, suggesting that this is of fundamental importance to our understanding of God. Kings, however, often behave in arbitrary ways, and not always in the best interests of their subjects. The analogy of God as a king might thus be misunderstood to suggest that God is some sort of tyrant. However, the tender compassion of a father toward his children commended by Scripture (Psalm 103: 13–18), and the total dedication of a good shepherd to the welfare of his flock (John 10: 11), show that this is not the intended meaning. Authority is to be exercised tenderly and wisely.
Aquinas's doctrine of analogy, then, is of fundamental importance to the way we think about God. It illuminates the manner in which God reveals himself to us through scriptural images and analogies, allowing us to understand how God can be above our world and yet simultaneously be revealed in and through that world. God is not an object or a person in space and time; nevertheless, such persons and objects can help us deepen our appreciation of God's character and nature. God, who is infinite, may be revealed in and through human words and finite images.
Metaphor
The precise nature of the differences between analogies and metaphors remains disputed. Aristotle defined a metaphor as involving “the transferred use of a term that properly belongs to something else.” So broad is this definition that it embraces just about every figure of speech, including analogy. In modern use, the word “metaphor” would be taken to mean something rather different, with the following being a useful definition. A metaphor is a way of speaking about one thing in terms which are suggestive of another. It is, to use Nelson Goodman's (1906–98) famous phrase, “a matter of teaching an old word new tricks.” This definition clearly includes analogy; so what is the difference between them?
Once more, it is necessary to note that there is no general agreement on this matter. Individual writers offer their own definitions, often reflecting their personal agendas. Perhaps a working solution to the problem could be stated as follows: analogiesseem to be appropriate, where metaphors involve a sense of surprise or initial incredulity. For example, consider these two statements:
In the first case, it is being affirmed that there is an analogical connection between the nature of God and the human notion of “wisdom.” It is being suggested that, at both the linguistic and the ontological level, there is a direct parallel between human and divine notions of wisdom. Human wisdom serves as an analogy of divine wisdom. The comparison does not cause us any surprise.
In the second case, the comparison can cause a slight degree of consternation. It does not seem to be appropriate to compare God to a lion. However many similarities there may be between God and a lion, there are obviously many differences. For some modern writers, a metaphor mingles similarity and dissimilarity, stressing that there are both parallels and divergences between the two objects being compared.
With these points in mind, we may explore three features of metaphors which have attracted theological attention in recent decades.
First, metaphors imply both similarity and dissimilarity between the two things being compared. It is perhaps for this reason that some recent writings – particularly those of Sallie McFague (born 1933) – have stressed the metaphorical, rather than the analogical, nature of theological language. As McFague puts it:
Metaphor always has the character of “is” and “is not”: an assertion is made but as a likely account rather than a definition. That is, to say, “God is mother,” is not to define God as mother, nor to assert identity between the terms “God” and “mother,” but to suggest that we consider what we do not know how to talk about – relating to God – through the metaphor of mother. The assumption here is that all talk of God is indirect: no words or phrases refer directly to God, for God-language can refer only through the detour of a description that properly belongs elsewhere. To speak of God as mother is to invite us to consider some qualities associated with mothering as one partial but perhaps illuminating way of speaking of certain aspects of God's relationship to us.
To speak of “God as father” should be seen as a metaphor, rather than an analogy, implying significant differences between God and a father, rather than (as in the case of an analogy) a direct line of similarities.
Second, metaphors cannot be reduced to definitive statements. Perhaps the most attractive feature of metaphors for Christian theology is their open-ended character. Although some literary critics have suggested that metaphors can be reduced to a set of equivalent literal expressions, others have insisted that no limits can be set to the extent of the comparison. Thus, the metaphor “God as father” cannot be reduced to a set of precise statements about God, valid for every place and every time. It is meant to be suggestive, allowing future readers and interpreters to find new meanings within it. A metaphor is not simply an elegant description or memorable phrasing of something that we already know. It is an invitation to discover further levels of meaning which others may have overlooked or forgotten.
Third, metaphors often have strongly emotional overtones. Theological metaphors are able to express the emotional dimensions of Christian faith in a way that makes them appropriate to worship. For example, the metaphor of “God as light” has enormously powerful overtones, including those of illumination, purity, and glorification. Ian G. Barbour (1923–2013), in his Myths, Models and Paradigms (1974), summarizes this aspect of metaphorical language as follows:
Where poetic metaphors are used only momentarily, in one context, for the sake of an immediate expression or insight, religious symbols become part of the language of a religious community in its scripture and liturgy and in its continuing life and thought. Religious symbols are expressive of human emotions and feelings, and are powerful in calling forth response and commitment.
Accommodation
A third approach declines to speculate on the precise nature of theological language, and instead focuses on the general principles which seem to underlie the use of theological language. The basic ideas of the approach we propose to consider derive from classical Greek rhetorical theory, taken up with enthusiasm by patristic writers such as Origen (c.185–c.254). Origen suggests that God faced much the same problems in addressing sinful humanity as those experienced by a human father in trying to communicate to small children. “God condescends and comes down to us, accommodating to our weakness, like a schoolmaster talking a ‘little language' to his children, or like a father caring for his own children and adopting their ways.” When talking to small children, Origen argues, speakers need to appreciate that those children have limited intellectual resources at their disposal. Treating children as adults, using words and ideas that are beyond their understanding and experience, leads to a failure to communicate with them. Their capacities must be respected.
This approach was taken up in the sixteenth century by John Calvin (1509–64), who developed the theory usually referred to by the term “accommodation.” The word “accommodation” here means “adjusting or adapting to meet the needs of the situation and the human ability to comprehend it.” In revelation, Calvin argues, God accommodates to the capacities of the human mind and heart. God paints a self-portrait which we are capable of understanding. The analogy which lies behind Calvin's thinking at this point is that of a human orator. Good speakers know the limitations of their audience, and adjust the way they speak accordingly. The gulf between the speaker and the hearer must be bridged if communication is to take place. God has to come down to our level in the process of revelation. Just as a human mother stoops down to reach her child, so God stoops down to come to our level.
An example of this accommodation is provided by the scriptural portraits of God. God is often, Calvin points out, represented as possessing a mouth, eyes, hands, and feet. That might seem to suggest that God is a human being. It might seem to imply that somehow the eternal and spiritual God has been reduced to a physical human being. (The point at issue is often referred to as “anthropomorphism” – in other words, God being portrayed in human form.) Calvin argues that God is obliged to configure the divine self-revelation in this pictorial manner on account of our weak intellects. Images of God which represent God as having a mouth or hands are divine “baby talk,” a way in which God comes down to our level and uses images which we can handle. More sophisticated ways of speaking about God are certainly proper, but we might not be able to understand them.
Calvin's concern was not to generalize about the nature of theological language – whether it is analogical or metaphorical, or any of the other figures of speech with which he was familiar. His basic concern was to stress that theological language cannot necessarily be taken at face value. The theologian has to decide on the nature and extent of that accommodation. It is this principle that underlies Calvin's response to a major controversy in which the status of theological language proved to be of decisive importance: the Copernican theory of the solar system. So important is this case study that it deserves to be considered in some detail, to illustrate the application of the ideas we have just been dealing with.
A Case Study: The Copernican Debate
One of the most significant confrontations between theology and the natural sciences took place during the sixteenth century, with the publication of Nicolaus Copernicus's (1473–1543) heliocentric theory of the solar system. Up to that point, the generally accepted understanding was geocentric: the sun and every other heavenly body revolved around the earth. After all, even the Bible referred to the motion of the sun.
In his On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Bodies (1543), Copernicus argued that the earth revolved around the sun. With the publication of Copernicus's theory, a radical challenge was posed to thereceived view – and also to the accepted way of interpreting the Bible. As the scientific merits of Copernicus's theory became apparent, a new threat seemed to be posed to the authority and reliability of the Bible. How could Copernicus's heliocentric theory be reconciled with the Bible's apparently geocentric outlook? There are excellent reasons for suggesting that Calvin's theological method may have been of decisive importance, both in gaining a sympathetic hearing for Copernicus's theory of the solar system and in preserving the credibility of the Bible.
Calvin may be regarded as making two major contributions to the appreciation and development of the natural sciences. First, he positively encouraged the scientific study of nature; second, he eliminated a major obstacle to the development of that study. His first contribution is specifically linked with his stress upon the orderliness of creation; both the physical world and the human body testify to the wisdom and character of God. Calvin thus commends the study of both astronomy and medicine. They are able to probe more deeply than theology into the natural world, and thus uncover further evidence of the orderliness of creation and the wisdom of its creator.
Calvin thus gave a new religious motivation to the scientific investigation of nature, which came to be seen as a means of perceiving the wise hand of God in creation. God can thus be discerned through the detailed study of creation. We have already noted the importance of natural theology within the Reformed tradition (pp. 143–4); there is ample evidence to suggest that an interest in natural theology went hand in hand with an interest in the natural sciences.
Such ideas were taken up with enthusiasm within the Royal Society, the most significant organization devoted to the advancement of scientific research and learning in England. Many of its early members were admirers of Calvin, familiar with his writings and their potential relevance to their fields of study. Thus, Richard Bentley (1662–1742) delivered a series of lectures in 1692, based on Newton's Principia mathematica (1687), in which the regularity of the universe, as established by Newton, is interpreted as evidence of design. There are unambiguous hints here of Calvin's reference to the universe as a “theater of the glory of God,” in which humans are an appreciative audience. The detailed study of creation leads to an increased awareness of the wisdom of its creator.
It is Calvin's second major contribution which is of especial interest to us here. Calvin is widely regarded as having eliminated a significant obstacle to the development of the natural sciences: biblical literalism, which remains influential within fundamentalist circles today. Calvin insisted that not all biblical statements concerning God or the world were to be taken literally, for they were accommodated to the abilities of their audiences. Scripture, in apparently speaking of the sun rotating around the earth, was simply accommodating itself to the worldview of its audience, not making scientific statements about the universe. Calvin's discussion of the relationship between scientific findings and the statements of the Bible is generally regarded as one of his most valuable contributions to Christian thought.
The impact of these ideas upon scientific theorizing, especially during the seventeenth century, was considerable. For example, the seventeenth-century English writer Edward Wright (1561–1615) defended Copernicus's heliocentric theory of the solar system against biblical literalists by arguing, in the first place, that Scripture was not concerned with physics, and, in the second, that its manner of speaking was “accommodated to the understanding and way of speech of the common people, like nurses to little children.” Both these arguments derive directly from Calvin, who may be argued to have made a fundamental contribution to the emergence of the natural sciences at these points.
We have now concluded our brief survey of some issues of method in theology. It is now time to engage directly with the leading themes of Christian theology, beginning with the Christian doctrine of God.