Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
The Formulation Of The Tension
descriptive comparisons
Some time after the exile, there arises in Jewish writing the tendency to render God increasingly transcendent, in part by fostering anti-anthropomorphisms. God becomes more one-sidely sovereign; some aspects of divine personality suffer. The potter-and-clay metaphor can now function to portray a quasi-deterministic view of man. On the other hand, almost to counteract the possibility that illicit conclusions might be drawn from this emphasis, divine ultimacy is omitted in instances of evil, and the doctrine of creation is used to establish the absolute freedom of human will. God’s promised blessings and curses no longer serve primarily to underline human responsibility: rather, they are historicised and serve as the basis of approaching God. In other words, it is possible now to appeal not so much to God’s mercy, as to his sense of fair play. This merit theology forces theodicy in some instances to seek for solutions in the future, instead of permitting the believer to trust what is known of God and leave the rest to his ‘unknownness’.
The rise of apocalypticism sharpens eschatological expectation into more clearly defined ‘two ages’, only the second of which witnesses God’s open salvific blessing and the realisation of his judgment. The age to come is the ultimate theodicy. History until then is completely determined by God, even if it is not under his expressly beneficent rule. Merit theology develops a little further. Simultaneously the concept of being among the elect loses its connection with God’s grace and forges a new link with meritorious righteousness. There is evidence of narrow exclusivism in some texts, and in others a more open form of universalism. A few apocalyptists bemoan a cor malignum, but most do not think in such terms.
The Dead Sea Scrolls are among the documents which lean towards the pessimistic view of man. Despite the occasional and inconsistent adoption of merit theology, there is real stress on the graciousness of God’s election, which is directed toward a remnant within the Jewish people. Soteriological predestination is fairly rigid: reprobation in some passages is in close symmetry with election. Although the two-age structure is adopted, the covenanters see themselves at the very edge of the turn of the ages, a fact made clear to them by pesher exegesis of Old Testament texts. There is a concomitant rejection of halakah, a return to the pristine fount of revelation.
The targums and rabbinic literature, by contrast, represent the codification of a great deal of oral tradition. Although God is ever transcendent, free will is absolutised and fenced off from God’s control. Merit theology is almost as strong as in the apocalyptic literature. Election is strongly emphasised, in staunch opposition to the church’s claim to be the elect; but for the rabbis, election regularly has to do with merit: Israel was chosen because she was most worthy. The eschatological two-age structure, though less emphasised, is still present; but since salvation is more than ever dependent on man’s efforts to earn it, the approach of God to man is specifically limited in the realm of soteriology.
Josephus introduces the sovereignty-responsibility tension into some passages, but affirms the freedom of the human will. He detects behind tychē and heimarmenē God’s pronoia; but he is less than at ease with the strictest implications of monotheism. Generally, however, he fits into the pattern of the Pharisees he describes. For him, the prime lesson history teaches is the reward system of merit theology; but his treatment of the sovereignty-responsibility tension is among the most naive.
With the exception of the DS , then, the tendency in all the Jewish intertestamental literature examined is toward: (1) an emphasis on God’s transcendent sovereignty; (2) yet, paradoxically, a fenced-off area of formulated free will; (3) the elimination of divine ultimacy in the area of evil; (4) the elimination of gracious election (5) in favour of some form of merit theology. By contrast, the DS not only preserve divine election, but overdo it, tending by the ‘Two Spirits’ doctrine to make election and reprobation symmetrical.
The fourth Gospel never presents divine sovereignty and human responsibility as mutually restrictive. Hence it feels no embarrassment at picturing God’s control and purposes over events themselves evil. God is neither tainted nor thwarted by evil actions. Indeed, his purposes in salvation history are being precisely fulfilled even by such actions. Men for their part do not find their responsibility lessened by God’s sovereign reign. The best paradigm of the proper relationship between divine sovereignty and human responsibility is Jesus Christ himself, who stands in stark contrast to Caiaphas who in quite a different sense fulfils God’s purposes. Moreover, it is again Jesus himself who bridges the gulf between divine transcendence and human finiteness.
Men in the fourth Gospel are held accountable for their sin in general, but more particularly they are held responsible to believe in Jesus and obey his words. God’s saving purposes and invitations in one sense are not restricted to the Jews, but are extended to all men without distinction, to the thoroughly lost ‘world’. But on the other hand, men cannot justly boast in their spiritual attainments, for those who do not believe have been born from above, given by God to Jesus to whom they belong, taught by God, chosen by Jesus. Unbelief can be explained by the fact that the unbeliever has not been chosen, a fact which neither decreases the unbeliever’s responsibility to believe, nor permits boasting by the believer. The emphasis, contrary to all merit theology, is on God’s special love toward those chosen. The elect, however, demonstrate that they are such by perseverance and obedience, even while they are assured that such perseverance and obedience can testify to the fact that first Jesus, and now the Father himself, are keeping them.
Over against the general tendencies of Jewish intertestamental literature, then, the fourth Gospel (1) bridges the gulf between divine transcendence and human finiteness by Jesus himself; (2) nowhere formulates free will as absolute power to contrary, but constantly mingles ultimacy and human responsibility without mutual dilution; (3) cheerfully insists that God’s hand is operating even behind evil men and events, but for his own good purposes; (4) insists repeatedly in diverse ways on the absoluteness and graciousness of God’s election of some to special blessings and responsibilities, while (5) abolishing merit theology. Thus, unlike much of the apocalyptic literature (for example), John forbids pride in being among the elect, and betrays no contempt for the massa damnata.
It is possible to be more specific. In the areas most strongly emphasised, the fourth Gospel seems to stand over against the rabbis and their writings more than against any other group. In particular, not only are the elect chosen by God for no reason of merit, but the elect are Jesus’ elect. The new elect community is specifically trans-racial and not just Jewish. Jewish ancestry itself guarantees nothing in this regard. The fourth Gospel sets its own elect over against any other claim to be elect.
There are points of contact between John and the DS . Both share a pessimistic view of man. Both emphasise election and both hark back to the Old Testament and claim to interpret it authoritatively. But the similarities should not blind us to the differences. In the DS , the elect constitute a smaller group than, but one which springs from, the Jewish people; in the fourth Gospel, racial barriers are crossed. In the DS , election and reprobation tend to be symmetrically disposed; and the same is not true for John. Distinctive in the fourth Gospel is its central God-man christology, while its realised eschatology stands in contrast with the expectation of the end eagerly awaited by the covenanters.
In most of this literature some distinction is made between, on the one hand, God’s sovereignty and ultimacy, and on the other, his special dealings with his people. Without some such distinction in God’s activity it seems impossible to avoid drifting into denial of divine sovereignty, or into that rigid view of God’s sovereignty which does not adequately distinguish between his ultimacy behind good and his ultimacy behind evil, much less between his general providence and his special activity toward his elect. However, in the later Old Testament books, there is increasing expectation of a new redemptive act to be undertaken by God in the last days. The dichotomy between what God is doing now and what he will do in the new age becomes very sharp in the apocalyptic literature. God’s blessings on his elect and his judgment on the rest must await the new age. Thus the eschaton becomes the peculiar sphere of God’s special dealings with his people. In the fourth Gospel, the new age has dawned, even if it is not yet consummated. John sees the coming of Christ and his revelation as the crucial dividing line, while yet reserving greater glory for the last day. God’s special dealings are therefore more exposed to view, even if their final form has not yet come.
In the realm of the tension between God’s sovereignty and man’s responsibility, the closest conceptual antecedents to the fourth Gospel are found in the Old Testament. In John, as in the Old Testament, God, the creator of all, is the ultimate personal cause. He is light and goodness; but in some mysterious way he stands behind dark forces of evil: he governs not only his own people, but other servants like Caiaphas. Even in salvation, an overwhelming theocentricity controls johannine theology. Moreover, as in the Old Testament, John does not seem to experience any difficulty in simultaneously adopting both divine sovereignty in the most unrestricted sense, and human responsibility that carries real significance.
The differences between John’s handling of the tension, and that of the Old Testament, centre on johannine eschatology and christology. These innovations are due to the Christ-event, and John’s presentation of it; and they necessarily modify the approach to such problems as theodicy.
The treatment of the sovereignty-responsibility tension by John, then, is distinctively Jewish. It stands in a direct line of descent from the Old Testament, opposed to most of the relevant developments in the intertestamental literature, but somewhat akin to the DS . If the lines of development are not straight and neat, it must be remembered that a legitimate background can furnish something against which to react, as well as a fount from which to borrow ideas in an approving manner. Finally, I must again stress that such an analysis of conceptual antecedents is not to be confused with a search for a specific Sitz im Leben, nor even with neat trajectories. My approach is too methodologically limited to permit me to venture into those difficult domains.
crucial aspects in formulation
It is axiomatic that any truly monotheistic religion is going to experience somewhere the tension between divine sovereignty and human responsibility, whether in the realm of philosophical speculation or in the realm of hard experience (and the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive). Some philosophers of religion hold that such tension is logically contradictory, and on this basis seek to redefine God, freedom, responsibility or some other parameter—or even to deny the existence of one or more of these parameters. Others attempt various kinds of reconciliation, or seek to demonstrate that the tension is not necessarily logically contradictory.
I have shown that the Old Testament, the fourth Gospel, and some other writings juxtapose divine sovereignty and human responsibility at every turn, manifesting little of any awareness of the theoretical difficulties which later thinkers discover in such a juxtaposition. If it can be demonstrated conclusively that the tension is logically contradictory, then such contradiction necessarily infects all those writings in which it manifests itself. Over against such an approach, I wish now to argue that there are enough areas of ambiguity which go into the formulation of the tension to permit the conclusion that it is not necessarily logically contradictory. I do not claim that I can demonstrate its self-consistency. I claim only that, with a certain amount of care, logical pitfalls may be avoided, so that belief in divine sovereignty and in human responsibility does not entail logical contradiction. Perhaps I should add that the following discussion is painfully brief, and may well fail to satisfy those of my colleagues who are professional philosophers. Nevertheless this is as far as my reflection on these matters has brought me so far, and it may prove helpful to others. The notes provide more rigorous assistance.
1. The boundaries of ‘free will’
Responsibility is certainly linked to ‘free will’ in some fashion; but how is ‘free will’ to be defined? If its essence is the absolute power to contrary, a logical contradiction is entailed when this absolute power to contrary is coupled with a divine providence which in some sense foreordains all things with certainty.
Refinements are therefore advanced. One theologian writes, ‘God has decreed the free acts of men, but also that the actors are none the less free and therefore responsible for their acts, Genesis 50:19f.’ The verb ‘has decreed’ is used somewhat ambiguously in this sentence; but this aside, it is important to see how theologians of this stamp use ‘free will’ in a modified sense. Usually there is heavy insistence upon man ‘voluntarily choosing’. The divine plan does not necessarily involve compulsion: ‘Within the physical sphere, the Divine decree makes certain by necessitating; within the moral sphere, the Divine decree makes certain without necessitating.’ For example, a man may be locked in a room, but not want to get out. He therefore cannot get out (that is certain), but equally he does not want to get out (he is not there against his will). This permits so redoubtable a Calvinist as A. A. Hodge to write: ‘This matter of free-will underlies everything. If you bring it to question, it is infinitely more than Calvinism.… Everything is gone if free-will is gone; the moral system is gone if free-will is gone; you cannot escape, except by materialism on the one hand or pantheism on the other.’
Because of such distinctions, it is not uncommon to find writers denying the existence of ‘free will’ (in the sense of absolute power to contrary) while upholding the existence of human ‘free agency’, which they identify with the ‘free-will’ of Hodge. Hence one can find detailed arguments that certainty is not incompatible with free agency. The conclusion drawn is that ‘God’s control is absolute in the sense that men do only that which he has ordained that they should do; yet they are truly free agents in the sense that their decisions are their own, and they are morally responsible for them.’ ‘Free will’ (free agency) is here taken pyschologically and morally, ‘meaning the power of unconstrained, spontaneous, voluntary, and therefore responsible, choice.’ Such definitions may provide helpful working models of the problem, but no solutions, for they are less than precise on the question of the boundaries of this ‘free agency’, and are equally unclear on how this special control of God operates (cf. discussion, infra). At times they are in danger of losing the tang of the Scriptures they purport to explain.
On the other hand, to accept with Molinist theology a metaphysical definition of free will which binds it to power to contrary is to sacrifice the certainty of divine sovereignty for the contingency of human decision. This is insufficiently appreciated by many writers. For example, J. Farrelly says: ‘For sin to be possible, all that is needed is that the good act which would avoid it be possible, and this is always true because man does have sufficient grace.’ But why must power to contrary be taken as the essence of free will? Would we not have to deduce, on this basis, that God himself is not free because his holy character precludes the possibility of his sinning? Or would sin not be sin if God did it? Again, does not free will defined in terms of absolute power to contrary generate an unavoidable logical contradiction when placed alongside divine sovereignty? Contrast the approach of John Calvin, who argues that if a sinful act is done voluntarily that is enough to establish guilt—irrespective of whether the sinner could have avoided the act. In other words, for Calvin, not free will understood as power to contrary, but the voluntary character of sin, is the ratio essendi of human culpability. Consider also a parallel argument by R. R. Nicole:
Just about everyone agrees that in heaven there will be no more danger of apostasy. Does this mean that in glory men will be deprived of that freedom which constitutes the distinguishing character of humanity, the gift that stands so high that even the sovereign purpose of God must be viewed as subordinate to it? Surely not. But if in glory perseverance is not inconsistent with freedom, why should it be thought incompatible on earth?
If ‘free will’ be taken to mean that human actions are ‘indeterminate’ and therefore ‘unpredictable’, the most that could be said (if one is simultaneously to accept statements about divine sovereignty) is that such uncertainty exists solely in the human perspective, not in the divine.1
In most philosophical discussion, ‘free will’ entails what I have called ‘absolute power to contrary’. It is within this framework that the perennial debate over the so-called ‘free will defence’ must be assessed. Many christian apologists have long supported and refined the free will defence in an effort to eliminate the possibility that God might be validly charged with evil. The detractors of the free will defence spring from two quite different camps: (1) There are some who by formulating disproofs of the free will defence seek to demonstrate the logical absurdity of the proposition that ‘God is both omnipotent and good’. Their conclusion is that either God is not omnipotent, or that he is not good; and the more sceptical among them might want to urge, as a corollary, that there is therefore no God—at least, no God as conceived by traditional Christianity. Inevitably, some rejoinder is soon offered by defenders of the free will defence, who thus emerge (by design or otherwise) as christian apologists.1 (2) On the other hand, the free will defence apologists are sometimes challenged by theists, Christians, who do not hold that human freedom (conceived as power to contary) is logically defensible in the light of divine sovereignty, but who do not thereby feel forced to conclude that God is evil, nor that God is less than omnipotent, nor that ‘human responsibility’ degenerates into meaninglessness. Even to provide a summary of the arguments advanced by representatives of each side would immediately quadruple the length of this chapter; and so I must forbear, and refer interested readers to the notes.1
Nevertheless, I hope it is clear from what I have argued in the preceding chapters that I find myself aligned with those who remain unconvinced by apologists of the free will defence. On biblical grounds (at least, those examined), I do not think that notions of human freedom which entail absolute power to contrary can be maintained. As a result, until better formulations come along, I prefer to adopt a view of ‘free will’ along the lines of ‘free agency’ discussed earlier. This, I admit, it is less neat; but, as a Christian, I take it to be closer to the biblical perspectives than the available alternatives, and, so far as I am able to judge, not entirely lacking in solid philosophical support.
2. Time and eternity
A second area of immense difficulty in any formulation of the sovereignty-responsibility tension is the relationship between time and eternity. The significance of ‘time’ is obscure enough; what shall we say with certainty about eternity? Are we to accept Cullmann’s model, and see linear time extrapolated ad infinitum in both directions? What bearing do statements about divine omniscience and omnipotence have on our understanding of these concepts? Are we required to accept the contention of Shedd—who writes: ‘For the Divine mind, there is, in reality, no future event, because all events are simultaneous, owing to that peculiarity in the cognition of an eternal being whereby there is no succession in it’?1 Or ought we accept the notion that eternity is not the opposite of time, not ‘timelessness’ or a negation of time, but a dimension outside the concept of time such that time and eternity are neither parallel nor contiguous?1
Too many apologists seek in the relationship between time and eternity the (at least partial) answer to the sovereignty-responsibility tension.1 In particular, the effort is made to ease the tension by avoiding the concept of sequence inherent in foreordination and predestination.
It must be protested that although the various time/eternity models serve a useful purpose as bases for discussion, they are in no sense explanatory solutions of the sovereignty-responsibility tension. That would be to explain the obscure by the more obscure. Even if we could agree that God is ‘timeless’, whatever that means, it has been shown that timelessness in God does not provide humans with free will.1 Moreover, the biblical data are unashamedly presented in terms of sequence;1 and in any case, the destruction of sequence does not remove the implications inherent in God’s exhaustive present control. On the other hand, the uncertainties and ambiguities surrounding time and eternity again make it premature to insist that absolute divine sovereignty and full human responsibility (if not free will) are necessarily logically incompatible.
3. The nature of divine ‘ultimacy’
Perhaps the greatest ambiguity surrounds the nature and mode of operation of divine ‘ultimacy’. (It is more common to refer to ‘concurrence’; but as this term has sometimes been freighted with synergistic overtones, it must be handled with care, and I have avoided it.) To this is related the concept of secondary causality. Some writers make the expression ‘second causes’ bear temporal significance. The schoolmen argued this way: without God, no creation; without creation, no creatures; without creatures, no sin; but no sin is to be charged to God, for effectus sequitur causam proximam. This argument was picked up by some of the reformers.1 The resulting picture, however, is quasi-deistic, utterly foreign to the biblical material.
Others take ‘second causes’ to be an a-temporal expression; but even so, it still sounds as if God is merely causa prima inter pares: the absolutely independent co-operation of the second causes might be thought necessary before an action could take place.1 On the other hand, the concept of second causes cannot simply be abandoned, because the resulting model must be either pantheistic, in which case God becomes part of the causal system; or mechanistic, with God a sovereign puppeteer. Neither model will square with the biblical evidence; and hence the concept of concurrence, or ultimacy, rather vaguely defined, is appealed to. The vagueness stems from our inability to formulate precisely how God can govern with certainty without destroying some measure of significant freedom in his creatures.
Although they border on caricature, the following diagrams may help. The distance from A to B represents the action that must be taken to bring about some particular effect. The
bar represents man’s action. I submit, then, that divine ultimacy is less like this:
than like this:
There is an unbridgeable ontological gap between the personal/transcendent God and finite men, and this gap brings about the breakdown of analogical arguments designed to picture the mode of divine causation. This has recently been well explored by J. F. Ross.2 Calvin similarly relies on the ontological gap when he argues that in the human sphere to give one’s will as the sole reason for an action is indeed tyrannical, yet insists it would be sacrilegious to apply the same principle to God.2
The most difficult problem confronting the theologian who wishes to formulate some unambiguous statement about ultimacy is the problem of evil.2 No thoughtful person wishes to ascribe evil to God; but it is not easy to use the language of causation without seeming to do so. Nevertheless, the numerous instances in the Old Testament and in John, in which ‘ultimacy’ is ascribed to God even in evil actions, demand some such attempt; for even in the most vile human actions, man cannot break out of the sphere of divine sovereignty. But as Berkouwer points out:
It is remarkable, in this connection, that Scripture itself never presents providence in its relation to sin by way of a theoretical argument, but always in the historical actuality of the invincible power of God and our continued responsibility.… We cannot explain the sequences of history with an all-devouring system of causation, nor by a theory of divine flux. The Scriptures show us God’s work.2
Moreover, I have earlier argued that the mode of divine ‘ultimacy’ has a built in asymmetry to it. The manner in which God stands behind evil and the manner in which he stands behind good are not precisely identical; for he is to be praised for the good, but not blamed for the evil. Failure to recognise this essential asymmetry mars the work of J. F. Ross, to which I have just referred: he does not see that grace makes men differ. The negative side of divine ultimacy guarantees (1) that even my sinful deeds cannot escape God’s sovereignty, and (2) that I cannot rightly shift my blame to God. The positive side of divine ultimacy is that little bit more immediate, so that I must recognise God’s grace behind whatever good I may do; yet God’s action remains sufficiently indirect to preserve my genuine responsibility. It is this sort of model which, however difficult it is to formulate, best conforms to the biblical data. From John’s perspective (not to say the perspective of the New Testament), if I withstand the seductive music of the world and come at last safely to the port of salvation, it is not because Jesus is to me as the mast and ropes were to Ulysses, but because Jesus is to me as Orpheus was to his sailors.
The mysterious nature of God’s ‘ultimacy’ is thus related to the problem of defining free agency. If divine causation is immediate and mechanical, belief both in God’s goodness and in man’s responsibility must be abandoned. However, there are in fact enough unknown features in the mode of God’s rule to necessitate the abandonment of neither.
4. The ‘will(s)’ of God
A fourth area of ambiguity lies in the nature of the divine will. An example or two will bring the heart of the problem into focus. On several occasions God is said ‘to repent’ of something, e.g. of the creation of man (Gen. 6:6), of his decision to wipe out his rebellious calf-worshipping people (Exod. 32:7–14). Similarly, the decree that Hezekiah should die is revoked (2 Kgs. 20:1–6). Cf. also 1 Samuel 15:11; 2 Samuel 24:16; Jonah 3:10; Ecclesiastes 2:13f. On the other hand, God repeatedly insists that he, unlike man, does not repent (Num. 23:19f.; 1 Sam. 15:29; Jer. 4:28; cf. Ps. 89:34f.). Again, in the account in Genesis 22, Abraham is told to sacrifice his son; yet as the narrative develops, it appears that God never really intended him to do so. Yet again, God is presented as waiting and longing to be gracious (Isa. 30:18f.; 65:2; Hos. 11:7–9), as one who extracts no pleasure from the death of the wicked (Ezek. 33:11), as the one who punishes with extreme reluctance (Lam. 3:33–6); yet at other times, as we have seen, he is said to control the thoughts of men, keep his people, and bring nations to the point where he may punish them severely.
Such phenomena as these have evoked theological distinctions concerning the ‘will’ of God. Some distinguish between God’s revealed will and his hidden or secret will (cf. Deut. 29:29); others, between God’s prescriptive will and his determinative will; others, between his permissive will and his decretive will; still others, between his antecedent will and his consequent will. All of these paired ‘wills’ suffer from serious shortcomings. For example, although the greatest part of the divine will must surely remain ‘hidden’ (i.e. unknown to men), and although any increase in the knowledge of that will is due to revelation of that hidden but already operative will,2 nevertheless this model is inadequate as a total explanation of the relation between the divine will and reality, because in too many instances the hidden will appears to make a mockery of the revealed will. Since the hidden will is always effective, it appears to be the actual will of God; while the revealed will is little more than precept. In that case, man does not know anything of God’s actual will, except by what actually happens; and conversely, everything that happens is exactly what God really wills to happen. This problem is related to the tension between the deus absconditus and the deus revelatus.2
Similarly, distinctions between permissive will and decretive will appear desperately artificial when applied to an omniscient and omnipotent being; for if this God ‘permits’ sin, it cannot be unknowingly and unwillingly, and therefore his ‘permission’ must be granted knowingly and willingly. Wherein then does this permission differ from decree?
Indeed, any combination of these ‘wills’ leads inexorably to curious situations. For example, Yahweh foresees that the people will go astray, and that his wrath will be kindled (Deut. 31:15–22). This surely suggests something more than consequent wrath—perhaps something more akin to willed wrath. In the same way, Micaiah can warn the king of impending doom and be assured that the king will fail to heed the warning: God has decreed it so. This puts Micaiah in the invidious position of Cassandra.
At the same time, we cannot do without some distinctions concerning the ‘will(s)’ of God. Both in the Old Testament and in the fourth Gospel, not to say elsewhere, God is sometimes presented as the one who seeks men out, loves a lost world, declares his yearning for their repentance, and the like. This ‘will’ of God is his disposition; it is not necessarily his decree. But precisely how both operate in one sovereign God is extremely difficult to understand.
5. Anthropomorphism, anthropopathism, and personality
Each of the areas of ambiguity so far discussed can be traced back to the biblical presentation of God in both transcendent and personal categories. If God transcends both space and time and enjoys the exercise of all authority, there are aspects of his nature and activity necessarily unknown to finite creatures, bound as we are by space and time. But this infinite God is also presented as a personal being;2 and the way transcendence and personality combine is also obscure to finite personal beings. When stress is laid upon God’s sovereignty and transcendence, it is clear that nothing comes to pass outside the sphere of his will. When God is pictured in intercourse with men, it is his personality which is presupposed. No doubt much of the language of divine personality is anthropomorphic, pure and simple; but to relegate all such anthropomorphisms to the dustbin of antiquated ideas would be to strip God of his personality. The result may satisfy the deists; but the God of the Bible would no longer be in view.2 The combination of the transcendent and the personal in one being, God, lies at the heart of the sovereignty-responsibility tension in all forms of monotheism, not least in the Bible. Just as it is possible to treat the sovereignty-responsibility tension in a reductionistic fashion by limiting God’s sovereignty and transcendence while simultaneously magnifying man’s freedom of will, so also is it possible to treat it in a reductionistic fashion by disproportionately magnifying divine transcendence at the expense of divine personality. There are two common ways of doing this. The first is of long standing: it is the appeal to the alleged impassibility of God. Defended by the early fathers, adopted into the mainstream of christian tradition, and encoded in various confessions,2 the doctrine of divine impassibility nevertheless depends on the dogmatic assertion that all contrary biblical evidence (e.g. Jer. 31:20; Hos. 11:8) is nothing but anthropopathism.
But on what basis is this dogmatic assertion predicated? In the final analysis, we have to do with the influence of certain strands of Greek metaphysical thought, strands which insist that emotion is dangerous, treacherous, and often evil. Reason must be set against emotion; and vulnerability is a sign of weakness. One may trace this line from Aristotle’s ‘unmoved mover’ through platonic and neo-platonic writings to the Stoics. The conclusion must be that ‘God is sensible, omnipotent, compassionate, passionless; for it is better to be these than not to be’ (so Anselm, in Proslogium, chapter 6).2 Even if we allow that anthropopathisms are to be found in the Bible, however, it does not follow that their presence is so extensive that God is impassible. One must not only ask what the anthropopathisms signify, but also observe the tenor of the Scriptures in this regard, viz. that God takes both a rational and an emotional part in his relationships with his creatures. As a result of these reflections, I find it extremely difficult to decide, in many cases, if an apparent anthropopathism is a real one; and I fear reductionism, even if at first glance it appears to ease the sovereignty-responsibility tension.3
The second form of reductionism which makes some sort of appeal to divine transcendence is much more recent. It is Karl Barth’s treatment of election. Perhaps Barth has proved to be more influential in this area than in any other.3 The kernel of his argument rests on his interpretation of Ephesians 1:4: God chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world. Because Christ is both God and man, he is simultaneously the subject and the object of election. Thus election is self-election, interpreted as self-determination, on the part of God. God has chosen for men: all men are chosen in Christ, and therefore tremendous issues hinge on their belief. This either means absolute universalism, or the hesitant admission that some may opt out. But Barth’s theological tour de force will not withstand close scrutiny. For a start, it is not at all clear that the ‘us’ of Ephesians 1:4 refers to all men: the epistle is, after all, addressed ‘to the saints who are also faithful in Christ Jesus’ (1:1), not to the world at large (cf. also 2:3ff.; 4:7, 17). Nor does the New Testament conceive of judgment only in the way of which Barth writes: there is over and above the judgment which Christ received the judgment of all individuals not in Christ. Moreover, both Paul and John (and other New Testament writers for that matter) speak of individuals being elected to salvation (e.g. John 17:9; Acts 13:48; Rom. 9; Col. 1:26f.). That such election is ‘in Christ’ (Eph. 1:4) does not affect its individuality. Still other criticisms have been offered.3
Yet after rejecting both the doctrine of the impassibility of God and Barth’s understanding of election, it must none the less be acknowledged that most of the elements which make up the tension between God’s sovereignty and man’s responsibility can be traced to the further tension between God’s sovereignty/transcendence and his personality/responses.
6. Experience and theory
The biblical characters, as we have seen, never face the sovereignty-responsibility tension as an abstract theological conundrum; but there is a profound experiential awareness of it among those who are faced with personally painful and perplexing predicaments (e.g. Habakkuk; Asaph, Ps. 73; Job; Qoheleth). This is what G. I. Mavrodes calls an ‘epistemic dilemma’.3 Consider any set S of propositions. Either S is consistent, or it is not. If not, no ‘solution’ is possible; but if S is consistent, no solution is necessary. The most that would be desirable would be a demonstration that nothing in S renders the set inconsistent. But it is possible to attach to set S a rider R, which states that S is inconsistent. Suppose someone believes both S and R. He then faces an ‘epistemic dilemma’, and for his own peace of mind he must either see that S is consistent and abandon belief in R; or discover that R is true (and therefore S is inconsistent) and abandon belief in S as a consistent system (or at least abandon belief in those elements of S which make S inconsistent). In the present study, S includes propositions about evil, human responsibility, and about God and his goodness and absolute sovereignty. Clearly, there is no ‘epistemic dilemma’ when someone believes S (irrespective of whether or not S is consistent); he must believe R as well. And this may well come about only when he faces circumstances which make him question the elements of S. The epistemic dilemma is thus person-variable. In itself it says nothing about the truth or falsehood of the propositions in S. From this perspective it is clear why only some of the biblical writers grapple with the problem of evil or with the tension between divine sovereignty and human responsibility, and why their wrestling stems from personal anguish.
The example of Job is particularly instructive. Job and his friends stress equally that God is all-powerful and perfectly good; but the message of the book as a whole is that their conception of God is not high enough. God’s ways are unfathomable; his knowledge, limitless; his power, effectual; who can tell him he is wrong? What man has the arrogance to deny divine providence by ignorant words? (Cf. Job 26:14; 37:5, 15, 23; 36:22–6; 38:2; 40:8–10; 41:10f.; etc.) No simple solution is possible, for men with their limited knowledge cannot judge God’s government. Man’s peace must come from knowing and trusting this God.3 ‘It is significant that Job cries out in the end, not “I understand!” but “I repent.” ’3
In point of fact, God’s transcendence (and hence his ‘unknownness’ except for what he chooses to reveal) emerges throughout the Old Testament (Deut. 10:10ff.; 1 Kgs. 8:12; Isa. 40:25–28; 55:8f.; Ps. 77:19; 92:4f.; 97:2; etc.), indeed much more than his immanence.3 The same perspective is presupposed in the New Testament. Since it is this transcendent God who directs man’s goings, how can man comprehend his own way (Prov. 20:24; cf. 3:16; 16:1–4; Jer. 10:23; Job 38:2; 42:3)?
Whatever other answers to the problem of theodicy the biblical writers proffer, it is clear that the transcendence of God figures most prominently as the ‘solution’ par excellence. Hence, in a strict sense, there is no ultimate theodicy in the Scriptures: there is no attempt to vindicate God by beginning with human observations, perspectives, and reasonings. Theodicy makes God’s power and goodness a deduction of human reason; and this the biblical writers will not allow. Their closest approach to theodicy comes in the recognition of their inability to comprehend many aspects of God; and even this divine ‘unknownness’ is known to be such only because it has been revealed. Thus it attacks man’s arrogance, defines the limits of his knowledge, and makes the only ‘solution’ one of faith.
For us mortals there are no rational, logical solutions to the sovereignty-responsibility tension: it should be clear from the foregoing that neatly packaged harmonisations are impossible. But on the other hand, it is difficult to see why logical inconsistency is necessitated,3 especially in view of the many ambiguous parameters and numerous unknown quantities. The whole tension remains restless in our hands; but it is the restlessness of having a few randomly-selected pieces of a jigsaw puzzle when thousands more are needed to complete the design.3
How then shall the tension be characterised? C. K. Barrett, in a seminal essay called ‘The Dialectical Theology of St John’,3 fits both the christological tension and the problem of soteriological predestination into the category of ‘dialectical theology’. As long as this expression suggests that the evangelist, without attempting total rational synthesis, looks at each aspect of the tension first from this perspective, then from that, and so on, it is helpful. However, because for some readers the expression may be connected with the (logically) irrational, it is potentially misleading. Moreover, the other examples of ‘dialectical theology’ which Barrett offers are not at all of the same character. They include (with special reference to John 6): (1) faith is, and is not, sight; (2) faith is, and is not, work; (3) the Old Testament is, and is not, to be searched. But each of these dialectical statements can be unpacked to make a rationally whole and coherent formulation, while such does not seem possible with the problem of divine sovereignty and human responsibility. It seems best therefore to retreat to the nebulous expression ‘tension theology’.
This conclusion does not mean that all expressions of monotheism deal with the tension in precisely the same way. Not only may different points be accented (different parts of the puzzle, as it were), but a single motif, or a particular model (e.g. the potter-and-clay), may be used by an individual writer for distinctive purposes. That is why so much attention was paid in the last chapter to the function of various theological motifs. God is sovereign: but what conclusions are drawn from this? That men are robots? That God stands behind sin in the same way he stands behind evil? When does divine sovereignty function in its context to inspire comfort, or humility? Men are responsible: but does this mean they are so free that God becomes contingent? To ask these questions, and answer them, does not constitute an attempt to find a ‘solution’ to the sovereignty-responsibility tension, but is part of the effort to make the theological conclusions as precise as possible.
To see with what distinctives the tension emerges out of a particular text requires the examination of the total tension within that text, not just some part of it, such as election. In addition, there must be some observation of how the individual aspects of the tension function within the theology of the text. The fourth Gospel maximises human responsibility while simultaneously abolishing merit theology. It maximises God’s sovereignty in salvation history and in election while simultaneously demanding that men believe. And it presents Jesus as the final demonstration of the way divine predestination and human freedom under God are joined, not set antithetically against each other.
historical and practical observations
Perhaps no area of doctrine has been more consistently debated throughout the twenty centuries of Christianity’s life than that of God’s sovereignty and man’s responsibility. This debate has waxed warmer since the Reformation. Some of the polemic is little more than ignorant name-calling; but not a little is immensely erudite and, because of the language barrier, still unavailable to the person who is unversed in ecclesiastical Latin.4 Even to begin to comment on this rich heritage would immediately double the length of this book. However, in addition to the treatments found in the standard dictionaries and encyclopedias of philosophy and theology, there are a few scattered historical studies which repay careful reading.4 Moreover, the biographies of theologians who exercised major influence in these debates also provide much useful information to inquisitive readers. I cannot forbear to mention two of the most recent: A. Dallimore’s George Whitefield (the second and final volume is due out shortly), and C. Bangs’s Arminius.
It seems to me that most (although not all) of the debate can be analysed in terms of the tendency toward reductionism. I have argued at length that a fair treatment of the biblical data leaves the sovereignty-responsibility tension restless in our hands. If a person disagrees with this conclusion and seeks final solutions to the problem, we will enjoy little common ground in the debate. Suppose, for example, that my opponent is so impressed with God’s sovereignty that he constructs his theological system out of all the texts and arguments which support this important truth, and then with this grid filters out evidence which could be taken to call some of his theological system into question. My instant response is that his procedure is methologically indistinguishable from the person who first constructs his theological system out of those texts and theorems which seem to support some form of human freedom, and who then filters out election and predestination passages until he can safely defuse them by re-defining them. The name of the game is reductionism.
In fact, reductionism doesn’t really work. Even if we discount the fact that it plays with the evidence selectively, reductionism never solves or eliminates the sovereignty-responsibility tension, but only changes its shape. For example, believers of more Arminian persuasion tend to argue that a man has a free will (i.e. including absolute power to contrary) at the point of deciding to become a Christian.4 But only very rarely have I seen such believers tackle the much larger question of God’s relation to the countless thousands of decisions each person makes every day. If God in some sense controls such decisions, why not the decision to become a Christian? If he does not, in what precise sense does his sovereignty control history? Or must we retreat to God the master chess player? Even in that case, it is difficult to see how the divine permission to play the game differs from the divine decree, if it be acknowledged that God is omnipotent and omniscient. In other words, for the monotheist there is no escape from the sovereignty-responsibility tension, except by moving so far from the biblical data that either the picture of God or the picture of man bears little resemblance to their portraits as assembled from the scriptural texts themselves. It is no answer to me to tell me that my presentation of the sovereignty-responsibility tension still embraces certain unresolved tensions. Of course it does. But to correct me you must not claim to resolve all the tensions, for such delusion is easily exposed. Rather, if you wish to convince me that your theology in this matter is more essentially Christian than my own, you must show me how your shaping of the tension better conforms to the biblical data than mine does.
In terms of the literature studied in this book, it is essential to recognise that the shape of the tension changes dramatically when one moves from, say, the Dead Sea Scrolls to Judith, or from Josephus to the apocalyptic literature, or from the rabbis to John. But never is the tension resolved so that there is divine sovereignty and human responsibility but no tension.
A more subtle form of polemic in the historical debate springs out of fears that the deductions that may derive from the other person’s position could prove disastrous to one’s own position. For example, a preacher may encourage his congregation to believe, repent, choose—and he is doing nothing but what Scripture sanctions by its example and precept. A believer with strong Calvinistic convictions may fear that such exhortations will encourage people to think that they enjoy a power to contrary which limits God, and therefore argue against the theological legitimacy of such exhortations. Conversely, an Arminian (let alone a Pelagian or semi-Pelagian) might hear a preacher insist on the primacy of God’s elective action in salvation, and conclude that such a doctrine must prevent the preacher from being an evangelist. History shows the assessment to be false.
In other words, it is essential to recognise that the functions of each side of the sovereignty-responsibility tension are subject to abuse of a sort which might illegitimately eliminate some other aspect of truth; that the particular aspect of the tension appealed to in this biblical passage or that often springs from the circumstances which the writer was confronting; and that pastoral attempts to resolve the tension may only serve to distort the balance which the Bible preserves in its treatment of the tension.
Biblical balance is difficult to maintain in any area of doctrine; but perhaps it is particularly difficult here. Two little booklets in my library come to mind. Each is titled, Why I am a Christian. The first gives an answer in terms of divine, gracious, sovereignty; but its evangelistic appeal is virtually nil. The other gives a large number of standard reasons: the person of Christ, fulfilled prophecy, personal experience of forgiveness, the evidence for the resurrection, and the like; but it absolutises free will, and fences God off from the important decisions. The unfortunate aspect of the first book is that in providing the true ultimate reason, it seems to suggest that no further apologetic is needed, or even permitted. The unfortunate aspect of the second is that it treats its answers as if they were ultimate, and thereby ends up limiting God. The evangelistic practices reflected in the New Testament forbid both of these approaches.
I would be prepared to argue that any Christian leader’s handling of the tension between divine sovereignty and human responsibility will affect large areas of his theological understanding, evangelistic practices, and ecclesiastical methods. This is not to say that the tension by itself is determinative, still less that genuinely devout men and women can be found only within the camp of one ecclesiastical or theological tradition. Nevertheless, the sovereignty-responsibility tension certainly affects the outlook of the individual. More significantly, the local church, or some larger identifiable group such as a denomination or a segment of a denomination, is massively influenced by the shape of the sovereignty-responsibility tension which is promulgated (implicitly or explicitly) within its borders and believed to be true. Obvious examples would make up a long chapter, a chapter sometimes painful, sometimes humorous. But the benefit which could accrue to the Church as Christians ruefully saw such reflections of themselves might well repay the person who carefully set out the record. Perhaps some theologically minded Church historian will take up his pen where I put mine down.