Barth on sacralization

We are thinking of what can and does always and everywhere happen in a hundred different forms; of the slipping of the community into the sacralisation in which it not only cuts itself off from its own origin and goal and loses its secret by trying to reveal it in itself, but also separates itself for its own pleasure from poor, sinful, erring humanity bleeding from a thousand wounds, trying to impose itself where it owes its witness, and denying and suppressing its witness by witnessing only to itself. Sacralisation means the transmutation of the lordship of Jesus Christ into the vanity of a Christianity which vaunts itself in His name but in reality is enamored only of itself and its traditions, confessions and institutions. Sacralisation means the suppression of the Gospel by a pseudo-sacred law erected and proclaimed on the supposed basis of the Gospel. Sacralisation means the setting up of an idol which is dead like all other images of human fabrication; which cannot hear or speak or illuminate or help or heal; in which the man who has discovered and created it cannot in the last resort admire or worship anyone or anything but himself.

(Karl Barth, CD IV.2, 670)

The apostolic church

As their distinctive title “apostle” shows us, they were sent out to preach the gospel to the world, a light which had been kindled to give light to all that are in the house (Mt. 5:15)–nothing more. The character given to them is not great or significant in itself. Not even in the highest conceivable sense is it a matter of their own good or ill, of their own honor, or even of the self-reposing structural importance and dignity of the work which they have to accomplish in this character. Their being and their work both point beyond themselves. Their field is the world, and they are only sowers who pass over it. They renounce any self-grounded or self-reposing rightness or importance of their distinctive being and activity. It is the special direction in which they look, to the One who has made them His and whom they have recognized as theirs, which forces them to make this renunciation. It cannot be otherwise than that even in this renunciation they should be a normative pattern to the community gathered by their ministry. As an apostolic church the church can never in any respect be an end in itself, but following the existence of the apostles, it exists only as it exercises the ministry of a herald. . . . As Christ’s community it points beyond itself. At bottom it can never consider its own security, let alone its appearance. As Christ’s community it is always free from itself. In its deepest and most proper tendency it is not churchly, but worldly–the church with open doors and great windows, behind which it does better not to close itself in upon itself again by putting in pious stained-glass windows. It is holy in its openness to the street and even the alley, in its turning to the profanity of human life–the holiness which, according to Rom. 12:5, does not scorn to rejoice with them that do rejoice and to weep with them that weep. Its mission is not additional to its being. It is, as it is sent and active in its mission. It builds up itself for the sake of its mission and in relation to it. It does it seriously and actively as it is aware of its mission and in the freedom from itself which this gives (Barth, CD IV, 724-725).

The Princeton Theological Review and the analogia entis

The Spring 2009 issue of the Princeton Theological Review, devoted entirely to the analogia entis, is now available online for free. The issue includes articles by Keith Johnson, author of the forthcoming Karl Barth and the Analogia Entis, Joshua Davis, as well as my own article, “The Importance of Eberhard Jüngel for the analogia entis Debate.” To download a PDF of the issue click here. Also, for a recent discussion of my contribution to the issue, see Matthew Milliner’s post, analogia entis revisited.

Yoder and Apocalypticism: toward a “non-analogical” mode of theological reflection?

A growing number of books and articles have highlighted the centrality of “apocalypticism” in the theology of John Howard Yoder.  That Yoder frequently drew on apocalyptic imagery should not come as a surprise to any one with even a cursory knowledge of Yoder’s most famous work The Politics of Jesus. Indeed, Politics devotes a number of chapters to explicating the theological and sociopolitical import of the New Testament’s apocalyptic language of the “principalities and powers” and the “lordship of Christ.” Yet, only recently, it seems to me, has apocalyptic as such been identified as among the driving categories of Yoder’s entire theology.

In a recent discussion in Political Theology Daniel Barber and Nathan Kerr make the provocative suggestion that the work of John Howard Yoder provides an “exemplary test case” for a “non-analogical” mode of theological ontology.  Barber wonders whether Yoder has something of an ally in Gilles Deleuze insofar as both, according to Barber, attempt to think politics “along the lines of immanence.”  Contrary to Barber, Kerr, I think rightly, asserts that Yoder’s so-called “non-analogical” mode of thinking is not reducible to an ontology of pure immanence akin to Deleuze, but rather offers us an altogether different way of conceptualizing the operation of God’s transcendence.  In Kerr’s view, it is precisely Yoder’s apocalypticism that helps us overcome the divide between analogical accounts of transcendence and univocal accounts of pure immanence. In this perspective, Yoder’s non-analogical mode of theological reflection is seen as providing the necessary resources to resist “the ontological machinations of the analogia entis.”

Despite the fact that Yoder himself never entered into debates about the doctrine of the analogia entis, I find Kerr’s suggestion about the function of apocalypticism in Yoder compelling on this point. For, when seen in this perspective, Yoder’s apocalypticism and perhaps even apocalypticism more generally refers to much more than merely a retrieval and generous use of certain kinds of obscure biblical imagery—though it most certainly includes this. Indeed, it takes on something of a formal, or foundational, character. Or, perhaps, more to the point, apocalyptic comes to name a sort of anti-formalism—particularly, a rejection of the metaphysical formalism of the doctrine of the analogia entis.

Such an interpretation of Yoder should not strike one as entirely surprising considering the influence of Karl Barth on the theology of Yoder. I wonder whether what Barber and Kerr call Yoder’s “non-analogical” mode of theological reflection is similar to Barth’s rejection of the analogia entis. I wonder whether what Kerr means by apocalypticism in this context is perhaps akin to something along the lines of Barth’s analogia fidei or Eberhard Jüngel’s “analogy of advent.”  In other words, it is not analogy that Yoder is dispensing with tout court—but analogy as a tool for an ontological mediation between transcendence and immanence as such, that is, analogy as conceived of autonomously from the act of God’s apocalypse in Jesus Christ.

Whether or not one finds Barber and Kerr’s admittedly rather original appropriation of Yoder’s theology convincing in all of its details, there is certainly wide agreement that Yoder, following Barth, was deeply committed to seeking ways to avoid what they perceived to be the pitfalls of metaphysical systems that decide in advance the terms and mechanisms of ontological relation and mediation between God and creation. More precisely, Barth and Yoder were certainly both in the business of calling into question any and every philosophical or theological maneuver—whether it be under the dogmatic heading of “orders of creation” or “natural theology”—that eschews the definitive authority and normativity of God’s definitive self-revelation in Jesus Christ. When viewed in this perhaps more familiar context, I think the thrust of Kerr’s proposal—that apocalypticism generally, and particularly Yoderian apocalypticism, opens up the possibility of reconceiving the relationship between transcendence and immanence that in effect resists both the doctrine of the analogia entis as well as univocal accounts of pure immanence—becomes much less controversial.

Moreover, it should be noted that such a connection between apocalypticism and reconceiving the relationship between transcendence and immanence is not merely a speculative appropriation of Yoder for ends foreign to Yoder’s thought pattern. For instance, in the 1994 epilogue of chapter eight of The Politics of Jesus, “Christ and Powers,” Yoder explicitly states what I take Kerr to be maintaining: “It would not be too much to claim that the Pauline cosmology of the powers represents an alternative to the dominant (‘Thomist’) vision of ‘natural law’ as a more biblical way systematically to relate Christ and creation.”  Apocalypticism, for Yoder, then, provides an alternative framework for developing what has traditionally been called a “doctrine of creation.”  Yoder understands apocalypticism as a way of avoiding both Catholic Thomistic accounts of natural law and Protestant accounts of the “orders of creation.” For, in Yoder’s view, underlying both the traditional Catholic and Protestant approaches is the presumption that something called “creation” can be viewed on its own, that is, abstracted from redemption.

Was Bonhoeffer a Barthian?

In one of his famous passages from his Letters and Papers from Prison, Bonhoeffer accuses Barth of “positivism of revelation.” In the early scholarship on Bonhoeffer’s theology, perhaps especially in America, “positivism of revelation” became shorthand for describing Bonhoeffer’s relationship to Karl Barth. The charge brought against Barth in Letters, as well as Bonhoeffer’s talk of a “religionless Christianity” led many to believe that what Bonhoeffer sought was an alternative to Barth. As Andreas Pangritz observes, “The critical remarks on ‘positivism of revelation’ are always introduced by eulogies on Barth’s approach.”

Now I’m not too sure what to make of Bonhoeffer’s charge, but one thing is certain, the early scholarship on Bonhoeffer’s theology was dead wrong. Far from seeking an alternative to Barth, Bonhoeffer’s theology can be seen as an extension of Barth’s project. Certainly, Bonhoeffer was not an uncritical follower of Barth; quite the opposite was the case. Indeed, I think even today Bonhoeffer’s criticisms remain incisive. In both Sanctorum Communio and Act and Being Bonhoeffer lays out extended critiques of Barth, but ultimately, the two thinkers were in broad agreement. In fact, as I stated in a previous post, I do not think Bonhoeffer’s theological project is even intelligible outside of the theological universe Barth had opened up. Trained in the tradition of liberal Protestant theology, Bonhoeffer’s encounter with Barth’s theology was nothing short of a “liberation.”

The Character of God’s Freedom: Bonhoeffer’s Critique of Barth

In his second dissertation Act and Being Dietrich Bonhoeffer challenges Barth’s concept that God’s being is in God’s act. Bonhoeffer identifies an impasse in theology between those who interpret revelation as “act” and those who interpret revelation as “being.” In Bonhoeffer’s view, on the “act” side stands Barth who appropriates the transcendental thesis so that God is understood as infinitely different and transcendent of any object. God is in his act, yet remains transcendent of any and every effort to grasp him in reflection. On the “being” side Bonhoeffer identifies strands of Roman Catholic thought (revelation is in the church as doctrine and institution) and Protestant orthodoxy (particularly, those who hold to verbal inspiration of the Bible). The “being”-oriented camp, or the ontological-idealists, represent a position that is basically antithetical to the transcendental or “act”-oriented position.

Bonhoeffer rightly argues that Barth’s primary concern is maintaining the freedom of God. Neither God nor revelation can be extracted from an account of existence or being as such; rather, revelation is radically contingent on God’s absolute freedom to reveal God’s self. Bonhoeffer puts Barth’s position this way: “Revelation is an event that has its basis in the freedom of God, positively as the self-giving or, negatively, as the self-withholding of God” (82). In Barth’s theology, God remains utterly free and unconditioned, which is to say that God is not at the disposal of humanity. As Bonhoeffer notes, for Barth “revelation is interpreted purely in terms of act. It is an event that happens to someone who listens, free to suspend the relation at any moment” (82). God’s Word “is” not independent of the revelation event, which is something that happens to human beings in discontinuous instances. Because God’s being is only in “act,” God’s being is only “in” human beings as “act.” As a result, all reflection on God is always secondary to this act and therefore “takes place at a distance” (84). Bonhoeffer argues that even though Barth employs temporal language (e.g., instant, now, before, after) his conception of act should not be understood as temporal, but “supratemporal.” Yet, Barth does want his concept of act to be historical, for God’s self-revelation “happens” in history, but every act remains free and discontinuous. Bonhoeffer, however, thinks this approach ultimately fails on Barth’s own terms, because for Barth “no historical moment is capax infiniti,” that is, the finite is not capable of bearing the infinite. Barth holds to this, according to Bonhoeffer, because he is committed to the notion that human activity, whether it be faith or obedience, is “at best reference to God’s activity and in its historicity can never be faith and obedience itself” (84).

In a way, Bonhoeffer’s entire book can be seen as response to Barth’s theological actualism. Bonhoeffer’s fundamental concern is that if we commit ourselves to understanding revelation purely as act we will drive a wedge between God and humanity. Although Barth’s actualism is a powerful critique of idealism and the human attempt to “grasp” God, it has the obverse effect of breaking the continuity of human being.

I will explore Bonhoeffer’s critique and counterproposal more fully in another post, but for now I should note that Bonhoeffer’s counterproposal is grounded in his critique of Barth’s account of God’s freedom. For Bonhoeffer, the problem with Barth’s understanding of God’s freedom is that God remains eternally within God’s self always as the one who acts. However, the content of revelation is that God gives his Word–God establishes a covenant in which “God is bound by God’s own action” (90). The freedom of God is revealed not in his remaining absolutely free from humanity, but in his freedom to choose to be “bound to historical human beings and to be placed at the disposal of human beings” (90). Bonhoeffer’s point then is that “God is free not from human beings but for them. Christ is the word of God’s freedom” (91).

The von Balthasar Thesis

Hans Urs von Balthasar’s seminal study The Theology of Karl Barth contains some rather harsh criticisms of the “early” Barth (The Epistle to the Romans, 1st and 2nd Editions) and some high praises for the “later” Barth (Church Dogmatics). Barth’s “conversion to analogy” becomes highly significant to von Balthasar’s overall account. In fact, it seems to me that any rapproachment between the two thinkers hinges on this thesis. He writes:

Just as Augustine underwent two conversions…so too in Barth we may find two decisive turning points. The first, his turn from liberalism to radical Christianity, occurred during the First World War and found expression in The Epistle to the Romans. The second was his final emancipation from the shackles of philosophy, enabling him finally to arrive at a genuine self-authenticating theology. This second conversion was a gradual process, indeed a struggle, that lasted nearly ten years, ending at about 1930 (93).

Von Balthasar quotes Barth’s own words about the significance of his 1931 Anselm book for his theology. He clearly states that the conversion process was a gradual one, and indeed, he never stops calling out traces of any residual dialectics in his theology. However, this thesis of Barth’s “conversion to analogy,” known now as the “von Balthasar thesis,” has recently come under fire, especially since the release of Bruce McCormack’s Karl Barth’s Critically Realistic Dialectical Theology. In this work McCormack argues that “the great weakness of the von Balthasarian formula is that it conceals from view the extent to which Karl Barth remained–even in the Church Dogmatics!–a dialectical theologian” (18). Indeed, McCormack identifies many key developments in Barth’s thought, but the “von Balthasar thesis,” in his mind, is mistaken on a number of fronts, not least in von Balthasar’s insistence that a decisive shift to analogy took place in Barth’s book on Anselm.

Now it is important to note that Barth’s conversion to analogy is never radical enough for von Balthasar’s tastes, as it remains too constricted and never fully allows for an adequate human response to God’s offer of grace in Jesus. However, it remains hugely important to him. If McCormack’s thesis is correct I must say that I am afraid that it could deliver a serious blow to any efforts of rapproachment between the two thinkers.

What book makes you shake?

There are few books that make me shake. Karl Barth’s The Epistle to the Romans is certainly one of them. If this book doesn’t have you shaking within the first few pages, then I’m not sure what will. This is one book that is not to be picked up lightly. Indeed, I am assured to know that I’m probably not the only one.

What book makes you shake?

The Pastor is Red (in the face)

The “red pastor” would be so embarrassed and ashamed! Quotes from Barth’s sermons circa 1910.

Typical of [Barth's] sermons were remarks like, ‘The greatest thing is what takes place in our hearts.’ Or, ‘To each man goes out the call to be true to himself, namely. . .to that model of the best that anyone can become.’ He told the congregation: ‘Try to become valuable!’ Or, ‘Dear friend, think seriously about yourself.’ As he explained ‘Before I can know God, I must know myself.’ He introduced Goethe’s Faust as ‘without a doubt a true Protestant.’ . . . He attacked the Christ presented by the Chalcedonian Definition to the ancient church: ‘I will gladly concede that if Jesus were like this I would not be interested in him.’ But, ‘If Christ begins to live in us. . .that is the beginning of Christian faith.’

Eberhard Busch, Karl Barth: His Life from Letters and Autobiographical Texts, trans. John Bowden (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1976) 54.

Theologian of Christian Witness

Speaking of helpful secondary literature, Joseph Mangina has written a fine introduction to Karl Barth. The book is called Karl Barth: Theologian of Christian Witness. This, however, is not just one more introduction to Barth, it also brings his thought into dialogue with other (mostly) contemporary theologians, namely George Lindbeck, Robert Jenson, Henri de Lubac, Stanley Hauerwas, and Michael Wyschogrod.