When explaining a redemptive-historical approach to Scripture to those who’ve never been exposed to a “theological” or “typological” hermeneutic, I tend to spend most of my time emphasizing the Old Testament’s use of itself, leaving questions of the New Testament’s use of the Old for a later day. There are several reasons for this, ranging from pragmatic (people tend to be less familiar with specific OT passages, and are thus more open to new readings), to temperamental (I personally have more fun in OT discussions than NT bull sessions), to pedagogical. In regards to what I perceive to be legitimate pedagogical reasons, there are at least three:
Firstly, I want people to be trained at the same hermeneutical boot-camp that the apostles attended. Peter and Paul were not “making it up as they went!” Rather, they were implementing the tools and skills which they learned from Jeremiah and Isaiah. To be sure, the apostles had new revelation which significantly changed the “things” they saw, but they were “seeing” in a way congruent with preceding revelation. In other words, the flow of the Bible is set in Genesis; the rest of Scripture goes with that flow, even while adding greater specificity and nuance to the nature of God’s redemptive plan. If people are firmly grounded in the way, say, Micah interprets early revelation; they won’t be as scandalized by the way in which John references the OT. Furthermore, they will feel free and equipped to read the Scriptures in an apostolic way. Said negatively, they won’t feel as free or equipped to utilize a hermeneutic alien to the Scriptures.
Secondly, I want people to draw richer, more textured typological connections. Often, a theological reading of Scripture will only connect a given type with either (1) Eden/Adam, (2) Jesus, or (3) the Eschaton. Certainly, Protology, Christology, and Eschatology are the widest doors through which to enter the typological world of Scripture, but they’re far from the only access-points.For example, as the quote below will point out, David is not only a “new Adam” and a pre-prefigurement of Christ, he’s also a “new Moses,” just as the temple is not only a “new creation” but also a “new tabernacle and alter.” If you go straight to questions of the NT’s use of the OT, you’re likely to miss the canonical-complexity of a given type. However, if you’re familiar with the types drawn in the OT, you’ll see that the shadow of your substance also has a shadow; once both shadows are considered the substance becomes all the more substantive!
Lastly, I want people to see that the God of history is a poet, and the God of poetry is historic. This point is most easily shown through the creation account. Evangelical Interpreters generally line up on the side of “theological/literary” or “historical.” Theological folk tend to insist that the literary connections they see between the creation of the world and the temple, or other Ancient Near Eastern literature, make any historical claim about God’s creative act invalid. Meanwhile, the historical folk are so busy asking the questions proposed by science and archeology that they never get around to asking literary questions of the literature.
The solution must not lie in a total rejection of both parties. Rather, the solution lies in a rejection of the bifurcation fallacy imbedded in the presuppositions of both arguments. The very historicity of the creation account is theological, just as its theological implications are historical. Once one begins reading the historical books of the Old Testament with eyes to see the typological connections throughout, one finds the insularity of the “historical” and “theological” parties intolerable. The historical accounts recorded in Scripture invite the reader to make literary connections we typically associate with literary theory. Why? Because history isn’t a random series of events. No, history is a beautiful, epic comedy being told by the great Poet-Redeemer.
Perhaps the easiest OT book in which to see these typological connections is Jonah, which I’ve written on here. However, what Jonah has in ease, Chronicles has in rich-complexity! What the Chronicler is doing, which could be called “theological history,” is the hermeneutical heartbeat of Scripture. While I’m uneasy with some of Scott Hahn’s arguments in his self-described “Theological Commentary” on 1-2 Chronicles, I do think he does a generally good job of situating the Chronicler in his canonical context. What Hahn says below about Chronicles is equally applicable to most of the Old Testament. Indeed, if one spends adequate time considering the story, structure, and hermeneutic of the OT, the NT can be read for what it is: the climax of Israel’s history. Says Hahn of the Chronicler:
“Like any good historian, the Chronicler provides a record of past figures, places, and events; but his accounting is written in such a way that these figures, places, and events often appear as types—signs, patterns, and precursors—intended to show his readers not only the past but also their present reality from God’s perspective. David is sketched as both a new Adam and a new Moses; the temple is a new creation and a new tabernacle and alter. In the Chronicler’s account, the faithlessness and failures of Israel’s first king, Saul, are replayed by kings centuries later. Saul is more than a failed monarch: he becomes the type of the unrighteous king who leads God’s people to ruin and exile. In the same way, good kings in Chronicles do the things that David did—because David is a prototype of the righteous king.
Acknowledging this intensely inner-biblical and typological narrative technique is not to deny the historical reliability of the Chronicler’s account. Rather, I am suggesting that reporting history ‘as it happened’ is not the Chronicler’s sole interest. What happened in the past is crucial for the Chronicler, but only because in the what of history he sees the patterns of divine intention and intervention revealed—the why of history. The why of history is the reason for the Chronicler’s work, which seeks not only to document past events but also to interpret these events in light of his readers’ present needs for guidance and hope in the face of an uncertain future.
The way the Chronicler comes to understand, interpret, and explain the why of salvation history is through typology. As an intensely typological work, Chronicles gives us a typological interpretation of history (Hahn 2005c: 19-25). Typology for the Chronicler is a way to shed light on the unity of God’s plan in history and to show the meaning of people, places, and events in light of God’s covenant promises and redemptive acts. “[i]
[i] Hahn, Scott. The Kingdom of God As Liturgical Empire: A Theological Commentary on 1-2 Chronicles. Grand Rapids, Mich: Baker Academic, 2012. Pg. 6-7.
I’m in the process of rereading Roger Wagner’s very helpful book on preaching, Tongues Aflame. The brilliance of the book lies in its goal: develop a homiletic that is thoroughly “apostolic.” The author does this by surveying the sermons in Acts, giving special attention to the method and content of each sermon. A theme constant throughout the books is that the apostles were “men of the Word of God written.” They knew the Scriptures inside and out. Obviously, this is true when they explicitly recite (from memory!) large sections of Isaiah, or Micah, or the Psalms. But it’s also true implicitly, as Wagner points out, when they are engaging a Gentile audience ignorant of the Scriptures. The apostles didn’t base their authority on the written word when talking to one audience, but on some other authority when talking to another. They weren’t “planting their feet in midair” as Schaeffer would say. To the contrary, whether to Jews or Gentiles, the apostles always had their feet firmly planted on God’s revelation of himself. Says Wagner:
“Much has been made of Paul’s differing approaches to Gentile as opposed to Jewish audiences, especially with respect to his use of the Scriptures. It is true that Paul could, and did, make a more direct appeal to the old covenant Scriptures when addressing Jews, for whom they were a well-known and acknowledged authority. But is it true that in speaking to the Gentiles he moved from special to general revelation as the basis of his argument and appeal? Did he preach ‘revealed theology’ to Jews and ‘natural theology’ to Gentiles? Not at all. Rather Paul simply makes a less explicit appeal to the Scriptures while continuing to use them as the subtext for his messages to biblically illiterate pagans. The fact that Gentiles did not acknowledge the authority of the old covenant Scriptures did not induce Paul to abandon them as the basis of his proclamation. Acknowledged or not, the Scriptures remain ‘God-breathed’ and for that reason they are ‘useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting, and training in righteousness’ (2 Tim 3:16).
Paul believed that God’s ‘general’ and ‘special’ revelation were ultimately one, and so he could find numerous parallels between what the Scriptures said and what nonbelievers, who are ignorant of the Scriptures, nevertheless know by nature. He did not proclaim a ‘natural theology,’ but rather a biblical theology which is evident (though distorted through man’s sinful misperceptions) in man’s own created nature and surrounding environment. Paul set forth his understanding of the natural man’s relationship to God’s revelation in the opening chapter of Romans. When the nonbeliever shows some awareness of the truth as revealed by God (within himself or in the world around him)—as the Greeks here did by means of their ‘agnostic’ alter—Paul draws attention to it as an evidence that the unbeliever knows God and is without excuse since he wickedly suppresses that truth (Rom 1: 18-20). But Paul always interprets that ‘natural’ revelation through the spectacles of special revelation …
The apostles were always men of the Word of God written. They knew and understood that the coming of Christ represented the supreme and final revelation of God (Heb 1:1-2; John 1:18; etc.). Consequently, they preached on the premise that all of God’s revelation has to be explained from the perspective of its fulfillment in Christ. Thus ‘general revelation’ was explained by ‘special,’ scriptural revelation, and Old Testament scriptural revelation was explained by the new covenant revelation which had been made in Christ. This explains their approach to the use of the Scriptures before various audiences. Where the Old Testament was known they used it explicitly and they expounded it as pointing to Christ. When the Old Testament was unknown (as here) the Apostle Paul simply used it without making explicit reference to it, focusing on those themes which are also evident in God’s general revelation to mankind. “[1]
[1] Wagner, Roger. Tongues Aflame: Learning to Preach from the Apostles. Fearn: Mentor, 2004. Pg. 259-260
“For as Jonah became a sign to the people of Nineveh, so will the Son of Man be to this generation.”
–Luke 11:30
When asked what verse best summarizes the whole of Scripture, Edmund Clowney famously pointed to Jonah 2:9, “Salvation belongs to the Lord.” If I recall correctly, I’ve heard Bryan Chapell answer a similar question with the same verse. In terms of one verse standing on its own, I doubt one could improve on the answer given by Drs. Clowney and Chapell. However, if context can be considered, I’d say a better summation comes two verses later in Jonah 3:1, “Then the word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time.”
You’ll remember, the word initially came to Jonah while he was in the Promised Land. While enjoying the peace and security that Yahweh’s presence provides, he was told to prophesy to the Assyrians. In a sense, Jonah was called to extend the boundaries of Yahweh’s rule from the little territory of Israel, to the “exceedingly great city” of Nineveh. From here, we know the story. Jonah rebels against the initial word. He “goes down” toward Tarshish, he “goes down” in the ship, he “goes down” in the fish, and is finally “driven from the sight of the Lord.” While in the belly of the fish, Jonah laments the fact that he is far from the temple, far from the presence of the Lord. Rebellion against the first word brought exile from the temple; it brought spiritual death.
We can say Jonah 3:1 sums up Scripture because the Jonah story mirrors the biblical story in significant ways. In the beginning, God created the world through his Word. Adam and Eve were recipients of the good creation brought about through this “first Word.” Like Jonah, they lived in the peace and security of Yahweh’s presence. The land in which they lived functioned as a little “temple-garden.” Their mission: cause the boundaries of the garden to extend over the face of the earth. They were called to bring the order of the inner garden to the whole world, just as Jonah was called to bring the message of God’s order and justice to the foreign nation.While Adam and Even didn’t experience immediate physical death when they rebelled against the first word, they were “driven from the presence of the Lord.” To be sure, they were not in the belly of a fish. However, they were banished from the garden-temple. This was their “going down,” this was their death, just as it was Jonah’s.
God would have been perfectly just and right to end the story there. He was in no way obligated to speak His creative Word the first time, let alone a second time. His creation could have rightfully been destroyed. Yet, in his grace and providence, He established a plan to inaugurate a “new creation.” How was this new creation to come about? The same way in which the old creation came into existence: through the Word! Inexplicably, the Word came to mankind a second time.
To be clear, a “second word” didn’t come. Rather, the same Word—the Word by which He created the world initially—came again, this time in flesh and blood. Jesus Christ—the incarnate Word—had a clear mission: extend the temple-presence of Yahweh over the face of the whole earth. God sent His Word into the world a second time that all things might be new, that salvation might explode over the face of the earth.
This expansive mission is also what the returned word to Jonah was all about. The rest of Jonah 3 tells the story of a foreign people, including their King, repenting and “believing God” (Jonah 3:5). To Jonah’s surprise (and dismay!) God had plans for the world which didn’t end with Israel. This “returned word” had a much bigger scope than Jonah had anticipated. It accounted for the far off city of Nineveh. Indeed, it accounted for the far off city of Nineveh’s cattle (Jonah 4:11)! This was an expansive, inclusive, all-encompassing word!
Of course, the story of a first word and a second word can’t sum up the biblical story any more than it can sum up the story of Jonah. To know Jonah, you must know the story of his “going down” and “coming up” from the fish. To know the story of Scripture, you must understand Jesus’ decent and assent from the grave. You see, in between the rebellion of the word and the radical salvation offered to the ends of the earth, there stands a chosen Israelite (Jonah 1:1-2; Mat 1:23). While it seems as though he is delivered to death solely by the hands of evil men (Jonah 1:15; John 19: 17-37), God is actually the primary agent of the man’s death, working according to His definite plan and foreknowledge (Jonah 2:3; Acts 2: 23). Death could not contain this man, however, and after three days he was resurrected from the deep (Jonah 2: 10; Luke 24: 1-12). This resurrected Israelite stood in the city of evil-doers, announcing the way of reconciliation with Yahweh (Jonah 3:4; Luke 24:27). God’s wrath may be spared, he announced; repent and believe, for God’s Word has come again! The story of Jonah, the story of Scripture, is the story of (1) the Word given, (2) rebellion against the Word, (3) death and resurrection, (4) the Word returning to extend the rule of God wider, longer, and deeper than anyone could have imagined.
If we look closely, we see that Jonah 3:1 not only summarizes Scripture, it summarizes our experience as individual believers. By nature we were each rebels of the Word—Assyrians by birth. Like the sailors, like the Roman soldiers, we find ourselves implicated in the death of the chosen Israelite. Yet, each of us heard the good news; the news that Christ was thrown overboard that the storm of God’s judgment might pass over our boat. Because Christ went down into the belly of death—cut off from the presence of the Lord—we can have eternal temple-access. Because Christ gave death indigestion, we can be spat up on to the shore of the new creation. Along with Jonah, we can gladly announce the good news, “the word of the Lord came a second time!”
Below is an interesting interview with Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary Associate Professor of Theology, Adonis Vidu. The interview focuses on Vidu’s relatively new book, Atonement, Law, and Justice: The Cross in Historical and Cultural Contexts. The book examines the ways in which ones view of “law” and “justice” affect ones theology of the atonement. Etymologically, the point is self-evident: “justification” has something to do with “justice.” In the book, Vidu gives a sweeping (yet, when necessary, quite detailed) history of the atonement vis-à-vis the church’sview of law.Even if you don’t walk away agreeing with every premise or conclusion Vidu draws, the book is worth the effort. Likewise, the interview is worth the time.
The great Scottish pastor, social reformer, educator, author, and scientist Thomas Chalmers was born on March 17, 1780 at Anstruther on the Fife coast. His father was a prosperous businessman in the town and Thomas grew up as the sixth in a large family of fourteen children—he had eight brothers and five sisters.
Showing early signs of prodigy, at the age of three, he went to the local parish school to learn the classical trivium of grammar, logic, and rhetoric in English, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. His parents were people of strong Calvinist conviction and keen that their family should grow up to bear witness to a lively and relevant Christianity. Piety and intellectual rigor marked their daily lives.
Before he was twelve, he had sufficiently mastered language, literary, and philosophical skills that he was recommended to advance his studies at the University of St Andrews. His brother, William, who was just thirteen, accompanied him. At the time, Thomas was the second-youngest student at St Andrews and widely recognized as a student with extraordinary promise. Although a great part of his time in the first two sessions at the university were apparently occupied in boyish amusements, such as golf, soccer, and hand-ball—in which he was remarkably expert, owing to his being left-handed—he had already begun to demonstrate the great intellectual power which was to be one of his chief characteristics throughout adult life. For mathematics he developed special enthusiasm and to its study he gave himself with great energy and dedication. Ethics and politics were also themes of special interest to him as he sought to integrate his life and faith with the evident woes of the world around him.
In 1795, now fifteen years-old, he sensed a call into the ministry—though as yet still quite immature in his faith—and so he was enrolled as a student of Divinity. That session, he actually studied very little theology because having recently taught himself sufficient French to use the language for study, he pursued his researches into theoretical mathematics with renewed vigor. Nevertheless, towards the end of the session he was deeply stirred by the power of the writings of Jonathan Edwards and came to an intellectual grasp of the magnificence of the Godhead and of the providential subordination of all things to His one sovereign purpose.
During these years another part of his great talent began to come into prominence. On entry to the University his expressive proficiency in English grammar and rhetoric was at best immature, but after two years of study, there was a perceptible change. The gifts of powerful, intense and sustained expression revealed themselves with freedom, spontaneity and beauty. Student Debating Societies, class discourses, and daily prayers in the University were all enriched by his tasteful, capable and eloquent participation.
By 1798, having just reached the age of eighteen, he had completed his course of studies at the University of St Andrews. The foundations were laid for his future development. As his biographer Hanna would later assert, “The intensity of his nature, the redundant energy that hardly knew fatigue, the largeness of his view, the warmth of his affection, the independence of his judgement, and the gushing impetuosity of his style, were already manifest from these college days.”
In July 1799, he was licensed to preach after a special dispensation exempted him from the qualifying condition of having reached the age of twenty-one. At the same time, he became a teaching assistant at the University of Edinburgh in the widely varied disciplines of Mathematics, Chemistry, Natural and Moral Philosophy and Political Economy.
During the winter of 1801, he was offered a post as Assistant in the Mathematics Department at St Andrews as well as the pastorate of the small parish church in Kilmany. And thus began his remarkable dual career as an ecclesiastic and an academic. Over the next forty-four years Thomas Chalmers gave himself to public service. Twenty of these years were spent in three parishes: first at Kilmany and then later at, the Tron Church and St John’s Church, both in Glasgow. The remaining twenty-four years were spent as a professor in three different chairs, Moral Philosophy in St Andrews, Professor of Divinity in Edinburgh, and Principal and Professor of Divinity in the Free Church Theological Institution, Edinburgh, later known as New College. Often, he served both church and university simultaneously, evoking the wonder of the entire world.
As a teacher, he aroused the enthusiasm of his students. One of them later commented, “Under his extraordinary management, the study of Mathematics was felt to be hardly less a play of the fancy than a labor of the intellect—the lessons of the day being continually interspersed with applications and illustrations of the most lively nature, so that he secured in a singular manner the confidence and attachment of his pupils.” Likewise, his parishioners found his sermons to be both erudite and winsome, aimed at both orthodoxy and orthopraxy. His reputation was soon spread throughout Scotland.
The years of work given to parish ministry were extremely significant in the life of Thomas Chalmers. The mental capacity that he had shown in academic pursuits and his youthful strength of spirit were now brought to the test of service to rural and urban communities at a time of extremely significant social change, and the ever transforming power of the Gospel was to prove itself in and through his life and service.
Family bereavements brought Chalmers to reflect more seriously about a dimension of life which, on his own confession, he had not fully considered. His brother, George, three years older, and his sister, Barbara, some five years older, both died within the space of two years. George had been the captain of a merchant ship, but succumbed to tuberculosis and returned home at the age of twenty-nine to die. He awaited the end calmly, his trust resting firmly in Christ. Each evening he had read to him one of John Newton’s sermons and obviously derived especial comfort therein. His quiet and assured faith challenged his younger brother. Barbara, likewise, suffering the same disease, showed great fortitude and confidence in the face of death. The nature of these circumstances brought him to question his previous conceptions.
After Barbara’s death, Thomas, who had been commissioned to write several articles for the Encyclopaedia Britannica on mathematical subjects, wrote to the editor and asked that the article on Christianity should also be allocated to him. Before finishing the article and just after he had made his maiden speech in the General Assembly of 1809, he himself fell gravely ill. Ill-health dogged him for months—at one point being so severe that his family despaired of his very life. The combination of his illness and the loss of his siblings signaled a profound change in his life. He wrote to a friend, “My confinement has fixed on my heart a very strong impression of the insignificance of time—an impression which I trust will not abandon me though I again reach the heyday of health and vigor. This should be the first step to another impression still more salutary—the magnitude of eternity. Strip human life of its connection with a higher scene of existence and it is the illusion of an instant, an unmeaning farce, a series of visions and projects, and convulsive efforts, which terminate in nothing. I have been reading Pascal’s Thoughts on Religion: you know his history—a man of the richest endowments, and whose youth was signalized by his profound and original speculations in mathematical science, but who could stop short in the brilliant career of discovery, who could resign all the splendors of literary reputation, who could renounce without a sigh all the distinctions which are conferred upon genius, and resolve to devote every talent and every hour to the defense and illustration of the Gospel. This, my dear sir, is superior to all Greek and Roman fame.”
Yet another influence on his spiritual development at this time was the reading of William Wilberforce’s Practical View of Christianity. Again, he wrote, “The deep views he gives of the depravity of our nature, of our need of an atonement, of the great doctrine of acceptance through that atonement, of the sanctifying influence of the Spirit—these all have given a new aspect to my faith.”
Chalmers now had his priorities set in order before him. He gladly recognized God’s claim to rule the affections of his heart and command his life’s obedience. The remainder of his ministry in Kilmany was profoundly affected by the experience of a vital Christian walk. His preaching had new life and concern, proclaiming what he had formerly disclaimed. His pastoral visitation and his instruction in the homes of his parish showed greater ardor than ever before. From outside the region many came to hear the Word, and heard it gladly. There were innumerable converts to this living Christianity.
Chalmers became an earnest student of the Scriptures and also set aside one day each month when, before God, he reviewed his service to Him and sought, with confession and thanksgiving, the blessing of God on his work and on the people entrusted to his pastoral care. These years were also those of the Napoleonic Wars and Chalmers joined the volunteers, holding commissions as a chaplain and lieutenant, though he was never deployed on the continent.
He completely abandoned himself to the covenantal community there at Kilmany. He married and had his first children there. He established a classical school at the heart of the parish. He set about a reform of the ministry to the poor, the widows, and the orphans. He established a pioneer missionary society and a Bible society. In addition, Chalmers began his prodigious and prolific publishing career.
It was inevitable that a man of such gifts would not long be underutilized in the small environs of the Fife seacoast. In July 1815, when news of the victory at Waterloo was scarcely a month old, he preached the last sermon of his twelve-year ministry in Kilmany. His final exhortation was: “Choose Him, then, my brethren. Choose Him as the Captain of your salvation. Let him enter into your hearts by faith, and let Him dwell continually there. Cultivate a daily intercourse and a growing acquaintance with Him. O you are in safe company, indeed, when your fellowship is with Him.”
Thomas Chalmers went to Glasgow at the invitation of the Magistrates and Town Council of Glasgow. He served first in the Tron Church until 1819, and then, by the election of the Town Council, he was transferred to the newly-created parish of St John’s, a poorer parish with a very high proportion of factory a workers, a parish in which he had the freedom to develop the ideas which he had long been maturing.
In the later years at Kilmany, Chalmers had made conscience of his work as a parish minister and had come to know the problems of working a rural parish. Now with his newly expanded duties in Glasgow, he came to grips with the difficulties of work in a city parish and applied his intelligence and strength to new problems.
From the beginning of his ministry in the city his preaching was fully appreciated, and many attended from throughout Glasgow, but Chalmers was concerned that his ministry should first and foremost be to the parish—where some eleven or twelve-thousand people lived and worked. He commenced a program of visitation from house to house which took two years to complete. He organized the eldership to co-operate in this task and developed Sabbath evening schools. Commencing with thirteen children, the schools grew until within two years they had twelve hundred children under instruction. His awareness of the situation of the people gave him an acute understanding of the problems of illiteracy and poverty in the parish and he could not rest until he had found some means of remedying these. His interest in the working-man furthered his reflections on the economic situation; his interest in the sciences led to the Astronomical Discourses, a series of Thursday afternoon sermons delivered once every two months during 1816. Many businessmen and others left their place of work to hear these and during 1817 nine editions of some 20,000 copies were published.
In 1816, the University of Glasgow unanimously conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Divinity. The Lord High Commissioner at the General Assembly in the same year invited him to preach in Edinburgh at the time of the Assembly. Hard work and new-found fame were joined in the experience of Chalmers, but he was dissatisfied.
He was convinced that the Christian church had as yet unfulfilled responsibilities to all those who lived and worked in the local parish, not merely to those who attended the local place of worship. In the development of Sabbath School work Chalmers discovered that many children had great difficulty in reading. He resolved to remedy the defect by setting up classical schools throughout the parish—especially for the poor and neglected. Provision for the needs of the poor was also made, not from the poor-rate levy, but from funds administered by the church of the parish through its deacons who were given special training for this work. Relatives of the needy were encouraged to assume responsibility and the government’s poor relief costs for the parish were reduced by more than eighty per cent within three years. And as if all this were not enough, by correspondence he maintained a ministry with many others beyond the bounds of Glasgow, writing on average some fifty letters a week—and they were for the most part, letters of great substance.
The years of his ministry in Glasgow were very significant. There was no class of persons untouched by his labors. Before his time many had fallen away from all Christian belief and observance, but under his ministry public sentiment turned decisively to evangelical liveliness. By his labors living faith in Christ was restored and many men and women throughout the city gave themselves for Christian service.
When he was invited to return to his former University, St Andrews, as Professor of Moral Philosophy, he accepted because he saw it as a position of wider usefulness and also because he felt that the pressure of life in Glasgow which had progressively increased was making excessive demands on him. But his concerns for the urban parishes remained undiminished. His interest for instance, in dealing with the problem of poverty led to an invitation to London by the Parliamentary Committee on the Irish Poor Law. In 1840 he gave a paper at the British Association for the Advancement of Science recommending the system of voluntary assistance to the poor. He was well informed on the major public issues of his day—Roman Catholic Emancipation, the Reform Bill and the Corn Laws and his opinion was valued by great and small alike on all of these problems. In 1832 the Bishop of London recommended the President of the Royal Society to invite Dr Chalmers to prepare a treatise in proof of the wisdom and benevolence of God shown in the works of creation. It was published in the following year with funds from the legacy of the Earl of Bridgewater and was known as the Bridgewater Treatise.
Amongst the honors that had come his way in the same year was his election as Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. He had previously formed part of a delegation on William IV’s accession in 1830 and had been named as one of His Majesty’s Chaplains in Scotland. He was later to present a loyal address on behalf of the University of Edinburgh to Queen Victoria on her accession in 1837. In January 1834, Dr Chalmers was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh and the following year became one of its Vice-Presidents. The Royal Institute of France honored him with the title of corresponding member and four years later, in 1838, he visited France and read a lecture on the “Distinction both in principle and effect between a legal charity for the relief of indigence and a legal charity for the relief of disease.” His many books and sermons were invariably best-sellers for years on end.
Thus, his reputation was well-established, his contribution to the life of Scotland, England and Ireland fully recognized, and his fame spread around the world when he found himself not only involved in, but leading, a movement that was to divide the Church of Scotland, and to set him in apparent disregard of the authority of the highest civil court in the land.
With the disappearance of the Roman Catholic Church in Scotland as a spiritual force in the sixteenth century, the Presbyterian Church had assumed the right to be the Church of Scotland. Its struggle for spiritual independence had been a long and costly one under the leadership of John Knox, Andrew Melville and Alexander Henderson amongst others. At long last, in 1690, the Presbyterian Church was legally recognized by the crown as the established Church of Scotland, but in this recognition by the state there was no question of the church surrendering any aspect of its independence. It was free to follow the guidance of the Divine Head in every aspect in which He had expressed His will.
Patronage, or the right of landowners to bring to a parish a minister who might or might not be acceptable to the elders and members of it, had been brought in by Act of Parliament in 1712. But in 1838, in two cases in particular, those of Auchterarder and Marnoch, ministers were forced on congregations opposed to their settlement and the Court of Session and the House of Lords ratified these decisions. Many in the church were seriously perturbed.
There were other areas of concern as well. It was decided that the Church did not have the power to organize new parishes nor give the ministers there the status of clergy of the Church. She had no authority to receive again clergy who had left it. And perhaps worst of all a creeping liberal formalism was slowly smothering the evangelical zeal of the whole land. Alas, despite repeated requests, the Government refused to take action to deal with the threat of spiritual atrophy. After a ten year long struggle to regain the soul of the church, the evangelical wing, led by Chalmers and others laid a protest on the table of the Assembly some four hundred ministers and a like number of elders left the established Church of Scotland on May 18, 1843, to form the Free Church.
When the General Assembly of the Free Church was constituted that grave morning, Thomas Chalmers was called to be its Moderator. He was the man whose reputation in the Christian world was the highest; he was also the man whose influence in directing the events leading to what would eventually be called the Disruption had been greatest.
The ministers who left the Established Church with Chalmers that day sacrificed much. In the personal sphere their houses and financial security were set aside, their work had to be reorganized and new centers for preaching found. Chalmers, in this respect, also suffered loss. He was no longer Professor of Divinity at the University of Edinburgh and the influence and prestige of that position went to another. But the Church realized that, without continued pastoral training, its future was bleak. A center for theological study, the Free Church Theological Institute, was opened and Chalmers was appointed Principal and Professor of Divinity.
A few years before, when Chalmers had completed his sixtieth year, he looked forward to a “sabbatical decennium,” a seventh decade of life that would be spent as “the Sabbath of our earthly pilgrimage—as if on the shore of the eternal world.” The years before 1843 had brought him little of the rest and peace that he hoped for and, of course, after the Disruption, he had even more to do.
His lectures continued, but there was also the concern of finding a site and constructing a building to house the New College. In 1846, after much personal sacrifice and intense labor, Chalmers laid the foundation-stone of the new building. “We leave to others the passions and politics of this world, and nothing will ever be taught, I trust, in any of our halls which shall have the remotest tendency to disturb the existing order of things, or to confound the ranks and distinctions which at present obtain in society. But there is one equality between man and man which will strenuously be taught—the essential equality of human souls; and that in the high count and reckoning of eternity, the soul of the poorest of nature’s children, the raggedest boy that runs along the pavement, is of like estimation in the eyes of heaven with that of the greatest and noblest of our land.”
The means for supporting the ministers of the church following the Disruption had to be found and Chalmers dedicated much of his time and energy to the setting up of a Sustentation Fund. By the end of 1844 it was clear that the cost of maintaining spiritual independence would involve foregoing any financial assistance given by the State. It was under his leadership that this problem was confronted and resolved. In addition, new sites for some 700 churches and manses had to be found for the congregations that were formed, and there were difficulties with several landowners in getting sites. In many cases Chalmers was able to give assistance through his personal influence. His own home in Morningside was used as a place of worship for years afterward.
All this effort was not dedicated simply to perpetuating an idea, for Chalmers had a vision of Scotland in which all her people from those of highest to those of lowest rank would know and love the Lord Jesus Christ. Perhaps the dearest example of the outworking of this vision is seen in the West Port experiment in Edinburgh, “a fourth part of the whole population being pauper and another fourth street beggars, thieves and prostitutes.” The population amounted to upwards of 400 families of whom 300 had no connection with the Church. Of 411 children of school age, 290 were growing up without any education. The plan of Chalmers was to divide the whole territory into twenty districts each containing about twenty families. To each district a discipler was appointed whose duty was to visit each family once a week. A school was provided. By the end of 1845, 250 scholars had attended the school. A library, a savings bank, a wash-house and an industrial school had been provided, and there was a congregation served by a missionary-minister. Chalmers often attended the services there and would take part as a worshipper alongside the people of the district.
Thomas Carlyle said of him “What a wonderful old man Chalmers is. Or rather, he has all the buoyancy of youth. When so many of us are wringing our hands in hopeless despair over the vileness and wretchedness of the large towns, there goes the old man, shovel in hand, down into the dirtiest puddles of the West Port of Edinburgh, cleans them out, and fills the sewers with living waters. It is a beautiful sight.”
At the end of the College Session in 1847 Chalmers, by now exhausted in his ceaseless labors, went to London on the business of the Church. He returned to his home in Morningside to prepare for the General Assembly on the following Monday. It was after family worship on Sunday evening May 30 that he said goodnight. He went to sleep in Morningside, but he awoke in Heaven.
The funeral was held on the following Friday, June 4. The Magistrates and Town Council, the members of Assembly, the Professors of New College, ministers, probationers, students, the Rector and Masters of the High School and many thousands more joined the funeral procession, paying their tribute, as they followed the cortege to Grange Cemetery. According to Carlyle, “There was a moral sublimity in the spectacle. It spoke more emphatically than by words of the dignity of intrinsic excellence, and of the height to which a true man may attain. It was the dust of a Presbyterian minister which the coffin contained, and yet they were burying him amid the tears of a nation, and with more than kingly honors.”
George Grant is the author of more than five dozen books, serves as pastor of Parish Presbyterian Church, and is the founder of King’s Meadow Study Center, the Chalmers Fund, New College Franklin, the Comenius School, and Franklin Classical School. This post originally appeared on his blog, Grantian Florilegium.
Made up of 67 denominations, the World Reformed Fellowship was founded to “encourage understanding and cooperation among evangelical Presbyterian and Reformed denominations and institutions, and to link those institutions having ministry resources with those possessing vision but few resources. The fellowship promotes Reformed thinking, a Reformed world and life view, fosters evangelism and strategies on missions, church planting and theological education, and promotes international communication for the further advancement of the Gospel.” (more…)
I recently had the opportunity to interview popular speaker, writer, blogger, and Dean of Boyce College, Dan DeWitt. The questions focus around his most recently novella, The Owlings.
Messer: Why did you set out to write a “Worldview Novella?”
DeWitt: I’ve had the idea of a worldview focused story with talking owls for some time now, but it was after watching an interview with Richard Dawkins that I made up my mind to get to work. Dawkins published his book “The Magic of Reality” a few years ago, but I recently stumbled upon a video of him in which he flippantly dismisses anyone who believes the Bible as “stupid” and says that his book is aimed at helping young readers understand, and adopt, a naturalistic worldview.
Messer: Obviously, you have an interest in propagating the Christian worldview. Yet, you didn’t write a book full of propositional statements (i.e. Naturalism says X; Christianity says Y). Rather, you wrote a beautiful, compelling story. What value does “story” have in our worldview formation, and why did you choose this medium over another?
DeWitt: In the back of the book, I mention in the discussion guide for parents, “Every person has a worldview and every worldview is a story.” Every worldview has a belief about the beginning, the current moment, and even the end. Each worldview has an author, chance in the case of naturalism, and God in the Christian narrative. In the end it is not about what story is the most compelling, but which is actually correct. The gospel is simply a better story but it also has the added advantage of being true.
Messer: While the book is appropriate for a young audience, you do address some pretty complex issues (including the quantum vacuum!). Why should we go out of our way to discuss such “heady” things with our children?
DeWitt: That is a perceptive and funny question. I actually had forgotten that I mention the quantum vacuum in the book, but it was more for parents who might read this with their children than for their children themselves. Though I don’t explain it in any amount of detail, I want a discerning parent, perhaps a skeptic parent, to see a reference like this and perhaps realize that this is a part of a thought out, though brief, contrast of two worldviews and not just an easy stab at convincing children. But there is also an element that I want young readers, my twin boys who are eight years old for example, when they are exposed to what the Apostle Paul describes as “plausible arguments” (Col. 2:4) to think to themselves, “I’ve heard about this before and remember that there are some problems with this theory and that there is a Christian response.” A mentor of mine once called this the “law of first mention,” which he explained to me as the authority someone holds when they are the first to introduce a significant or controversial idea. I want to be aggressive in establishing the position of “first mention” because of the explanatory power of the Christian narrative.
Messer: The Owlings centers around a boy, Josiah, who has a deep love and connection with nature; specifically, his family farm. Josiah grapples with the question “did I come from nature or God?” In school, he’s taught that there is only nature. The reflex of a parent who has a child being taught Naturalism in school might be to downplay nature. You do the opposite; you speak of nature as being “clues” to “beyond nature.” Further, without giving too much away, Josiah doesn’t ultimately sacrifice his relationship with the nature he loves. Why should a parent embrace the dignity and complexity of nature in response to their child’s naturalistic education?
DeWitt: Because nature is God’s handiwork. Because it displays his glory and because it invites our reflection and directs our attention upward. In Romans Paul says that God has revealed his invisible attributes, his eternal power and divine nature. We should allow nature to do its job well and beckon us to worship the Creator. We can learn something of God in studying nature; as Johannes Kepler once said, studying the natural world allows us to “think God’s thoughts after him.” Studying nature allows us to revel in God’s power, mourn the curse and its effects upon creation, and long for Christ’s return and the new creation. The Christian story allows for an appropriate response to nature understanding its beauty and also its ugliness, the peaks of the Rockies and the despair of a tsunami.
Messer: What does Clive the owl mean when he refers to senses beyond smelling, hearing, etc…?
DeWitt: The human experience is either the greatest hoax ever or it is the most profound clue in understanding the nature of reality. Either our moral inclinations, our religious longings, our sense of beauty, our perception of our own personhood, are all real, which the Christian account allows for, or they are illusions caused by chemical reactions in our brain. Bertrand Russell once said something like “What science cannot teach us man cannot know.” This is, of course, self contradictory since it is not a scientific value but a philosophical one. Russell’s worldview doesn’t allow for non-scientific categories which eventually erodes the foundations of nonphysical values like morality and even human optimism. I believe our greatest senses are non-physical. They certainly point to the most important truths.
Messer: In the study guide you quote Carl Sagan as saying the Cosmos is “all there is, or ever was, or ever will be.” What sort of effects does such a worldview have on a society?
DeWitt: In some ways it does very little because most people aren’t concerned with making sure their value systems are consistent with their worldview commitments. Duke University philosophy professor Alex Rosenberg, in his book The Atheist Guide to Reality, does a good job, in my opinion, of giving a mostly honest depiction of what reality looks like if the cosmos is all that exists. He concludes that personhood, moral distinctions, and free will are all illusions hoisted on us by evolution to aid our survival. In the final evaluation, if the cosmos is all that is we will lose the very foundation of what it means to be human.
Messer: Josiah is mentored by a parliament of owls which includes such characters as Dorothy, Clive, Gilbert, and the intimidating Reuel. You’re known for teaching classes on the literature produced by the Inklings. Tell us what role the namesakes of these owls have had on your personal development.
DeWitt: I’m thankful you noticed. Many readers don’t pick up on this, which surprises me because I feel it’s pretty obvious. The “owlings” are my depiction of what these great authors would in animal form. Much like Balaam’s donkey, I see the owls as spokespersons. I just thought I would add a little personality in and what better candidates than Dorothy Sayers, Clive Staples Lewis, Gilbert Keith Chesterton, and John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.
Messer: At one point, it’s said of Josiah and his friend Addi that they love to “bask in their imagination.” You are the Dean of a college which requires every major (Biblical Studies, Business, Education, etc.) to have a firm foundation in the Great Books. Why are Homer, Dante, Thucydides, and Milton valuable for a 21century imagination?
DeWitt: God has made us as whole persons. To ignore the imagination is to disregard a central part of the Imago Dei. In my experience, it is what both captures my intellect and captivates my imagination that leaves the greatest influence. The only way to develop and hone this skill is to linger in the thoughts and words of those whose stories have a proven track record of opening the eyes of the imagination to greater realities. I don’t claim to be a teacher in this domain, but I do hope to be a consistent student.
Messer: In this installment, Naturalism is addressed. What sort of themes do you hope to address in future installments?
DeWitt: My current goal is to write a total of five books in this series. I plan to systematically move through the worldview questions in James Sire’s important book The Universe Next Door. Though he has a total of seven categories or questions that he deals with, I think it will be best if I simplify it a little. The next book will touch on epistemology and the one after that on what it means to be human. My goal is to publish a book each fall and then in the spring offer a related Bible study that goes deeper on the particular topic of the respective book.
The Davenant Trust should be commended for the production of For the Healing of the Nations. Edited by W. Bradford Littlejohn and Peter Escalante, the essays which comprise the book came out of Davenant’s 2nd Annual Convivium Calvinisticum, a conference which focused on “creation, redemption, and Neo-Calvinism.” While each essay is salient to the point of the book, each essay also stands on its own as a valuable contribution to its field. Over the next few weeks, I’ll post a few quotes from the book which might be of particular interest to our readers. This first quote comes from James Bratt’s first essay in the book, one which gives an overview of Abraham Kuyper’s life and thought. Says Bratt of Kuyper’s unique leadership:
“Through all these twists, turns, and variations, Kuyper consistently pursued a matched pair of ideals: to revitalize the pious faithful to reclaim the full scope of their Calvinistic heritage, especially its public compass, and to direct the ensuring force against liberal hegemony in politics and culture, thus bringing the full influence of Christian witness upon the Dutch nation. His chief distinction from contemporary and preceding movements of this sort was twofold. On the one hand, over against traditional establishmentarian types, Kuyper did not seek to push his initiative through official ecclesiastical institutions or to press a Christian pattern on everyone regardless of conviction. On the other hand, vis a vis sectarian revivalists, he was not content with proceeding by ‘spiritual’ change via interpersonal relations. That is, in a modern society ideological pluralism had to be represented, but the individualization and privatization of faith had to be avoided. Kuyper’s margin of excellence therefore was calling Christians to attend to the structural, institutional, and philosophical dimensions of their witness, both for the welfare of the cause and for the responsibility of their public performance.”
Additionally, Bratt offers seven principals which encapsulate Kuyper’s project. These include:
Yesterday,the boy who came back from heaven admitted in a letter that he made the whole thing up. Setting aside the prescience of the boy’s name (Malarkey), and the fact that this whole debacle is remarkably similar to the Boy Meets World episode in which Cory has to come clean about the fire he supposedly helped put out, there are actually some valuable lessons to be learned. Indeed, the boy’s letter is full of courage, humility, and good-sense.
At the end of the day, the issue has never been about whether one particular boy was lying or being truthful. Actually, the problematic issue isn’t even whether it’s possible to go to heaven and come back. The problem is with the culture which glorifies such heaven-encounters; a culture which places a higher premium on human experience than divine promises. The problem is a product of a church which has so conflated one’s “testimony” with the “gospel presentation,” that the wilder the story of “coming into the Kingdom of Heaven,” the more assurance one can have.
Ultimately, this subjective-experientialism is not a publishing problem; it’s a worship problem. We go to church and see baptisms which claim to have little to do with God’s covenantal promises to the one being baptized, and everything to do with man’s promises to God. The sacraments have become the rainbow we offer to God, promising to never flood Him with our betrayal. What’s more, we’ve traded songs about God’s immovable, great, mighty character for songs about our great, immovable, mighty affection for Him.
Of course, it’s appropriate to sing songs about our love for God; and the sacraments are certainly “communal,” thus have an anthropological dimension. The problem, as B.B. Warfield might say, is that we’ve become a people who think of ourselves as saved by faith alone, rather than saved by faith in Christ alone. Our hope has shifted from the object of our faith to the subjective experience of the object. Is it any wonder our children think they have to drum up a “heaven” experience to have any assurance of faith?
Naturally, there are many ways in which to answer the question, “how did evangelical worship get to such an anemic state in the first place?” One historian shows the line going back to the mid-20th century:
“The leaders of the neo-evangelical movement of the 1940’s hoped to give new significance to the word and in so doing did not spend much time thinking about one aspect of the Christian life—namely, worship—that has remarkable power to unite believers across generations and cultures on a weekly basis. They relied instead on the repertoire of worship practices inherited from American revivalism, which depended heavily on music to rouse seekers to walk the aisle and believers to ratchet up their devotion.”[1]
In other words, through “rousing” and “ratcheting,” through experience, our worship became an attempt to emotionally go up to God in heaven, not experience Him coming down in word and sacrament. Certainly, adaptations of 19th century revivalistic methods in the 20th century are a good place to start. However, as far back as the 17th century Matthew Henry was dealing with a church-culture trying to go up to heaven. Says Henry in his March 6, 1692 sermon:
“Believe the revelation of the Word concerning the riches of Christ and his readiness to give it out to us. Say not, ‘How shall I go to Christ into heaven?’ No, the Word is nigh you (Rom. 10:8). ‘Tis Christ in the promise that you are to be close with. Come to him as Joseph’s brethren, to him for corn, humbled, submissive. Receive Christ and his fullness, give up yourselves to him.”[2]
Of course, the problem is even older than the 17th century. The problem goes back to the people Moses found when he came down from Mount Sinai. Unsure as to when he was coming down with God’s word, they built an idol to worship in the meantime. It goes back to Babel, when the people attempted to build a mechanism tall enough to reach heaven’s door. Indeed, ever since being banished from Eden, man has attempted various self-rescue projects. Man is more comforted by his own efforts upward than God’s action downward.
So, what’s the solution to our “going to heaven” problem? Well, in the same sermon Henry offers the means of grace as a crucial component to the solution. He calls the “ordinances” the “golden pipes by which the oil of grace is conveyed.” The evangelical church must recover a liturgy which respects the ways in which God has chosen to commune with His people.
You see, we don’t need a vision of heaven, or even an incredible experience at a retreat, to have assurance. We can have assurance because God has come down to us. In His Son, God climbed down Jacob’s latter. Contra Plato, the solution to the human predicament was not physical flesh becoming an ethereal “word.” No, the Word became flesh. We don’t go to heaven, heaven comes to us. To go to heaven, to be anointed with the oil of grace, one must stop trying to find golden pipes other than the ones God has provided. Until such reforms are made in our worship, we can only expect more Boy Meets World reruns.
[1]Hart, D G. Deconstructing Evangelicalism: Conservative Protestantism in the Age of Billy Graham. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2004: 174
[2]Henry, Matthew, and Allan M. Harman. Matthew Henry’s Unpublished Sermons on the Covenant of Grace. Fearn: Christian Heritage, 2002; 158
This week and next, colleges across the country will commence their Spring semester. Many students who grew up in Christian homes will consciously trade in their faith for a philosophical system antithetical to the one of their upbringing. Even more students, however, while not outright denying their Christian faith, will unconsciously adopt a philosophical system that is inherently idolatrous. It’s not that this second group wants to be idolaters; they simply lack the tools to discern the nature of the bill of goods their professor is selling them. So, how can one know if a given philosophical system (Kantianism, Marxism, Platonism, etc.) is idolatrous? One can begin by asking two questions. First, “is this logical?” Second, “is this sinful?” If the answer is “yes” to the first question, the answer will be “no” to the second question. If the answer is “no” to the first question, the answer will be “yes” to the second question. Here’s a story to illustrate the point:
On her twenty first birthday, Cindy was promised a night on the town with her girlfriends. After dinner, her friends came to her house in a limo, blindfolded her, and took her to Crazy Dave’s Casino (obviously, she had some pretty lame friends…). As they were getting into the limo, they shoved some bills in her purse and said “tonight’s on us!” Once inside, Cindy took off her blindfold. Because there was no signage on the inside of the building, Cindy still wasn’t sure where she was. Eventually, she saw a waitress and asked if she could get something to drink. As she pulled out her wallet to pay, she saw four hundred Crazy Dave’s Casino-Bucks in her purse.
Now, there are only two ways that Cindy could have deduced her location. First, she could have spotted a logo. While it’s true the big Crazy Dave’s sign was outside, there were actually logo’s on the slot machines, napkins, etc. Secondly, of course, she could’ve known by looking at the Crazy Dave’s Casino-Bucks. Her currency could’ve revealed to her the location. Likewise, her location could have told her what sort of currency her friends slipped into her purse. For Cindy to answer the question “am I at Casino Dave’s?” she’d have to look at her currency. For her to answer the question “what sort of currency do I have in my purse?” she’d have to look at the signage.
Back to our original question: how can one know if a given philosophical system is idolatrous? There are at least two ways: Firstly, you can look for signage. Here, you’re trying to determine if the system outrightly advertises itself as sinful. Put simply, this means asking a couple questions of the philosophical system. One question is, “does it enable me to do something God forbids?” Nihilism, for instance, enables one to tear down systems for “tearing’s” sake. Well, some systems need to be torn down, but we’re commanded to obey God’s rule. Any tearing, then, must not be for its own sake, but because we’re seeking a system patterned after the rule of God. Thus, we know Nihilism is idolatrous because it enables us to do something God forbids.Another question to ask is, “does the system forbid me from doing something God commands?”Animism, for instance, is idolatrous because it teaches that everything on the earth, indeed the earth itself, has a soul. Thus, I’m forbidden from, among other things, giving thanks to God. If “Mother Nature” is giving me food, my thanksgiving is directed to the object I’m eating rather than the One who gave me the object to eat. Like Cindy, you’re in a building (the Casino of Idolatry, if you will), and you’re looking for clues as to the nature of the structure.
Secondly, you can look at the currency in which the philosophical system deals. This is crucial because not all philosophical systems are easily detected as “sinful.” Like Cindy in the casino, there isn’t a big Crazy Dave’s sign, and the logos are quite small and inconspicuous. Thus, it won’t do to simply ask “am I in the Casino of Idolatry?” Rather, you’ll have to ask “am I using the currency of the Casino of Idolatry?” Well, what is the currency of idolatry? In a word, it’s illogicality. If the system is illogical, it is idolatrous. Idolatry is always making a deal in which you trade life for death; the family blessing for some soup. An idolatrous philosophical system never uses the currency of “logic.” Thus, one can ask the question, “Are the propositions which this philosophy proposes logical?” If the answer is “no!” then you can know the system is itself idolatrous.[1]
With a little deductive reasoning, one can find idolatry in any illogical statement. Likewise, one can find incoherence in any given expression of idolatry. In his long career, Vern Poythress has become an exemplar for how to do such deductive reasoning. In the quote below, Poythress does a wonderful job showing the inherent idolatry and incoherence of Kantian philosophy. While his remarks are limited to Kantianism, his deductive method can be applied to any philosophical system. Specifically, notice two things. First, he shows how Kantianism is illogical; it’s self-defeating. Its currency can only be spent “in-house,” as it were. In this way, Poythress is saying “look at your currency, it’ll tell you that you’re in the Casino of Idolatry.” Secondly, Poythress draws attention to the sinful signage of Kantianism. The system enables you to claim complete autonomy; rejecting any Creator-creature distinction. In this way, Poythress is saying “look at the sign, it’ll tell you that your currency can’t be logical!” Poythress is modeling for us the ways in which we can both analyze a given philosophical system, and consciously embrace our biblical faith. Says Poythress:
“…Kantian philosophy discusses everything under the sun, including God, including morality, including the nominal realm, and proceeds to tell us what we can and cannot expect to know about the noumenal realm, and why. An impressive scope, would you not say? A scope far larger than the scope that Kantian philosophy assigns as the limits of reason. Kantianism uses reason to build a system that sets the limits of reason. To do so, it has to survey the field. It has to transcend the phenomenal and look at the noumenal realm as well. It has to take a God’s-eye view. This view, once achieved, afterwards allows it to tell you and me the narrower limits in which our reason can safely operate.
The God’s-eye view is Kantianism’s secret, and simultaneously its weakest point. Kantianism is self-destructive. In its results, it tells us what are the limitations of reason. If we take those results seriously, we have to apply them to Kantianism’s own reasonings about philosophy. Those reasonings go beyond the limits, and so we conclude that they are not sound. And so the whole philosophy is unsound. And so the limits have not been established. And so we are back to the beginning. We have gotten nowhere. Except now we know not to follow Kantianism.
In addition, Kantian philosophy testifies unwittingly to the reality of human ability to transcend the immediate. We can stand back from the immediacy of experience and survey what we have been doing. And then we can stand back from that and survey the meaning of our more abstract mediations. We have the capacity… for a miniature transcendence, because our minds imitate the mind of God. We can imagine what it would be like to look at everything from God’s point of view.
But Kantian philosophy engages in this whole process of transcendence autonomously. By its act of attempting transcendence, it testifies to God who made the human mind. By its autonomy, it defies God’s instruction in Scripture and refuses to give him thanks (Rom. 1:21). Not only that, but in effect it tries to be God. Having achieved what it hopes is a godlike transcendence, it can then dictate as a god what limits we poor mortals must have for our reasoning.
In a sense, the Kantian philosophers are the godlike beings, because they can dictate to poor mortals the limits of their experience and their reason. But in another sense Kantianism allows all human beings to be godlike. Each of us becomes in his own person a kind of godlike creator of the world. We ‘create’ the whole world of phenomena, including all the structures of time and space and causality and logic and reason, by imposing structure through our mental categories. We become gods. Can you see how such a conception has a covert religious appeal for people—really all of us in our sinfulness—who desire autonomy?”[2]
[1] One may ask, “but if a system is illogical, why would anyone believe it?” After all, the professors don’t seem to be play-acting; they really believe in Marxism, etc. The short answer is that they grew up in the Casino of Idolatry. They’ve never been outside, to the real world, and thus they dismiss a dollar bill as “fake,” but hold on to the Casino-Bucks for dear life! Their logic, in other words, is self-referential. It only works in their personal Casino of Idolatry. To know what logic *is* one must venture outside of the casino, to the great (real!) world God has designed.
[2] Poythress, Vern S. Logic: A God-Centered Approach to the Foundation of Western Thought. Wheaton, Ill: Crossway, 2013; 637-638
There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, ‘Mine!’Abraham Kuyper
