Author Archive

Blueprints and butterflies

Posted in Notes with tags , , on 18 March 2010 by Brendan

Today was chapter 12 in my slow plod through the Greek text of Romans, and after the lexical wilderness of chapter 11, this was land burgeoning with milk and honey. The most interesting vocabulary is in verse 2: “μὴ συσχηματίζεσθε τῷ αἰῶνι τούτῳ” (do not be conformed to this age). The verb that tickled me was “suschematizo.” (I still don’t know the proper way to distinguish between long and short o’s and e’s, which in Greek are represented respectively by the omega and eta, and the omicron and epsilon.) This delightful word touches down in contemporary English diction in interesting ways: a quite literal translation might be, “do not be pressed into the schema of the world,” or even, “do not let yourself be mapped out in accordance with this age.” Aristotle uses this verb to suggest shaping something to fit within delineated boundaries: it is a shop-word, taken from the language of manufacture. This present age molds us according to its intentions and aims: the powers of the world stamp us out like so many tennis shoes or sugar cookies.

By contrast, Paul enjoins Christians: “μεταμορφοῦσθε τῇ ἀνακαινώσει τοῦ νοός,” (be transformed in the renewal of the mind). The verb here—“metamorpho-o”—suggests the literal translation of being “re-made,” in the sense especially of being given a new face or appearance. A metamorphosis occurs among the living, and it is a unique, unrepeatable event, the literal creation of new life out of the wreckage of the old (picture butterflies). Against the sterile schematics of the Empire, Paul opposes the possibility of a catechesis that does not efface difference.


Chalcedon and Dramatic Unity

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on 16 March 2010 by Brendan

Reading in Alister McGrath’s wonderful anthology, The Christian Theology Reader, I came upon Leo the Great’s “Tome,” written in 449 and affixed in an appendix to the “Definition of Faith” produced by the Council in Chalcedon in 451. In his Systematic Theology, Vol. I, Jenson tears into this document, arguing that it dissolves the acting unity of Christ’s person. Perhaps because of the Tome’s inclusion as a hermeneutic key to Chalcedon, the Council failed to placate the drifting Oriental churches, which rejected the conciliar authority and broke with the churches of the empire.

Jenson acknowledges that Chalcedon marked a true conceptual advance for “connecting the Trinitarian and Christological discussion terminologically: as there is one divine nature in three hypostases, so in Christ there are divine and human natures in one hypostasis” (130). However, the true point of contention regarding the person of Jesus was how those natures subsisted in one person: Egyptian and Syrian (now known as the Monophysite, or “one-nature” churches) rejected Chalcedon because it seemed to dally dangerously with the Nestorian separation of the natures. As Jenson notes, Chalcedon is only unproblematic “if we don’t read it too closely”: the text carefully reaffirms Nicea’s affirmation of Jesus as “homoousion” with the Father; it reaffirm’s Ephesus’s rejection of Nestorius in designating Mary “Theotokos,” or “God-bearer.”

Nonetheless, just where it broke new theological ground, Chalcedon left things rather in a muddle: Jesus is “acknowledged in two natures, without confusion […] This distinction of natures is in no way abolished on account of this union.” That “distinction of natures” is a quote from Leo’s Tome, which elaborates the distinction further: “Each nature performs its proper function in communion with the other; the Word performs what pertains to the Word, the flesh what pertains to the flesh. The one is resplendent with miracles, the other submits to insults.”

Chalcedon is vague; Leo is indisputably problematic. Athanasius demonstrates the fundamental problem with attributing distinct agency to either of the natures, rather than to the single hypostasis. Writing of the miracles of Jesus in a letter (also included in McGrath’s anthology), he insists,

These are not events occurring without any connection, distinguished according to their quality, so that one class may be ascribed to the body, apart from the divinity, and the other to the divinity, apart from the body. They all occurred in such a way that they were joined together […] He spat in human fashion; but his spittle had divine power, for by it he restored sight to the eyes of the man blind from birth […] He cured by his mere will. Yet it was by extending his hand that he raised Peter’s mother-in-law when she had a fever (4.7).

His point is straightforward: Jesus as depicted in the Gospels is a dramatic unity; he is a single person (the traditional, though now somewhat misleading, translation of hypostasis). There is no clear-cut way in which to distinguish Jesus’ “divine” actions from his “human” actions, because some of his most dramatic demonstrations of divinity occurred in and through the most emphatically fleshly gestures, whether spitting, or breaking bread, or taking the hand of a little girl.

I’m certainly no authority on historical theology, but given what I know of Nestorianism, Leo’s argument strikes me as within a shade or two of that heresy.

Law and Obscenity

Posted in Uncategorized on 16 March 2010 by Brendan

Most nineteenth century American jurisprudence concerning what might legitimately appear in public was decided according to an English case, Regina v. Hicklin (1868), which ruled that a determination of obscenity depended upon whether “the tendency of the matter charged as obscenity is to deprave and corrupt the morals of those whose minds are open to such influences, and into whose hands a publication of the sort may fall.”[i] While the Hicklin Test admitted a “strict interpretation” under which it concerned only the “sexual morality” of individuals, Gurstein observes that for many decades judges assumed that it also had bearing on broader questions of decency.[ii] Perhaps the simplest rationale for this broader interpretation is the recognition that life cannot be so easily compartmentalized as the reformers often liked to believe. As David Tubbs put it in Freedom’s Orphans: “Most reflective persons would admit that the welfare of children depends greatly on the social conditions and intellectual currents within it.”[iii] A society full of fathers who regularly look at pornography, for instance, is by no means a desirable environment for safeguarding the well-being of its young children, though they might never lay eyes on the obscene material. Thus, children themselves have an important claim to the moral integrity of their parents, and so to (perhaps indirect, though necessary) measures to secure that character.

As early as 1884, however, court decisions were questioning Hicklin. For instance, People v. Muller “proposed a test of the ‘motive’ of a painting or statue to determine ‘whether it is naturally calculated to excite in a spectator impure imaginations,’ ” simply neglecting “the idea of indecency” by omission.[iv] In 1913, Judge Learned Hand propounded a striking criticism of Hicklin in United States v. Kennerley: “he questioned whether ‘our society is prepared to accept for its own limitations those which may perhaps be necessary to the weakest of its members.”[v] Both of these decisions represent the progress of what Gurstein names “the subjectivization [sic] of obscenity.”[vi] It became increasingly difficult to articulate a conception of social life as demanding shared notions of decency, propriety, discretion, tact, as what Tubbs has termed “moral reticence” overtook the legal discourse.[vii]

In New York v. Winters (1943), the Supreme Court first afforded First Amendment protection to mass culture, in the form of a series of sensational and luridly violent detective comics. Justice Reed wrote, “What is one man’s amusement is another’s doctrine.”[viii] From Winters onward, “The legal discourse could speak about aesthetic considerations apart from morals ones,” and so “would have less and less to say about how the world should look.”[ix] Thomas Nagel voiced an extreme version of this “moral reticence”: “I don’t want to see films depicting torture and mutilation, but I take it as obvious that they do something completely different for those who are sexually gratified by them.”[x] In 1957, the Supreme Court finally addressed the constitutionality of obscenity head-on in Roth v. United States. Though Justice Brennan first insisted, “Obscenity is not within the area of constitutionally protected freedom of speech or press,”[xi] he quickly qualified that statement nearly out of existence: “All ideas having even the slightest redeeming social importance…have the full protection of the guaranties.”[xii] He repudiated the Hicklin Test, offering instead a tentative model whose touchstone was an “appeal to prurient interest.”[xiii] Finally, in Miller v. California (1973), the Court offered a new test for obscenity, which maintained Roth’s “prurient interest,” though qualified by “contemporary community standards,” and qualified still further by the work’s needing to lack “serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.”[xiv]

After Miller, the Supreme Court, freed from considering society’s “most susceptible” members, used the new test to elevate individual rights to free speech over the interests of children, as in United States v. Playboy Entertainment Group, Inc. (1996). In this case, the Court ruled that Playboy did not have to take measures to “scramble” their pornographic television programming in order to prevent the signal from “bleeding” into other channels, where they might be seen by children, instead allowing the corporation simply to advise viewers of the possibility of individual “blocking.”[xv] This development was in one sense just the legal recognition of a widespread cultural indifference to the unique needs of children, as evinced by the vulgar speech and knowing sexual innuendoes of perhaps most twelve year-olds today. In fact, nearly contemporaneously with Playboy, England witnessed two horrifying murders perpetrated by children against another child and a middle-aged man, each partially in imitation of popular horror films.[xvi] Setting aside the theoretical character of Gurstein’s argument, there can certainly be no doubt that “the repeal of reticence” in Western culture has coincided with the coarsening of public discourse, and a concomitant rise in indifference toward the particular needs of children.

Nonetheless, the problem of Anthony Comstock must remind Gurstein’s readers that, however appealing many aspects of her account may doubtless be, a return to Victorian reticence would be strong medicine for even sophisticated and “conservative” moderns, well-accustomed to the coarseness of Ulysses and the violence of Schindler’s List, to the scandalous plot devices of Chicago and the comically vulgar essays of David Sedaris. In fact, many devotees of the modern novel and of modern art would insist that some of these things have enriched us considerably. Further, as Marjorie Heins argued in her introduction to Not in Front of the Children, “social science has not proved any identifiable subject or medium to cause significant, predictable changes in children’s attitudes or behavior”: violent movies, she insists, do not directly produce violent children.[xvii] Given the necessary conflicts of interest involved in censorship, Heins suggests “training in media literacy, critical thinking skills, and comprehensive sex education” to prepare children to grapple with mature instantiations of modern life.[xviii] Censorship, she argues, too often unnecessarily restricts freedom of speech, and “frustrates young people’s developing sense of autonomy and self-respect.”[xix]         

Thus, there still remains the challenge of articulating a return to reticence acceptable to most conservatives. Few adults today feel culpable for having read Hedda Gabler, and still fewer could identify any real moral bond that Ibsen might share with Hugh Hefner. However, Gurstein’s insight into the real human and cultural goods fostered by a robust distinction between things public and private is indispensable. If there is to be any meaningful discourse between individuals, any possibility of distinguishing the beautiful from the ugly, or children from adults, then a return to Gurstein’s reticent sensibility, however faint-hearted it might be, is of paramount importance.

[i] qtd. in Rochelle Gurstein, The Repeal of Reticence, 74

[ii] Gurstein 191

[iii] Tubbs, David. Freedom’s Orphans. Princeton Universtiy Press: Princeton, 2007. (18)

[iv] Gurstein 185

[v] Ibid. 186

[vi] Ibid. 188

[vii] Tubbs 4

[viii] qtd. in Gurstein 239

[ix] Gurstein 201

[x] qtd. in Tubbs 39

[xi] qtd. in Gurstein 250

[xii] Ibid.

[xiii] Ibid.

[xiv] Tubbs 143

[xv] Tubbs 168-172

[xvi] Tubbs 2-3

[xvii] Heins, Marjorie. Not in Front of the Children. Hill and Wang: New York, 2001. (11)

[xviii] Ibid.

[xix] Ibid. 13

Theory and praxis, or language game?

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on 15 March 2010 by Brendan

Is theology, as Gustavo Gutierrez and the other liberationists have argued, simply “critical reflection on praxis”? Or, to play it in an Hegelian key, does the owl of Minerva really fly at dusk? This hard division between the “facts” of practical existence and critical reflection upon those facts masks a rather coarse foundationalism, which presumes to identify the fundamental, constitutive aspects of social and personal reality apart from any reflective discourse. Theology is not simply reflection upon “basic human principles.”

Now, Gutierrez is perfectly right to argue, “A privileged locus theologicus for understanding the faith will be the life, preaching, and historical commitment of the Church”: as Robert Jenson and many others have argued, a test for the soundness of any theological proposition is its ability to shed light upon the established liturgy of the Church – that is, upon the indispensable aspects of the Church’s communal practice, such as the Eucharist, baptism, the passing of peace, etc. However, Gutierrez insists that theology must “go beyond the visible boundaries of the Church”; he quotes Yves Congar: “the Church” must “deal with the real questions of the modern world.” Only this will save her from “narrowness.” Theology must reckon with the truths of the world; it must become open-minded.

This Marxist dualism of theory and praxis misses the many ways in which “critical reflection” is itself a practice, historically bound and embedded within the Church’s other social disciplines, as well as the many ways in which all praxis is itself theoretical, capable of being rendered as conversation, speech, and reasoning (if only latent and halting). As Wittgenstein wrote, “To describe a language is to describe a way of life.” We reason our way to action, and indeed we reason in and through our actions: theological reflection constitutes and bounds ecclesial practice, even as ecclesial practice in turn governs and disciplines and informs theological reflection. There is no privileged, foundational substrate of the real upon which theology might gain traction; there is only a welter of competing “language games,” each striving to narrate the world and re-narrate their competitors (though MacIntyre is right in arguing that one discourse can short-circuit its rival by offering novel formulations of seemingly insoluble problems).

Ascension, Eucharist, and the Body of Christ

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on 13 February 2010 by Brendan

Halden’s extended discussion of the body of Christ has prompted me to pen some much-delayed reflection on profitable intersections in my own reading regarding the Incarnation, Eucharist, and Church. I have been bothered for some time by an odd question: “After the ascension, where is Jesus’ body?” Within an Aristotelian cosmology, it made sense that Jesus would have ascended bodily to the heaven above the highest heaven, above the realm of the stars – but in Copernican space, we can say with some certainty that no such physical realm exists. Most Christians are content to spiritualize heaven, then, and to imagine Jesus as inhabiting no place, or perhaps a reality tailor-made for his waiting. This is probably a trivial question, but the answers to it suggested in their various ways by Robert Jenson and Graham Ward have some fascinating implications for how we understand the Eucharist and the Church. 

At the end of his Systematic Theology, Vol. I, Jenson includes a discussion of the resurrection and ascension, while Graham Ward’s Cities of God revolves around a lengthy discussion of “the manner in which the physical body, situated in the space opened by the continual displacement of Christ’s own body, maps on to other bodies and so constitutes the ecclesial and sacramental body of Christ” (205). I should note that Ward’s book was generally disappointing, for its determined obscurantism, its gleeful avoidance of practically any substantive discussion of cities, and its entirely unconvincing defense of homosexuality (which to my mind principally consisted in gnomic broadsides aimed at “the biopolitics of heterosexism” and the like). Nonetheless, Ward’s discussion of bodies and the Eucharist was quite helpful (it might be worthwhile to read just the middle section of the book). 

To begin where Jenson begins, then, we must ask not simply where Jesus is now, but even where he was in the days after the resurrection, when his glorified body was doing all the strange things it seems it could do (vanish, pass through walls, become unrecognizable, etc.).  Jenson writes that we should not properly understand him as present spatially on the earth: “If we ask where Jesus was—so to speak—resident during the days of the appearances, the immediately available answer is that he was in the heaven of the apocalypses, that is, in God’s final future, from which he showed himself—or the Spirit showed him—to the chosen” (197). Jenson is not suggesting that these appearances were somehow therefore “virtual,” in the sense of disembodied apparitions. Rather, Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances are eschatological, bodily in-breakings of God’s future into the sinful present. Jesus’ body is a bit of redeemed creation swirling in the wastes of fallen time.

After the ascension, however, this resurrected body becomes conceptually even more problematic: “A body requires its place, and we find it hard to think of any place for this one” (202). This is no matter of theological indifference: “The Incarnation given, what we call the humanity of Christ and the deity of Christ are only actual as one sole person, so that where the deity of the Son is, there must be Jesus’ humanity, unabridged as soul and body” (202). Otherwise, what do we mean when we say, “I know my Redeemer lives”? Do we mean simply that he lives somehow as the Logos asarkos, the fleshless or un-incarnate Word? Do we mean, in a surprising relapse into pure Platonism, that he lives simply as spirit or “soul”? If so, what was the point of the bodily Resurrection to begin with, if its product could be set aside so simply? 

Jenson, however, is not content with this befuddlement: “It is time for theology … to let what Paul meant by ‘body’ teach us also what to mean by ‘body’ … We must learn to say: the entity rightly called the body of Christ is whatever object it is that is Christ’s availability to us as subjects; by the promise of Christ, this object is the bread and cup and the gathering of the church around them. There is where creatures can locate him, to respond to his word to them” (205). 

In essence, Jenson argues that Jesus is still embodied, but only as the Church gathered around the Eucharist. This requires quite a radical revision of our notion of “body,” and Jenson unfortunately does not provide enough exploration on this theme. For that discussion, we must turn to Ward, who in explicating Gregory of Nyssa, argues, “Since the essence of things cannot be known, the displacement of their identity is endless. The poiotes become signs to be read by the intellect and yet their meaning is endlessly not deferred but protracted, extended out of the material order of this world and into what Gregory termed the aion” (90). The material order of finitude moves in God’s infinity; a thing’s “poiotes” (outworking, or outward form) is a continual act of extension and displacement, a stretching out into eternity: as Nyssa himself wrote in On the Soul and the Resurrection, “Every man is a nation,” a collection of ever-shifting personalities, beliefs, dispositions (and, we might add, of atoms).

This logic—by which the “spiritual,” or, as Jenson might put it, eschatological import of a physical sign imparts its significance—creates the conceptual space within which to make sense of Jesus’, “This is my body.” Ward argues, “These words perform the transposition … They set up a logic of radical reidentification. What had throughout the gospel story been an unstable body is now to be understood as an extendible body. For it is not that Jesus, at this point, stops being a physical presence. It is more as if this physical presence can expand itself to incorporate other bodies, like bread, and make them extensions of his own” (101). 

So far so good—but what does the “displaced body of Christ,” as Ward puts it, have to do with the Church? Since Paul, the Church has referred to herself as the “body of Christ,” (most obviously in 1 Cor. 12:13-ff., though also in 1 Cor. 3:16-17, where the subject of address is the Church as a whole). The web of significance here is draw quite tightly: Jesus’ body is the new Temple (Jn. 2:18-22), the tabernacle of God’s glory (Jn. 1:14), because the Spirit of God rest upon him (Jn. 1:32); so too, the Church is the temple of the Lord, and so in turn Jesus’ very body, because the Spirit of glory dwells in her: “Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s spirit dwells in you?” 

What enables that changing reference? Ward’s language of displacement, and Jenson’s language of eschatological in-breaking help to make sense of this conceptual shift, which is implicit even in John’s Gospel: in the Olivet Discourse, Jesus says, “If I do not go away, the Helper will not come to you; But if I go, I will send him to you” (16:7). Nevertheless, that does not stop Jesus just moments later from praying, “The glory that you have given me I have given to them, that they may be one even as we are one, I in them and you in me” (17:22-23). In effect, it is the displacement of Jesus’ physical presence that allows the Church to be constituted as his body, as the spatial and temporal continuum by which he makes himself known to the world.

This reading makes sense of Ward’s reticence about the late medieval and counter-reformation enthusiasm for “real presence” as a theological rubric for interpreting the Eucharist. Indeed, he emphasizes that though the Latin “praesentia” is a crucial term both for the magisterial Reformation and for the Council of Trent, it nowhere appears in Aquinas’s discussion of the Eucharist (Ward 158), which rather centers on the bread and wine as “verum corpus Christi,” the “very body of Christ” (158). For Ward, to speak too eagerly of Christ’s presence in the bread and wine implies almost a magical reading of the Eucharist, as though the point were simply God’s miraculous overriding of nature to present himself as a spectacle to the gathered crowd.

By contrast, the biblical import of the Lord’s table seems to be first ecclesiological, and then, in second order, sacramental: we might speak of the elements as being transubstantiated because it is in its table fellowship that the Church is continually reconstituted as the presence of Christ in the world. Incidentally, that reasoning is only circular—in a chicken-and-egg sense of the Church’s constituting the elements that constitute it—if we dismiss the possibility of its being created ex nihilo by the gracious intervention of God in history. 

Thus, the most important referential question that we can ask about the Eucharist is not concerning place (“Where is the body of Christ?”), but concerning time: “When the risen Christ is made corporeally present by his Spirit in his Church at Table, has a foretaste of our redeemed future been made present to the world in fallen time?” Ward suggests,

The eucharist participates in a temporal plenitude that gathers up and rehearses the past, while drawing upon the futural expectations and significations of the act in the present. In the same way as the Last Supper is both an enactment of the Passover Meal and rehearsal for the sacrifice on Calvary; so the eucharist is both an enactment of the Last Supper (and therefore a figuring of the Passover), a participation in the atoning sacrifice of Calvary and a foretaste of the heavenly banquet at the eschatological wedding (171).

In our dramatically re-enacting the life of Christ and anticipating the life of the Kingdom, we become the life we rehearse; we are what we eat.

 So, if I—or Jenson, or Ward—am at all correct in my analysis, the question of Christ’s continuing bodily existence is not a matter of barren scholastic speculation (if there ever was such a thing outside the snobbery of modernist rationalism), but rather of the very nature of salvation itself: the absence of Jesus’ body makes space for us to be included within his person by the Spirit, and so to be (eschatologically, which is to say, by faith) transfigured signs for the continuing transfiguration of the world. If this is to happen at all, Scripture suggests, it must happen fundamentally at the Eucharist.

EDIT: I probably should clarify that when I say I was unpersuaded by Ward’s defense of homosexuality, I meant incontinent homosexuality, or gay marriage. For those who appreciate the difference and might have been offended, I apologize for the mistake.

The Binding of Isaac

Posted in Miscellaneous with tags , , on 3 February 2010 by Brendan

The BoCP lectionary prescribes Gen. 22:1-8 for today’s Old Testament lesson. So far as I know, no commentator has fully managed to unravel the knots of this passage. My own thoughts on it are still shaped at a visceral level by the bitter complaint of my psychologist mother, who saw in this text a cruel and heinous account of child abuse, and (so far as I know) still refuses to countenance its inspiration. Kierkegaard and Derrida have each put it to the question; the former uses it to found his theory of “the teleological suspension of the ethical”: faith in God, Kierkegaard argues, calls Abraham to a radical trust that leads beyond the bounds of rational morals in the quest for spiritual encounter.

 The simplest objection, of course, to this juxtaposition of religious teleology and ethics is that it founds itself upon a Kantian notion of the ethical as those precepts which bind all men in all times: Kierkegaard does not seem to consider—as the tradition from Plato to Augustine to Aquinas took for granted—that ethics itself might be teleological (in the case of Christianity, even eschatological), that the cultivation and practice of faith, hope, and love might be internal to a peculiar, parochial way of life sustained through time.

 For Kierkegaard, the binding of Isaac requires Abraham to set aside his moral convictions, trusting in the righteousness of God’s mysterious ends: this is the “leap of faith” which he locates at the beginning of religious experience. By contrast, might we not see Abraham’s fidelity to God’s command as the very core of ethics, as man’s chief calling in the world? To follow where God leads—to follow as pilgrims, exiles, strangers bound for a longed-after homeland—is a fair summary of the burdens of covenant in both the Old and New Testaments.

 But does this reading help us make any better sense of Abraham’s trial? Objectionable though I find Kierkegaard’s reading in general, I have no simple solution to the problem posed by Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of Isaac. The text is oblique: was Isaac thirteen or thirty? What passed through Abraham’s mind? Was he merely lying to Isaac when he said, “God will provide”? The author of Hebrews sees in Abraham’s determination faith in the resurrection: “He considered that God was able even to raise him from the dead” (Heb. 11:19). God himself seems to evaluate the act simply as a test of faith before irrational horror: “Now I know that you fear God, seeing you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me” (22:12).

 Perhaps, however, this fidelity to God against all odds—terrible though it must have been for father and son—is the essence of faith, which, as the author of Hebrews would have it, is “the conviction of things not seen” (11:1). As best I can tell, the fundamental lesson of the Akedah of Isaac is—as Eve Tushnet has put it so often—“the sacrifice God wants isn’t always the sacrifice you wanted to make.” Bonhoeffer’s embellishment of Jesus’ call to take up the cross in Mark 8 springs to mind: “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” God calls us to lay down our best held dreams and desires, to accept failure and ignominy and wretchedness, that we might become blessed in him. Apart from that terrible call, we could scarcely imagine men such as Gregory VII, Francis of Assisi, Henri Nouwen, or Theresa of Calcutta.

 I hope I’m not being too hard on Kierkegaard, who is after all always good for laughter or provocation or both. It seems to me that while Kierkegaard saw the nature of faith as luring us from the bright perspicacity of reason out into the unlit wastes of “religion,” the true lesson of Genesis 22 is that faithfulness to God first means abandoning the idols of one’s heart, which are always at bottom distorted projections of narcissism. The looming danger in this passage is not a Kantian categorical imperative, but a (Augustinian) disordered love. In that light, Abraham’s fidelity here is paradoxically a “reasonable service” (logiken latreian, to borrow Paul’s phrase from Romans 12).

 To return, as a final note, to the subject of the effect of all this upon Isaac: while I have a hard time imagining a manner of narrating this episode that does not issue in serious long-term trauma inflicted upon Isaac, I am comforted by the text’s moderate ambitions. There is no psychological speculation here; this is not a Camus novel. The overriding theme worked in the binding of Isaac is that, against all odds, God provides to those who trust him. The lesson carried forward by later Jewish readers (including the author of Hebrews) does not concern a capricious or malicious God who tortures children, but rather a gracious and beneficent God who shelters those in need. There is still a mystery at work here, but (sad to end with such crude phrasing!) God seems to be on the right side of it.

Brendan’s thesis

Posted in Uncategorized on 2 February 2010 by Brendan

For any and all who might take an interest, my thesis, titled “Freedom, Tradition, and Property in Early Modern England,” is available online.