Fear of the Lord

Throughout Scripture — both Old and New testaments — God’s people are told to fear him, which at first glance seems to be an odd response to a God full of grace and love. Perhaps the most puzzling statement comes when the people of Israel first meet God at the mountain in Exodus 20. Notice what Moses says to the people in response to their fear:

Now when all the people saw the thunder and the flashes of lightning and the sound of the trumpet and the mountain smoking, the people were afraid and trembled, and they stood far off and said to Moses, “You speak to us, and we will listen; but do not let God speak to us, lest we die.” Moses said to the people, “Do not fear, for God has come to test you, that the fear of him may be before you, that you may not sin.” (Exodus 20:18-20)

On the face of it, Moses’ words seem so strange as to verge on contradiction. What could the fear of the Lord possibly be, that he can speak about it like this?

Perhaps the most common way of making sense of the fear of the Lord is to say that it amounts to reverence for the Lord. While I don’t deny that it involves this, I struggle to see how this could be the whole story. After all, often the fear of the Lord is explained in genuinely scary terms, like our destruction or like the thunder and lightning in the quote above. These show us that God’s greatness can be a real danger to his people. It seems to me, then, that we need a more satisfactory account that does justice to this, without collapsing into the opposite error of denying God’s graciousness.

We mentioned fear in an earlier post on faith and hope, where we said that fear is uncertainty with dissent. That is to say, we fear something because we are uncertain as to whether it will be good or bad for us. Naturally, this often results in us wanting to avoid the thing we fear, lest the bad thing happen. We saw an example of this in that earlier post when the disciples are confronted by Jesus’ power in calming the storm:

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. And other boats were with him. And a great windstorm arose, and the waves were breaking into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion. And they woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. He said to them, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great fear and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4:35-41)

The disciples can see that Jesus is powerful, but they are uncertain whether he is good powerful or bad powerful and so they fear him. Note, however, that the fear here is not the right way to respond to Jesus. This is why he asks in exasperation why they are still afraid as opposed to having faith.

Closely related to fear is dread, which is thinking with dissent. When we dread something we are not uncertain about whether it is bad but are convinced to some degree it is. For the sake of illustration, imagine we commit some crime. Initially, we fear being caught, since we’re uncertain about whether it will happen or not. Once we are caught, however, we dread the punishment because we’re pretty confident it will happen.

So we have these two notions, neither of which seem adequate accounts of the fear of the Lord. In both cases, we are repelled from the thing we fear or dread, but the Lord whom we are to fear wants us to draw closer to him. Nevertheless, this sense of fear does seem to be what Moses has in mind when he says, “Do not fear” to the people of Israel. Having been confronted with God in the thunder and lightning, their (quite understandable) response was to stand far off and avoid talking with him. They were repelled from the object of their fear. Moses then urges them not to respond to God in this manner.

As I see it, the fear of the Lord should be understood as follows. God is the source of all goodness, making him unequivocally good for us and something we should be drawn towards. Furthermore, because of his grace, he will accept us and bless us if we come to him. But if we turn away from him — if we turn away from the giver of life — we will die; if we make ourselves his enemies, we will be destroyed. And this would be something very bad for us indeed.

So the fear of the Lord stands somewhere between fear and dread as we’ve outlined them above. There is no uncertainty here, for God has made these terms abundantly clear. And our destruction is only anticipated if we choose to turn away from him. Perhaps we should say, then, that fear of the Lord is conditionality with dissent: the badness of punishment remains an open possibility so long as we are capable of turning away from God, but will not happen so long as we cling to him. We don’t have a word for this — and presumably neither did the authors of Scripture — so we use the word “fear” as the best alternative.

The most significant difference between the fear of the Lord and fear in the typical sense is this: instead of being repelled by him, we are drawn to him and repelled by his absence. We are drawn to live with the giver of life and serve creator of everything, and we are repelled by what will happen if we choose death over life and something created over the creator.

This reading fits well with how the phrase is used throughout Scripture. We see this in Moses’ words above. There he explains that the fear of God must be before them so that they may not sin. And we see something similar in his sermons in Deuteronomy:

Now this is the commandment, the statutes and the rules that the Lord your God commanded me to teach you, that you may do them in the land to which you are going over, to possess it, that you may fear the Lord your God, you and your son and your son’s son, by keeping all his statutes and his commandments, which I command you, all the days of your life, and that your days may be long… It is the Lord your God you shall fear. Him you shall serve and by his name you shall swear. You shall not go after other gods, the gods of the peoples who are around you — for the Lord your God in your midst is a jealous God — lest the anger of the Lord your God be kindled against you, and he destroy you from off the face of the earth… And the Lord commanded us to do all these statutes, to fear the Lord our God, for our good always, that he might preserve us alive, as we are this day. And it will be righteousness for us, if we are careful to do all this commandment before the Lord our God, as he has commanded us. (6:1-2, 13-15, 24-25)

And again we see the same ideas coming up in the Psalms:

Blessed is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in his ways!… Behold, thus shall the man be blessed who fears the Lord. (Psalm 128:1, 4)

And finally, in the New Testament we see it most clearly in Paul’s words to the Philippians:

Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure. (Phillipians 2:12-13)

The verses that follow make it clear that Paul’s intention here is to urge them to continue living lives pleasing to God while they looked forward to “the day of Christ” (v16). This amounts to the same idea as we saw in Moses and the Psalms, but also taking into account the work of Christ.

Examples can be multiplied, but these passages show that understanding the fear of the Lord as conditionality with dissent does justice to its use in Scripture. Most importantly it explains why such fear is a good thing for the people of God to have, without undermining his greatness or his graciousness.

Patience

A while ago my church was doing a series on the fruit of the Spirit, listed in Galatians 5:22-23. I did the sermon on patience, and below are the notes for this. The audio can be found at my church’s website. In addition to reading the list of the fruit in Galatians, we also read James 5:7-11, upon which the sermon is based. My broader approach to patience is based off Aquinas’s discussion in ST II-II Q136.

Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains. You also, be patient. Establish your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is at hand. Do not grumble against one another, brothers, so that you may not be judged; behold, the Judge is standing at the door. As an example of suffering and patience, brothers, take the prophets who spoke in the name of the Lord. Behold, we consider those blessed who remained steadfast. You have heard of the steadfastness of Job, and you have seen the purpose of the Lord, how the Lord is compassionate and merciful. (James 5:7-11)

Introduction

One of the clearest messages in Scripture is that the people of God need to be patient. As we just saw in Galatians, Paul lists patience alongside things like love, goodness, and joy — which seem like pretty good things for Christians to have. Scripture often tells us that God’s people need to have endurance, steadfastness, or perseverance. It tells us to not dwell in anger, and it tells us to forgive one another. And a large chunk of God’s interactions with us is through him promising something and us having to wait for it.

But why should we be patient? How does patience follow from the gospel? And what is patience, actually? These are the questions we want to try and grapple with tonight.

There’s what we might call the “lazy” answer to these questions which is easy but ultimately unhelpful. It goes something like this: nice people are patient, Christians are supposed to be nice people, and so Christians are supposed to be patient. I say this is unhelpful because it tells us nearly nothing about patience, and doesn’t help us understand how patience flows from the gospel. So, let’s put that to one side and start over afresh.

Patience in general

Let’s start by trying to understand patience in general. In our passage James illustrates patience with the example of the farmer. The farmer sows the seed so that the ground will produce food. But he knows that this will not happen immediately. He knows that in order for the plant to produce this food, it needs to take in a number of rounds of rain, and this takes time. So he waits calmly without giving up. He keeps his composure. So patience is about keeping composure.

But it’s not just this, is it? We don’t call people patient when they’re calm and life is easy. James knows this, since he goes on to talk about patience in the face of suffering. And we can see this if we think through the farmer example a bit more. Let’s say he planted the seeds and then forgot about them. Then one day he’s like, “Oh! Crops!” In this case he wouldn’t be showing patience: he would just be forgetful. On the other hand let’s say he needed food and this was his only way of getting it. Or perhaps he finds it difficult to wait through both autumn and spring rains to get these crops. It’s in these cases that he would be waiting patiently. So patience involves keeping composure in the face of difficulty, whether it be suffering, or stress, or weakness, or something else.

So far so good, but we’re still missing something: when we’re patient, what motivates our patience? The farmer doesn’t wait just because he likes waiting, and we don’t endure suffering because we enjoy suffering. More generally, we aren’t patient because we like going through difficult times. The farmer has an end in mind, he has a goal: he waits patiently for the rain because this is how he gets his crops to produce food. If he gives up waiting he gives up on this food.

And this principle scales up and down: if he only waits one day, he wouldn’t get much more than what he planted. If he waits through only the autumn rains he would see the plant’s stalk and leaves — and he’d be able to eat those, which would be good to some extent. But if he waits through both autumn and spring rains, then he gets to enjoy the what James calls the “valuable crop,” which would be a great good. His waiting pays off in that it enables he to take hold of the great good.

And this is true in general when it comes to patience: we keep our composure in the face of difficulty because we look forward to a great good that we can only get if we don’t give up. This is the last aspect of patience.

Patience is keeping composure in the face of difficulty for the sake of some great good.

We can see this definition work out everywhere in life, most clearly when we’re being impatient. When you’re driving to work and you get fed up because of the traffic, you are not keeping your composure in the face of that difficulty — you’re being impatient with the other drivers. When you start ignoring someone at church because they’re irritating and you’ve given up, you are not keeping your composure in the face of that difficulty — you’re being impatient with them. When you continually struggle to overcome a particular sin but it’s difficult and so you give up on it, you are not keeping your composure in the face of that difficulty — you’re being impatient with yourself.

Christian patience: the great good and source of difficulty

To understand Christian patience, then, we need to talk about the difficulties we face as Christians and the great good that helps us get through them. To start off we need to understand two things: (1) to be with God is the greatest anyone could ever hope for, but (2) our sin prevents us from being with him. So let’s unpack each of these.

God is the greatest good

I say God is good, but on the face of it referring God “a good” — or even “a great good” — can actually be slightly misleading, because he’s not just some good thing among the other good things we are familiar in everyday life. Good ice-cream, good paintings, good dogs, and good people are each is good and desirable, but only in a limited and qualified way. God, on the other hand, is good in an unlimited way. When I’m eating a good ice-cream, part of my desire is satisfied, but some part is left unsatisfied, since an ice-cream is not a painting, or a dog, or a good time with friends, or anything else I could want. This is because the ice-cream is limited — it’s just ice-cream. It would be different, though, if I could somehow experience God, since he is unlimited. There would be no part of me left unsatisfied. CS Lewis summarized this when he said,

He who has God and everything else has no more than he who has God only. (CS Lewis, The Weight of Glory)

Now, God is so good, so holy, and so beautiful that no-one can experience him all at once, at least not in this life. When we see goodness and beauty the various things throughout creation — when we see impressive animals, incredible plants, beautiful landscapes and valleys, when we amazed by the vastness of space, and when we’re occasionally pleased with ourselves — all we’re doing is looking through windows into this or that aspect of God’s infinite glory. And even then, these windows can be difficult to see through because of things like disease, and decay, and cruelty, and death. We never get to experience God’s glory all at once, but only bit-by-bit.

This idea that God’s beauty and goodness and holiness are expressed bit-by-bit throughout creation is spoken about in different ways in Scripture. So for example, David says, “The heavens declare the glory of God” (Ps 19:1), and the angels sang to Isaiah, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory!” (Is 6:3).

Wouldn’t it be cool, though, if instead of having God’s beauty just a little bit at a time, we somehow were able to have all of it at once? It would be like all the good times in life now, minus all the bad, but scaled up infinitely. We know it would be awesome, but don’t know exactly what that would be like, since we’ve never experienced anything like it before. We don’t get it, we can’t at the moment. As finite creatures with finite experience of reality, we have no way of picturing the true awesomeness of an infinite God. And that’s actually where the problem starts.

Sin prevents us from accessing God

You see, we’re so familiar with the finite things here in our everyday life and so unfamiliar with the infiniteness of God, that we find it easy to replace the one for the other — to focus on limited goodness rather than unlimited goodness.

Sometimes you’ll hear sin being spoken about in terms of “giving into desire,” as if the one who has the strongest desire is the one most likely sin. But in some sense it’s because our desires aren’t strong enough that we give up wanting to be with God and settle the lesser things we’re familiar. Again, CS Lewis summarizes this well when he says,

It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased. (CS Lewis, The Weight of Glory)

This giving up of God for some finite good is at the heart of we call sin. And sin always spirals into more sin. The more we choose finite goods over God, the more used it we become. It becomes easier to do again next time, and harder and harder to choose God. Sins we might’ve at one point thought unimaginable now become plausible, or even desirable. And so we spiral further and further away from God, alienating ourselves from him, and cutting ourselves off from ever seeing him face-to-face. This infinite goodness that is beyond our wildest dreams is now beyond our reach.

Again, the idea that our sin prevents us from accessing God is spoken about in different ways in Scripture. With Moses, for example, God said, “you cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.” (Ex 33:20) And as Isaiah cried out when he saw God, “Woe is me! I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips… and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty.” (Is 6:5)

Christian patience: the gospel

It’s against this backdrop of us being cut off from infinite joy that the gospel shows us what Christian patience is all about. Because of Jesus the possibility of being with God in all his glory is once again brought within reach, so that anyone who wants it can have it. So, the greatest possible good we could hope for returns as something we can look forward to.

But we don’t get all of it right now, and this is where the difficulty comes in. When we turn to God our sin no longer alienates us from him, for sure, but we’re still people who find it easy to sin. As Paul says in his letter to the Romans,

So I find this law at work: Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin… What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? (Rom 7:21-24)

As we are now, we’re caught in what we might call “the twilight of sin,” the time between when Christ first came — when he fixed our relationship with God — and when he will return again — when he will fix us and we will get to be with God. And it’s this second day — which James refers to as “the coming of the Lord” (Jas 5:7a, 8c) — that we are to look forward to.

It’s because we’re in this twilight that we need to show patience. Right now we are weak and still find it so easy to choose lesser goods over God. But, if we keep our composure, if we endure through these difficulties, then one day we will get to be with him.

Christian patience: our weakness

Now, maybe there’s a particular sin you’re struggling with at the moment, and which you keep lapsing back into. In this case, there are two ways to give up. Either (1) you’ll find a way to justify or ignore the sin, by convincing yourself it’s not really that bad or (2) you’ll distance yourself from God because you’ve failed him. In a way, these two responses are opposites of one another: the one says your failure is so big that God won’t want anything to do with you, and the other tries to underplay the failure so that it’s not really a failure in the end.

But please don’t give up! I know it’s difficult, but remember that this life and this difficulty are temporary, and that one day this burden will be lifted from you. Recognize sin as the failure it is, and remember that God’s love is big enough to overcome it! Hate your sin, and keep your eyes facing forward to the day it will be gone. As Paul reminds us, “He who calls you is faithful; he will surely do it.” (1 Thess 5:24) So be patient with yourself.

Christian patience: their weakness

But maybe it’s not your sin that you’re struggling with. As a community of people each weakened by sin in different ways, it’s inevitable that we’re going to fail each other sometimes. And as James says, we’ll be tempted to give up on one another, to grumble against each other. Either we’ll get angry at each other, or we’ll try avoid each other, or something in between, but it always results in more disunity than when we started.

When you’re tempted to give up on a fellow brother or sister the key thing to remember is this: the day that you look forward to — when your sin is removed and you are with God — is the same day that their sin is removed and they are with God. In other words, the day we long for is the day that we are all together in perfect unity. Now, if the day I look forward more than anything else involves me being with you in perfect unity, how could I not endure your failures now, and how could I not work for unity between us? Of course this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t correct each other, or rebuke each another, or things like that; what it means is that when we do these things that we should do them patiently.

Christian patience: the synthesis

Ultimately, if we are able to acknowledge our own sin without giving up on ourselves and if as a community we are able to bear with one another’s sins, then we will have created an environment in which we can help each other in our weakness. In the end this is part of the reason why God let’s us face these difficulties in the first place. As James says earlier in his letter,

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. And let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. (Jas 1:2-4)

Christian patience: some perspective

As I close I want to ask a more general question. So far I’ve been speaking about how the gospel relates to patience in the Christian life: patience with ourselves in our struggle against sin, and patience with our fellow Christians in their struggles against sin. I focused on the Christian life because this is what the New Testament focuses on. But what about the everyday stuff, like when I get angry in traffic on my way to work, or when I get fed up with my parents or my children?

I think the gospel has something to say about these too, but with a difference. When it comes to our struggle with sin, we should never give up, because an infinite God is always worth enduring through a finite difficulty. But in everyday life many of the goods we look forward to are finite, and so giving up can sometimes be the right thing to do. For example, if at work we come up with a plan to meet a certain goal, but halfway through we realize it’s not worth it, then the right thing to do is to give up and try something else. So, however the gospel applies in these cases, it cannot be in the same way as it applies to the struggle with sin.

So, how does is apply? The thought that I keep coming back to is this: on a normal day small things like stubbing my toe easily irritate me. But if I was fighting in a war and I stubbed my toe, I doubt it would irritate me at all!

The point is that it’s all about perspective: we’re more prone to get impatient in cases we think are more important. But when we have an eye on the bigger picture, the struggles that once seemed so big tend to fall away.

This is where the gospel comes in: it says that the everyday things we see and do are not the whole story. That behind the scenes there’s a war going, between eternal life with God and eternal death without him. And that each of us are soldiers — of a kind — in this war. As Pauls says in his letter to the Ephesians,

Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. (Eph 6:10-13)

We would do well to remember all of this on our way to work tomorrow; when a driver in front of us forgets to indicate and we’re tempted to be impatient.

Faith and hope

Our goal here is to unpack the notion of faith so as to overcome confusions in modern thinking on the topic. Lacking a good understanding of the notion actively prevents many people, both Christian and non-Christian, from understanding Scripture. In this post, we will begin an account of faith and give examples from Scripture and everyday life where applicable.

Faith involves thinking

Sometimes, especially in Christian circles, you’ll here that faith is “trust.” This is a good start insofar as (1) our thinking about trust is less confused than our thinking about faith, and (2) it highlights the fact that faith can be both in a person as well as a fact. But it’s just a start, for to give a synonym is not to give an analysis.

Others, who are less charitable to religion, would have us believe that faith is “belief in spite of or contrary to the evidence.” Indeed, this is how Richard Dawkins defines it in his book The God Delusion and how Peter Boghossian defines it in his book A Manual for Creating Atheists. In the TV series Bones, the protagonist defines faith as “irrational belief in a logical impossibility.” Similarly, Bill O’Reilly once gave the advice to “base your opinions on faith when it comes to religious matters, and facts when it comes to secular matters.”

None of this, however, captures how Scripture uses the term or how we tend to use it when we don’t have some theological ax to grind. But it’s difficult to be completely wrong about something, and this “analysis” is no exception. While it’s wrong to say that faith need be contrary to evidence, it does seem that once we achieve “the certitude of sight” we cease to have faith.

This leads us to the realization that faith involves thinking, by which we mean a confidence in something that does not reach complete certitude. Thinking something to be true is to think it more likely true than its negation. Most or all of life involves thinking in this sense of the word. And this fits well with Hebrews 11:1 which says that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Aquinas gives the following definition of thinking:

[Thinking] is more strictly taken for that consideration of the intellect, which is accompanied by some kind of inquiry, and which precedes the intellect’s arrival at the stage of perfection that comes with the certitude of sight. (ST II-II Q2 A1 corp)

Thinking well involves matching ones confidence in something in accordance with what the evidence allows. To be more confident than what the evidence allows is overconfidence, and to be less confident is to be unduly skeptical.

Faith is thinking with assent

But faith must be more than mere thinking. I don’t mean by this that faith involves overconfidence, but rather that faith has an extra dimension to it. I do not have faith in someone if I think they’re dangerous or evil. This is because faith is made up of both thinking and desiring. But it is not enough that the thing thought and the thing desired merely coincide with one another: if I think a chair is tall and desire the blueness of the chair, for instance, I do not thereby have faith in the chair. Rather, for faith to occur we need the thinking and the desiring to be essentially linked in a single act. In other words, faith occurs when our thinking and desiring are about the same thing, as when I want a sturdy chair and think this chair is sturdy. We say, then, that faith is thinking with assent.

Assent is a bit of a tricky word. It picks out the “mood” of the thinking, which in this context just means that the content of the thinking involves something desirable or wanted. And since we desire all and only what seems good to us, we might equally say that the thinking involves something that seems good to us.

Let’s consider some examples from everyday life. We have faith in a chair insofar as we think it will hold us up and we desire it to do so. We have faith in our spouse insofar as we think they will not cheat on us and desire that they do not do so. We have faith in someone’s word insofar as we think they will be true to it and desire them to be so. In the Chronicles of Narnia, the children had faith in Aslan insofar as they thought him powerful and saw this as a good thing.

It might be informative to compare faith to its contraries. Since faith has two elements, we have two axes to explore. On the axis of thought, we have thinking, uncertainty, and doubt. Thinking is as we defined above, uncertainty is being unsure either way, and doubt is thinking something is not the case. On the axis of desire, we have assent, quiescence, and dissent. Assent involves desiring, quiescence is indifference with respect to desire, and dissent is desiring something not be the case.

Dread, then, is thinking with dissent: we dread something we think will happen but don’t want to happen. Wishful thinking is a term used for doubting with assent or uncertainty with assent: when we want something we don’t think will happen, we have wishful thinking. Commonly hope is also used this way, but I don’t think this the primary sense of the word (more on that below). Fear is uncertainty with dissent: when something we take to be bad might or might not happen we fear it. Doubting with dissent is the other side of faith: you have faith in A then you doubt with dissent that not-A. Unfortunately, we do not have a word for this in English, so we’ll just a question mark in its place.

doubt uncertainty thinking
dissent ? fear dread
quiescence mere doubt mere uncertainty mere thinking
assent wishful thinking wishful thinking faith

When you know someone is powerful, but are unsure whether they are good, you fear them. When you don’t study for an exam but want to have done well, that’s wishful thinking. An example of two of these working out in Scripture comes in the calming of the storm:

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. And other boats were with him. And a great windstorm arose, and the waves were breaking into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion. And they woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. He said to them, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great fear and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4:35-41)

After seeing Jesus’ power, the disciples fail to have faith in him and instead fear him. They can see that he is powerful, but they are uncertain whether he is good powerful or bad powerful. This is ultimately rooted in their failure to understand what it means to be the Christ in its entirety. Compare this with the father’s response to Jesus later in the gospel:

Jesus asked the boy’s father, “How long has he been like this?”

“From childhood,” he answered. “It has often thrown him into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”

“‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for one who believes.”

Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:21-24)

Here the father thinks Jesus is good but doubts his power. His problem isn’t fear, but wishful thinking.

Faith and hope

So much for faith, what about hope? We can have faith in things, facts, and outcomes, but when Scripture talks about faith in a future outcome it calls it hope. “Expectation” is thinking that a future outcome will occur, and so hope is expectation with assent. In other words, hope is looking forward to an outcome we see as good or desirable.

Does faith come before hope, or does hope come before faith? It turns out the question is misplaced: neither comes first, but both can reinforce the other. Faith and hope are in the same thing (that is, they have the same object); the difference between them arises in us when we consider our relation to that thing in different ways. Take the example of the chair again. I have faith in the chair’s ability to hold me up, and I have hope that in a few seconds it will hold me up when I sit down on it. The object of my faith and my hope here are the same: the chair’s strength. The difference between faith and hope lies is in how I consider this object: either in itself (faith) or in its future outworking (hope).

The upshot of all of this is that in addition to the faith and hope there is some third thing — the object — and strictly speaking neither faith nor hope comes first, but both flow from this object. Nevertheless, it sometimes happens that we first place our faith or hope in something, and only later realize that the other follows from this. Because of this, there is a sense in which either can follow from the other, so that the two can mutually reinforce one another.

The close interplay between faith and hope is visible in Abraham’s story in Genesis. In chapters 12-17 God repeatedly promises Abraham that he will have many descendants who will be in right relationship with God, and who will be a blessing to the nations of the world. Then in chapter 21, Isaac is born and God promises that “through Isaac shall your offspring be named.” Then in chapter 22 God tells Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. Have you ever wondered why Abraham is praised for his actions here? It’s not because it’s good to kill children, or because God can somehow make murder good. Rather, as Eleonore Stump explains, it’s because Abraham has faith in God and hope in his promises to make Isaac a great nation even if he killed Isaac. Abraham obviously didn’t know how God would do that, but he’d been shown in the past that God was powerful and able to work beyond the limitations of humans. What he was doing here was holding on to God’s power and goodness:

No unbelief made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God, fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised. That is why his faith was “counted to him as righteousness.” (Romans 4:20-22)

We see hope and faith reinforcing each other throughout Abraham’s interactions with God. Initially, the promise is given, which leads to hope which in turn leads to faith, and God repeats the promises a few times. But God also shows himself as someone capable of doing more than what Abraham could have physically imagined, which reinforces Abraham’s faith in him, resulting in more hope.

Conclusion

We’ve briefly discussed faith and hope quite generally, and used some passages from Scripture for illustrative examples. Later, in a follow up to our earlier post on grace, we will spell out the object of Christian faith in detail.

By grace through faith

Have you noticed that theological discussions about grace almost always tend to include questions about conversion? What I mean is that they often center around the process by which someone moves from hostility towards God to desiring him. In particular, the Christian understands this as coming to faith in God and his gospel.

In Protestant circles the debate about the “doctrines of grace” is about the extent and nature of man’s inability to turn to God by himself, God’s supernatural act to overcome this inability, and the relation all of this has to free will and predestination.[1] In Roman Catholic circles we see something similar, albeit with slightly different distinctions and approaches. St. Aquinas, for instance, speaks of grace as that by which God supernaturally moves man inwardly to the assent of faith.[2] Naturally, such language raises questions of man’s free will in the matter which led to much debate — most notably between the Banezians and the Molinists — and which continues to be discussed today.[3] We can take it back even further: St. Augustine also discusses grace and free will in these terms, and he was around all the way back in the 4th century.[4]

Why do I raise this? Well, because it seems to me that when St. Paul talks about grace he is rather indifferent to questions about conversion. Now technically, there’s nothing wrong with certain debates throughout the centuries using slightly different vocabulary to Paul in the first century; so long as we make the necessary distinctions it won’t get in the way of our understanding of Scripture. The problem, however, is that we don’t make these distinctions, and so it does get in the way of our understanding.

Before we proceed I should make the following disclaimer: I’m in no way discrediting the topics mentioned above as legitimate and important avenues of theological discussion. I myself have drawn much value from them. I’m just interested in the exegetical question.

Some context

It should not be forgotten that Paul was a Jew and so his theology was informed generally by Jewish thought, and particularly by the Old Testament. There is sometimes a tendency to separate New Testament from Old, but unless we have some principled reason for doing so I see no reason why we should. Jesus and the apostles did not understand Jesus’ ministry to have overthrown the old covenants, but rather as something that fulfilled them.

Now, in the Old Testament God’s sovereignty — his guidance of human actions and history — is taken for granted and considered as something obvious and foundational, without much need for exposition. God’s actions are primarily depicted in more “external” terms, such as judging Israel or the other nations, and attempting to convince Israel to return to him. Generally the Old Testament authors focus on human motivations and responsibility for their actions, and only every now and then do they add a throw-away comment about God’s sovereign activity in the background.[5] And only a handful of these could be construed as God’s sovereign role in Israel’s turning to him from their sinful rejection of him. These just aren’t considered pressing questions for these authors.

What is a pressing question — and one which comes up all the time — is whether God will accept them back if they choose to repent.[6] Whether, after rejecting him and returning, he will accept them again and forgive their earlier offense. There’s nothing saying he must forgive them, of course: just as someone who commits a crime is not absolved of it merely by choosing to act like a respectable citizen from that moment onwards, so neither is someone who turns to seek God thereby absolved of their previous sin.

With this we’ve stumbled across an important distinction, the blurring of which is at the heart of our tendency to include questions about conversion with questions about grace: on the one hand someone turns to seek God, and on the other God forgives and accepts them. It seems to me that when Paul discusses grace and related topics he follows the Old Testament in being primarily interested in the second of these issues. We, on the other hand, are often interested in the first. In this sense, then, it seems we’ve gotten things backwards.

A clarification

Before we continue, let’s try get more clear on what we’re talking about. Grace is the solution to a problem, and we’re trying to get at what the authors of Scripture thought this problem was. On the one hand there’s the problem of how someone converts, that is how they turn from rejecting God to desiring him. On the other hand there’s the problem, even once someone has turned to God, of how they become reconciled to him. Let’s call these the inability problem and the alienation problem respectively.

Now we restate everything I’ve been saying with the help of this clarification. For a long time now discussions about grace have had the problem of inability at a fairly central place, while the authors of Scripture seem to be more interested in the problem of alienation.

Romans

We can begin to see all of this from a number of interconnected perspectives. Grace is closely related to a number of important notions at the center of Christian theology, like justification and the work of the Holy Spirit, and so a complete discussion would need to include something on these other notions. Here we will confine ourselves to what Paul says more or less directly about grace, with the hopes of looking at the other notions in more depth some other time. We’ll focus our attention here closely on what Paul says in two of his letters: Romans and Ephesians.

Starting with Romans, a brief summary is in order. In the opening chapters Paul seeks to establish that everyone is under sin and thereby alienated from God. By itself this wouldn’t have been surprising to his Jewish audience, who were familiar with the notion that the nations were alienated from God. They were the exception to this, however, because they were God’s chosen people: God had made a covenant with them (the sign of which was circumcision), and given them the law by which they could know and do his will. To their surprise, though, Paul goes on to include the Jews in his indictment. It is indeed to their advantage that they had all these things (3:1ff), but the law and circumcision themselves are not sufficient. Paul here echoes the prophets (cf. Micah 3, Isaiah 58) in criticizing the tendency to presume upon these Jewish sacraments without actually following through on them in their actions.[7] The fundamental thing needed is a change of heart — returning to God — which we trust will be graciously accepted by God (cf. Deuteronomy 30, Psalm 51, Hosea 14). The law and circumcision are not unrelated to this, of course: circumcision is the sign of the covenant, and the law gives the expression and end of this changed heart. But neither of these things in themselves are the grounds for their right-standing. Indeed, of itself, the law does not solve the problem of sin but only casts it in clearer light. (3:19-20)

It’s important for Paul in these opening chapters that everyone be found in the same boat. The Christians in Rome were divided over the place of the law and circumcision in the Christian life, since up until recently these had been defining features of God’s people. Paul’s point is that they of themselves do nothing to make one part of God’s people.

This sets the stage, then, for Paul’s proposal. While the law is not the solution to universal human alienation from God through sin, it does point to the solution: the person and work of Jesus the Christ. As he goes on to say, both Jew and Gentile “have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus, whom God put forward as a propitiation by his blood, to be received by faith.” (Rom 3:23-25)

The first thing to notice is that the grace Paul has in mind is received by faith, as opposed to being the cause of faith. Second, it would miss the overall thrust of Paul’s argument to think of this grace as that which causes some kind of desire for God. The Jew who mistakenly boasts in God on the basis of the law (2:17) desires God; his problem is his basis for boasting in God. Paul’s point is that because the law (and circumcision) does not form such a basis, it should also not be causing these divisions in the Roman church. Both Christian Jew and Gentile are right with God for the same reason: not because the Gentile has been circumcised and started following the distinctively Jewish laws (which would the just make him a Jew), but because both are justified through faith. Thus he continues, “For we hold that one is justified by faith apart from works of the law. Or is God the God of Jews only? Is he not the God of Gentiles also? Yes, of Gentiles also…” (3:28-29) To cast this in terms of conversion just misses the point. His point is that if a Gentile seeks God he needn’t become a Jew, for this would make God the God of only the Jews. By grace, God overcomes the alienation of both Jew and Gentile through faith. That the person seeks God is assumed; it’s not taken to be the result of anything (at least not here).[8]

The interpretation of these verses ripples through the remainder of the letter to the Romans. This is natural since Paul is starting in these early chapters the line of thought he will carry on through to the end. For our current purposes, perhaps one of the most interesting passages to look at in chapter 7:

Did that which is good [the law], then, bring death to me? By no means! It was sin, producing death in me through what is good, in order that sin might be shown to be sin, and through the commandment might become sinful beyond measure. For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am of the flesh, sold under sin. For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree with the law, that it is good. So now it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me.

So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself serve the law of God with my mind, but with my flesh I serve the law of sin. (7:13-25)

There is much discussion about how best to interpret the perspective Paul is taking here. One option is that he’s talking about the Christian experience of the struggle with sin. It’s unclear, however, why sin would still produce death in a believer. Another option is that Paul is talking from the perspective of a Jew prior to the coming of Christ. It’s unclear, however, why Paul would speak in the present tense and why only now he takes this perspective (presumably he’s been speaking from the Christian perspective since at least 6:1).

I think both of these options are getting at something, but missing it slightly because each assumes the grace in question involves something like conversion. If we apply the correction we were talking about earlier, a nice third option becomes available: Paul is speaking from the perspective of the person who desires God — and who sees his law as good — but who is nonetheless alienated from God because of their sin. At this point he’s bracketing out the grace he’s mentioned before so that he can situate it as the solution he sees it as: the way a person who has turned to God but remains stained by sin, can be reconciled with God.

Put another way, we might say that Paul is considering two logically distinct stages in someone being made righteous through faith: the stage at which the person turns to God but is still under sin, and the stage at which God graciously accepts him and forgives his sin. The former stage takes up most of the space, and is summarized with the exasperated question, “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” The latter stage let’s loose the solution Paul has been discussing for the past few chapters whereby he is able to exclaim, “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

This passage is pivotal in Paul’s argument in chapters 5-8. In it he comes to the end of a dialectic he’s been following since the beginning of chapter 5, getting ever and ever more detailed about the relationship between notions like the law, grace, sin, death, and life. In chapter 8 he’ll address all of these in reverse order, “redressing” them appropriately in his account of God’s work at the cross. Take, for example, 8:31-39. Sometimes v35 is read in terms of inability, and so taken to be talking about Christians persevering in their faith. But if we consider the surrounding context as well as the context of the quote in v36, it becomes clear that it should be read in terms of alienation. The love of Christ, here, is expressed in his interceding for us, and Paul’s point is that nothing will get in the way of his doing this. This section “redresses” 5:1-2, in which Paul explains that through Christ our faith is enough to be right with God.

One more example of Paul’s focus on alienation: most of the discussion in Romans involves correcting the error of some of the Jewish Christians who were saying that something in addition to faith was necessary to deal with the alienation from God. Paul’s point is that this grace from God directly connects faith to reconciliation with him, so that nothing additional is needed and so there is nothing aside from God’s mercy that we can point to as the means by which we dealt with it. In Chapter 11, however, Paul briefly addresses an erroneous thought that might enter the Gentile’s mind as a result of this. He says,

… do not be arrogant toward the branches. If you are, remember it is not you who support the root, but the root that supports you. Then you will say, “Branches were broken off so that I might be grafted in.” That is true. They were broken off because of their unbelief, but you stand fast through faith. So do not become proud, but fear. For if God did not spare the natural branches, neither will he spare you. Note then the kindness and the severity of God: severity toward those who have fallen, but God’s kindness to you, provided you continue in his kindness. Otherwise you too will be cut off. And even they, if they do not continue in their unbelief, will be grafted in, for God has the power to graft them in again. (11:18-23)

It is because we continue to trust in his dealing with the alienation, as opposed to us having fixed it somehow, that we continue to be grafted in. Notice towards the end that the grafting occurs logically after the belief, which doesn’t make sense if the problem in view is one of inability. The power (and grace) of God in focus is his ability to graft those who believe back in, ie. address their alienation from him and his people.

Ephesians

Let’s turn now to consider Ephesians more briefly. The passage I have in mind is Ephesians 2:1-10. Here Paul tells us that previously we were “dead in our trespasses” but that “by grace through faith” God has saved us. Here it is common to see people interpret the phrase “dead in our trespasses” as meaning that we are like corpses, incapable of turning to God. That is, they interpret the phrase to be a statement of the inability problem. In this case, God’s saving us “by grace through faith” refers to him giving us faith.

It seems to me, however, that this way of reading the passage divorces it from the broader Pauline context to which it belongs. When Paul talks about death in relation to sin or grace he has in mind a judgment or consequence, not an inability.[9] Indeed, our quote from Romans 7 above is a clear example of this. To be sure, there are cases where Paul does use death to refer to inability — he speaks of Abraham as considering his body “as good as dead” in Romans 4 — but these cases are not discussing death in the context of sin or grace. Biologically speaking Paul understands that death is the greatest of all inabilities, but theologically speaking he uses it to refer to judgment or consequence, which is part of the problem of alienation.

On an alienation reading, then, when Paul says that we were “dead in our trespasses” he means something like we were “under the reign of death” or we were “on the track to death.” And, importantly, this is true even if we’ve turned back to God since the stain of sin still alienates us from God. But he graciously saved us from this through Jesus, a grace we receive through faith. Paul is not here interested in our conversion per se, but in our movement from being worthy of judgment to being reconciled with God.

Besides making more sense in the broader Pauline context, there are three other reasons to prefer this alienation reading to the inability reading. First, Paul uses the phrase “dead in our trespasses” interchangeably with the phrase “children of wrath,” and the latter clearly refers to judgment. Second, Paul contrasts us being dead with us being “seated in the heavenly places” (v6), which is what we’d expect on the alienation reading, but not on the inability reading. Third, when Paul uses the phrase elsewhere it clearly refers to the alienation reading. In Colossians Paul says,

And you, who were dead in your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made alive together with him, having forgiven us all our trespasses, by cancelling the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands. (2:13-14a)

Notice how God made us alive in this passage: by forgiving our sins. It is not by supernaturally enabling us to turn to him or by infusing us with faith, but by forgiving the thing keeping us alienated from him.

Coming back to the Ephesians passage, we have one more thing to comment on. Paul says towards the end that,

… by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. (2:8-9)

On the inability reading, the gift is the faith. On the preferred alienation reading, the whole process is the gift: God’s grace in Jesus is received through faith. This has the advantage of cohering well with the parallel phrase in Romans 3 we discussed earlier, as well as connecting this gift in v8 with the discussion of the preceding verses about God’s grace. Paul is explaining to these people who desire God in their faith, that God has made a way for this to be enough to overcome the alienation of their sin. Nothing they did achieved this, it is was a gift from God.

Concluding thoughts

We’ve examined two passages where Paul is talking explicitly about grace and seen that in neither case is he particularly interested in the question of conversion or the inability of us to turn to him.[10] Paul is talking to people who now desire God and, reflecting on the Old Testament reassurances, is explaining how God has overcome the stain of sin in them and thereby reconciled them to himself. Just like the criminal’s repentance does not by itself undo their crimes, so neither does the sinners repentance by itself undo their sin. This is the problem Paul sees God’s grace solving. It is only because of God’s grace shown in the cross that this barrier can be overcome, and repentant sinners can be declared sons of God.

Had God not shown this grace, people might turn to him in faith but this would be in vain since they would still stand alienated from him. Indeed, there’s nothing they could do to change this since it’s a result of past sins and no-one can change the past. God’s grace bridges this gap and undoes the alienation for those who turn to him in faith. Now he waits for us to so turn. In this way, we receive this grace in faith.

Notes

  1. Contemporary authors that jump to mind are people like Michael Horton, John Piper, Roger Olson, and Kenneth Keathley.
  2. “Therefore faith, as regards the assent which is the chief act of faith, is from God moving man inwardly by grace.” (ST II-II Q6 A1 corp.)
  3. See, for instance, Bernard Longeran’s incredible (and equally intense) book Grace and Freedom, Harm Goris’ Free Creatures of an Eternal God, and Alfred Fredosso’s God’s General Concurrence with Secondary Causes.
  4. See, for instance, his De libero arbitrio, his De natura et gratia, and his De gratia Christi et de peccato originali. See Eleonore Stump’s Augustine on Free Will for a nice contemporary discussion on all of this.
  5. See, for example, Genesis 50:20, 1 Samuel 2:25, and Isaiah 63:17.
  6. Many of us will be familiar with the promises of blessings for obedience and curses for disobedience in Deuteronomy 28-29, but we forget that after all this, in chapter 30, Moses reassures the Jews that after they’ve failed God and returned to him that he will mercifully restore their fortunes: “And when all these things come upon you, the blessing and the curse, which I have set before you, and you… return to the Lord your God… and obey his voice in all that I command you today, with all your heart and with all your soul, then the Lord your God will restore your fortunes and have mercy on you…” (30:1-3) Allusions to this promise from God appear throughout the Old Testament. See, for example, Psalm 32:1-2, 51:9, Isaiah 64:9, Ezekiel 18:21-23, and Zechariah 1:3.
  7. This the same problem Jesus had with the Pharisees. An example that jumps to mind is his criticism of the traditions of the Pharisees that were established under the pretense of serving God, but ended up merely undermining this purpose (cf. Mark 7:1-13). See also, this blog post.
  8. Perhaps people think in terms of conversion because in chapter 1 we have someone hostile to God. But this ignores chapter 2, where both Jew and Gentile seek to do Gods will.
  9. See, for example, Romans 1:32, 5:12, 6:21, 7:13-25, and Colossians 2:13-14. Note that in Ephesians 4:17-18, while he doesn’t use the word “dead,” he talks about “alienation from the life of God,” which fits well with my point here and plausibly refers back to what we was talking about here in Ephesians 2.
  10. This is not to say he is never interested in the question of conversion. It’s just not as prominent as some have come to think, and he doesn’t even use the word “grace” when discussing it. For example, in 1 Corinthians he talks about how the “natural person does not accept the things of the Spirit of God, for they are folly to him, and he is not able to understand them because they are spiritually discerned.” (2:14)

How can a loving God send people to hell?

I was recently asked to contribute a piece for a local Christian magazine called Scope Magazine, on the topic of how a loving God could send people to hell. Below is the unedited version I sent them. The official (and slightly edited) version can be read online here.

Perhaps one of the most uncomfortable Christian doctrines is the doctrine of hell. How is it, the question goes, that a loving God can send people to hell? Surely a God who truly loved all of mankind would allow everyone, without exception, into heaven? It seems to me, however, that reality is not as clear-cut as it first appears. A complete discussion would take more space than we have available to us, so my goal here is to draw a broad outline of the reasons why.

Let’s start by defining our terms. What is hell? While it is often pictured as fire and brimstone, it seems that the essence of hell is to be the opposite of heaven. What, then, is heaven? Christians have traditionally understood heaven to be the everlasting and direct experience of God himself. But wait, isn’t heaven supposed to be fun? Well, it depends. God is the supremely good and most beautiful thing in all reality, and to the extent a person realizes this they will desire God above all else. To such a person nothing could be more pleasurable than such an experience. And to be cut off from such goodness and beauty would be, for anyone, an undesirable fate indeed.

What is love? At its core, love is willing the good of another, appreciating the good in them, and striving to be with them in some way. If the love is mutual, then we build an every-growing bond. If the love is not mutual, then what can we do but make ourselves available in the hopes that one day the love will perhaps become mutual? To force oneself upon the other does not seem to be in line with loving them; rather love calls for some measure of honoring their wishes.

Putting these two together we begin to see something like the doctrine of hell: God has revealed himself in such a way that anyone who sincerely and consistently seeks him out will come to know him, and those who willfully ignore him will not have him forced upon them, neither in this life nor in the next. As Frank Turek has said, “God loves you too much to force you into his presence against your will.” Furthermore, while there is a certain continuity between this life and the next, we must realize that resurrection brings with it some measure of transformation. And the same permanence of will that safeguards an everlasting desire for God in heaven also safeguards an everlasting obstinance toward God in hell.

Consider this from another angle: we note that respect for someone flows out of love for them. When it comes to their actions, this means recognizing their responsibility as proportional to their abilities. So, it is out of respect we treat adults like adults, children like children, and animals like animals. This respect governs how we praise and reward someone for the good they’ve done, and blame and punish them for the bad they’ve done. In short, our respect for someone leads to a desire for justice for them. So God’s love for us leads to a desire for justice for us, and so he holds each of us accountable in perfect proportion to the bad we’ve done.

Now, God is the ultimate king over all creation and a being of infinite worth. To reject him or ignore him, therefore, is to be responsible for a kind of “grand cosmic treason”. Since in this case, the victim is of infinite worth, this represents a crime of infinite gravity, for which justice demands an infinite punishment. More broadly, Christians have traditionally held that God will judge each person proportional to their response to what they have been given, which fits quite well with our intuitions on the matter even if we disagree on the particular outworkings.

In summary, God’s honor and respect for us, both of which flow from his love for us, seem to suggest something like the doctrine of hell when properly understood. Of course, it would be remiss of me not to mention one of the clearest expressions of God’s love, namely that he would make himself a man and die for us. While perhaps not immediately obvious how, this act secures two consequences relevant to our topic here: it enables us to respond to God so as to enter into that bond of mutual love, and it acquits us of our guilt before him and thereby redeems us from punishment.

Joy and hope

In a previous post, I took joy to be happiness with respect to our ultimate good. We also spoke about two ways in which happiness is achieved: through the acquisition of a good or the continued possession of a good.

The Aristotelian inside me was unsatisfied with this, for we usually take happiness to be identical with the ultimate good. Clearly in the earlier post I was using the term in a less precise sense. After thinking about it a bit more I realised that what I actually meant by happiness was “pleasure” or “delight”. But then what is delight? Aquinas takes delight to be the appetite’s rest in good. Appetite, here, is the faculty with which we desire the good, and rest presumably involves the achievement of good (either by acquisition or continued possession).

So delight is to good as joy is to ultimate good. This leaves us free to use happiness in the Aristotelian sense, which pleases me greatly. Indeed, we can say that delight is to good as joy is to happiness.

Let’s take the account further. Hope can be taken as expectation with assent. That is, we expect an outcome to occur that we see as good. To compare this with alternatives: expectation with dissent is dread, doubting with assent is wishing, and unknowing (neither expecting nor doubting) with dissent is fear.

Consider hope with respect to our ultimate good.[1] It seems that this hope supports joy, and is to some extent necessary for it. That we’re looking forward to our ultimate good is clearly related to joy, which just is delight in our ultimate good. However, the expectation part is also important. After all, if in our life we contribute to something that we’re not expecting to achieve at the end of the day, then our efforts will seem to be in vain.[2] That the good is ultimate means that joy and hope involve good that is stable, that is, for continued (indeed, indefinite) possession. We don’t always desire goods in a way that we necessarily desire their continued possession. For example, we desire money for the sake of spending it. Because an ultimate good is not desired for the sake of something else, however, we necessarily desire its continued possession. Our joy, then, needs to be proportioned to (1) the goodness and (2) certainty of achieving our ultimate good as well as (3) the stability of that good.

Perhaps this is at the heart of the problem faced in Ecclesiastes. The Teacher is looking everywhere for an appropriate place for his hope, but finds nothing that is good, certain, and lasting.

Notes

  1. This is what the New Testament usually means by hope.
  2. Or ultimately meaningless. It is no mistake that the word in Ecclesiastes is translated as “meaningless” by some translations and “vanity” by others.

Independence or community?

Every now and then I contribute to a Christian magazine published at the University of Cape Town called The Good News. This time round a question was posed to a Christian (me) and an atheist. Each of us were given 350 words to answer it from our respective worldviews. The question this time was, “Were humans born to live independently from each other with an ‘every-man for himself’ kind of mentality?” My answer is as follows:

The short answer is no. On the Christian worldview we are born as distinct individuals to participate in loving community. We are called to love God above all things and love others (Mark 12:30f). This is not arbitrary either: God is the most perfect being (Ps 145:3), and while humans are animals, we are not merely animals: we are also image-bearers of God (Gen 1:27). What this means is that, in some finite way, we reflect his infinite greatness.

Now, it is by virtue of being image-bearers of God that all human beings are valuable. Moreover, since this is something intrinsic to being a human, it follows that all human beings are equally valuable, and therefore deserving of equal respect and love. This does not depend on their place in society, the amount of money in their bank accounts, or how much they agree with us. We can point to no difference as a basis for putting ourselves above or before anyone else, for we are all equally valuable and all called to love one another. This involves appreciating others, willing the good for them, and striving for union with them. How much further from self-centred could we get?

As I reflect on the society around me, however, it seems that we are turning away from unconditioned love and universal value, towards self-centredness and valuing people based solely on their usefulness. We see this in how we treat our poor, our unborn, our cleaners, and often even those dear to us. The Christian worldview is not ignorant of this: we are broken, deeply affected by sin (Rom 3:9ff). In a way, every human is predisposed towards putting themselves first, then others, and then, maybe, God. Nonetheless, we were born to live with and for others, and to this we must strive.

We see this goal embodied in Jesus, the perfect image-bearer. He told us to love and value one another, and modelled this by calling people from all social classes (Mark 2:15, 12:34) and laying down his life for our sake (1 John 3:16).

It’s 350 words if we count each pair of parentheses as one word. That’s ok, right?

Middle knowledge or Molinism?

[UPDATE: I’ve actually modified the related post since I wrote this one. I’m leaving this post here, though, because I still think it’s got an interesting thought in it]

In my recent post on God’s providence I discussed a view which I called “middle knowledge”. To some this might have been confusing, for this position is also sometimes called “Molinism”, after the Jesuit theologian Luis de Molina. Molina is responsible for introducing the doctrine of middle knowledge to reconcile libertarian free will with a strong view of divine providence, and as such the term Molinism is often used to designate the position I was talking about. Admittedly, that probably would have been a better label to use, although I tend to use the term “middle knowledge” to avoid confusion between Molinism as philosophical framework for providence and Molinism as a collection of doctrines about soteriology. This has happened in the past where people use the word “Calvinism” where they actually should use the word “compatibilism.”

One reason one might prefer the term Molinism, is because it more clearly encompasses the theses of libertarian free will and middle knowledge. While I was thinking about this, it dawned on me that while middle knowledge doesn’t technically include the thesis of libertarian free will, it does entail something very much like it: first, recall that the facts in God’s middle knowledge are contingent. This means that what agents freely do is not causally determined by their circumstances or God, which entails some form of the Principle of Contrary Choice. Second, recall that the facts are not determined by God. What else could determine the truth of these facts? Well, us! So something like libertarian free will plausibly follows from the doctrine of middle knowledge.

Of course this is really all just a matter of semantics. For the remainder of the blog post series, I’ll probably use start using “Molinism” as the term for the view.

God’s control and our free will

This is the second post in a series of posts on God’s providence. Last time we looked at a bunch of passages from Scripture which weigh in on the question. This time, as the title suggests, we’re going to talk about the relationship between God’s control and our free will.

In our first post, we asked two questions:

  1. Does God have the ability to control or direct human choices and actions?
  2. How often does God exercise this ability?

I think it was plain from last time that God does have the ability of directing human actions (cf. Gen 50:20, 1 Sam 2:25, Luke 22:22, Acts 4:27-28) and that he uses this ability to direct all history (cf. Prov 16:9, Eph 1:11). Now we turn to our current question: “How does God direct human actions?”

Some views on providence and free will

When I was younger I would often ask about how on earth God could direct human history without removing human responsibility. At the time, unfortunately, no-one around me was sufficiently equipped to answer the question and my question often got shrugged off with one of those, “oh well it’s just a mystery” kind of answers. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t think there’s anything wrong with mystery per se. After all God is a person and we can’t presume to know the motivations for his actions all the time, just like I can’t know the motivations behind the actions of anyone around me. But that shouldn’t stop us from trying to make sense of it, at least for the sake of showing the Christianity is a coherent worldview. A correct understanding of this relationship between God’s control and our responsibility will also counteract faulty thinking. I’ve found it happen too often that Christians who haven’t thought about divine providence fall into fatalistic thinking, which is quite unbiblical.

As it turns out, there are a number of models that seek to elucidate this relationship. We’ll begin by listing of a number of different answers that have been given, and then we’ll focus on the details of two of these answers specifically. The first class of models are what we might call “meticulous control” models. These models hold that God can bring about any possible choice in a human. The second class we might call “directing control” models. These hold that God can control outcomes of human actions, but can’t necessarily bring about all of the possible outcomes. This may sound weird, but we’ll see how we can hold this kind of model with a strong view of divine providence. The final class we might call “negligible control” models, and I’m sure you can guess what they hold. We won’t be concerning ourselves with this third class of models, because I think they’re unbiblical (although some very clever theologians don’t, which is worth noting).

In this post we will be discussing compatibilism (meticulous) and Molinism (directing) as potential answers to the question we posed earlier. I myself currently hold to the latter of these two, although I have held a a fair number of different views in the past, and I don’t really mind which you prefer yourself.

Free will

Before we discuss these models we need to introduce some distinctions with regards to free will and moments of God’s knowledge. First, there’s the distinction between compatbilistic versus libertarian free will. The compatbilist says that a choice being free is compatible with it being causally determined. Some compatibilists take this to include being caused to choose one way or the other by something external to the person doing the choosing (called external causal determination), whereas others only take this to include being caused by factors internal to the person doing the choosing, like their desires or will. As far as I understand, all compatibilists will agree that God can cause me to choose something and that choice will be free so long as it does not go against my will or nature.

Now, libertarianism is incompatibilistic. The libertarian says that an agent’s choice is free only if it ultimately arose from the agent and is not causally determined. There are some variations on this, but this is the basic idea. For the libertarian, even if God caused a person to choose something that was consistent with what they wanted, that choice would not be free.

The difference, in terms of choices being determined can be stated from the perspective of possible worlds. Imagine an agent A is in a circumstance C. For the compatibilist, A necessarily makes a choice S and is free. For most forms of libertarianism, A there will be some possible worlds in which A chooses S and other possible worlds in which A chooses otherwise. This is called the principle of contrary choice (PCC). As far as I’m aware the libertarian needn’t take PCC as a necessary condition for a choice to be free, but in this post we’ll assume the PCC for the sake of simplicity.

Moments of God’s knowledge

On classical theism, God is omniscient. However, certain things God knows depend on other things he knows. We can distinguish between up to 3 “moments” of God’s knowledge. These moments are logically ordered, in the sense that some depend on others. But they are not temporally ordered, since God had all this knowledge from eternity “before” there was time.

The first moment is God’s natural knowledge. This is God’s knowledge of all necessary truths. This includes all possible worlds, that is, all the different ways history could have gone. So, we’ll say that God’s natural knowledge is his knowledge of everything that could happen. God does not choose the content of his natural knowledge. So, natural knowledge is necessary and not chosen by God.

The last moment is God’s free knowledge. This is God’s knowledge of everything that will happen. God has this knowledge because of his decision of which possible world to actualise. As such, God does choose the content of his free knowledge. So, free knowledge is contingent and chosen by God.

Now there is a third moment called God’s hypothetical knowledge. Depending on our view of God’s providence this is gets placed differently in the order of things. How much we focus on it also differs with the views of providence, as we’ll see now. God’s hypothetical knowledge is his knowledge of everything that would happen. What I mean is the following: we can all agree that there are facts of the form, “If person A were put in a circumstance C, then he would choose S”. The libertarian can say, for example, that in any given circumstance, there is only one thing we would choose, even though there a lots of things we could choose. As I said, where we place this knowledge is determined by our view, and this is what we’ll be talking about now.

Compatibilism

Say we’re compatibilistic about free will. The next question is how God determines what will happen. Does he place us in circumstances which causally determine our choices, or does he actively cause our choices? We’ll call these two views soft compatibilism and omnicausality respectively. For both, God’s hypothetical knowledge is part of his natural knowledge. Although typically, on omnicausality, God’s hypothetical knowledge isn’t a particular focus since that’s not the primary means by which he brings about his purposes.

I won’t say much about soft compatibilism, since it’s very similar to Molinism, which we’ll discuss below. The key difference being the type of free will in focus. The soft compatibilist, I presume, would say that when the person is put in a given circumstance, the factors in the circumstance (be it the person’s nature, feelings and will at the time, their character, etc.) causally determine, and therefore necessitate, the choice that person will make. It’s worth noting that compatibilists don’t think that any causally determined choice is free: only non-constrained choices. In his book, No one like Him, John S. Feinberg has this to say about constraint (pg. 636):

As for constraint, in general it is a force that is not part of a person’s nature, a force which moves them to act against their wishes. Often the constraining force is external to the person, though a psychological neurosis might also constrain someone at act against his will.

Omnicausality seems quite strong, but if I were a compatibilist I think it’s the one I’d go for. The version of this view that I have in mind is the one explicated by Paul Helseth in his contribution to the book, Four views on divine providence (his contribution is summarised quite nicely here). As far as I can make out, Helseth takes omnicausality to be a consequence of the doctrine of concurrence. Essentially, this doctrine holds that God is the primary cause of everything that occurs in the world. On Helseth’s account, this means that he is also the cause of free creaturely choices. This isn’t to say that he is the only cause of these choices, but rather that he causes the choice along with the agent. Helseth distinguishes between God as the primary cause and the agent as the secondary cause of the agent’s choosing. God’s causal work, among other things, is what enables the agent to make their choice in the first place. I’m sure Helseth, along with the soft compatibilist, would be quick to include the nuance about non-constraining causation as a necessary condition for free will. Unfortunately, we can’t delve too deeply into the details of Helselth’s proposal here, so I’d recommend reading his contribution to the book and/or the summary I linked to. Needless to say, the view is nuanced, and in my opinion it is defensible.

Molinism

The Molinist places God’s hypothetical knowledge in the middle, between his natural and free knowledge, and calls it middle knowledge. On this view, what it means for the hypothetical knowledge to be in the middle (as opposed to being part of natural or free knowledge) is that it is contingent and not chosen by God. Molinists are also libertarians, and they use middle knowledge to explain how God can direct human history without our actions being causally determined: God ensures that we find ourselves in the circumstances in which we would choose according to his plan.

On this proposal, we can imagine that in the first moment of God’s knowledge (natural knowledge) he has all the possible worlds laid out in front of him. Then, in the second moment (middle knowledge), some of these worlds are picked out as feasible worlds. These are the possible worlds in which the creatures act according to the counterfactuals contained in God’s middle knowledge. God then picks from the feasible worlds which to actualise, and so he enters the third moment of knowledge (free knowledge).

Some people have taken exception to the “strangeness” of middle knowledge. How can it be that there are contingent facts that are not decided by God? If not God, then what decided them? To put this in more philosophical terms, what grounds the truth of the counterfactuals that make up God’s middle knowledge? This oft repeated question is known as the grounding problem. We’re not going to discuss it here, but I’ve written a post detailing how I think the counterfactuals can be explained (even if they can’t be grounded) and to my mind this greatly reduces the weight of the problem. On the answer I give there, it is us who decide which counterfactuals are true.

We must reiterate that Molinism includes libertarian free will. What this means, at least in general, is that agents can act contrary to how they would act. That is, in a given circumstance there is one thing an agent would do even though there are many things they could do. Consider what this means from the perspective of possible and feasible worlds. Imagine Bob is put in some circumstance C, and imagine further that the counterfactual “If Bob were in C, he would choose A” is true. This means that in every feasible world in which Bob is in C, he chooses A. There are possible worlds in which Bob is in C and doesn’t choose A, but God can’t actualise these worlds, because it would involve Bob choosing contrary to what we would freely choose according to the counterfactuals that happen to be true. On libertarianism, it is a contradiction in terms for God to cause Bob to choose something freely.

Does Scripture dictate which view we should hold?

Some theologians and/or philosophers think that Scripture teaches compatibilism. I obviously disagree. Others think that Scripture teaches something like Molinism (or at least libertarianism). I disagree with them too. I am of the opinion that Scripture is largely underdeterminitve when it comes to reconciling God’s control and our moral responsibility. What I mean by that, is that Scripture teaches two things: (1) that God directs history according to his will, and (2) that human choices are real and that we are responsible for our choices. It teaches these, but it doesn’t tell us how they’re supposed to be reconciled. It is up to each of us to find a model that, in our opinion, best explains the truths Scripture teaches without over-emphasising either of them.

Scriptural passages that go against Molinism?

With that in mind, let’s consider three objections to Molinism, besides the grounding problem which I mentioned earlier. First, we might consider passages in Scripture that seem to suggest that God has more control than what the middle knowledge affords him. In one of the passages we quoted last time, the writer of Exodus tells us that God hardened Pharaoh’s heart (Exodus 4:21, 7:3-4, 9:12, 10:1, 20, 27, 11:10, 14:4, 8, 17):

And the LORD said to Moses, “When you go back to Egypt, see that you do before Pharaoh all the miracles that I have put in your power. But I will harden his heart, so that he will not let the people go.

Surely, our interlocutor questions, this goes contrary to what Molinism says about how God directs human choices? Again, she might point to Ephesians 1:11, where Paul is quite clear that God “works all things according to the counsel of his will.”  Surely, our interlocutor urges, this goes contrary to the scope of God’s control that Molinism allows for? I’m sure there are other passages that one might bring up, but it seems to me that any passage would be brought against either the means or scope of God’s control on Molinism.

Now, do the passages I mentioned really show what our interlocutor thinks they do? I don’t think so. Firstly, the Molinist would whole-heartedly agree that God works all things according to his will. After all, he decided all of history before he created anything (remember our talk about possible and feasible worlds?) Just because he doesn’t directly causally establish everything doesn’t mean he doesn’t bring it about via some other mediate means. Secondly, we must be careful not to read into Scripture the means by which God brings about choices: the Exodus passages say that God harden’s Pharaoh’s heart. But how does he do that? Exodus doesn’t say; it just tells us the outcome. As a Molinist, I gladly read that and think, “Yes! God placed Pharaoh in circumstances in which he knew Pharaoh would freely choose to reject him.” No problem here.

Based on how we dealt with those two passages, it becomes easy to see why I think Scripture is largely underdeterminitve when it comes to these things. The Biblical authors simply don’t spend time trying to explicate exactly how God’s control is to be balanced with human responsibility. When people claim that this or that passage shows their view to be correct, we must ask ourselves if they are not simply reading their view into the passage.

Scriptural doctrines that go against Molinism?

Ok, perhaps we can’t find a passage that rules out one view or the other. But perhaps Scripture teaches some doctrine which would rule out Molinism. Consider the doctrine of concurrence, for example. We saw earlier that Paul Helseth takes omnicausality to be a logical consequence of concurrence. Is this the case? Perhaps for the type of concurrence that Helseth has in mind, but it seems to me that the teaching of Scripture is also consistent with the type of concurrence described by William Lane Craig here:

With regard to free acts, this serves to highlight Molina’s doctrine of simultaneous concurrence. Remember we talked about the doctrine of concurrence a couple of lectures ago which is the doctrine that God concurs with the actions of secondary causes to bring about their effects. So God is the cause, literally, of everything that happens. The fire would not burn unless God concurred with the action of the fire to produce its effect. Molina’s doctrine of simultaneous concurrence is different than the doctrine of his Catholic Dominican predecessors. He was a Jesuit and he disagreed with Thomas Aquinas and the Dominicans as well as the Protestant reformers on this. His view is that God does not act on the creaturely will to make it move this way or that, but he acts with the creatural will to produce its effects. Do you see the difference? He doesn’t act on John’s will to move John’s will to A or to not-A. Rather, he acts with John’s will in accordance with what John chooses so that if John chooses A, God concurs with that choice and produces the effect. He doesn’t act on John’s will to bring about A, rather he acts with John’s will so that both John and God bring about A. Therefore, John is completely free. He is not determined by prior causes. So John has libertarian freedom – incompatibilistic freedom. The circumstances in which John acts are freedom permitting circumstances. But God knows how he would freely act in those circumstances. So by placing him in those circumstances, God knows what John would choose and God concurs with John’s free choice to bring about the effect that John would have. So everything that happens is caused by God. In sinful decisions, God concurs with the agent’s choice to produce the effect of the sinful choice but notice he does not move the person’s will to make that sinful choice. That is different from the Calvinistic view where God is the one who determines the choice of the will. Here what God does is he concurs in the choice by producing the effect of the sinful choice, but he does not act on that person’s will to make it choose that way. Therefore, God is not responsible for the sinfulness of the act since he did not move the creatures will to do it. Therefore, God is not the author of sin on Molinism. Out of his desire to permit human freedom, he allows human persons to make evil choices and he concurs in their effects because he wants them to have genuine freedom but he does not make them choose those evil actions. In the case of good actions, God directly wills the things that happen but in the case of sinful or evil acts God merely permits them to happen by concurring in producing the effects of those sinful actions but he does not will directly that they happen and he certainly does not move the creature to make those choices.

Besides the doctrine of concurrence, some people I’ve spoken to have wondered how Molinism doesn’t detract from God’s omnipotence. However, it has been almost universally acknowledged that God’s omnipotence doesn’t entail his ability to bring about contradictions. Since Molinism involves libertarianism with respect to free will, it follows that for God to be able to cause someone to do something freely is a contradiction. Therefore, his inability to do so does not detract from his omnipotence any more than his inability to create square circles or married bachelors.

Scriptural passages that go against compatibilism?

Some libertarians have mentioned that God holding humans responsible for their sins is a Scriptural reason for rejecting compatibilistic. Of course, this is just as mistaken an approach as the first objection against Molinism we considered above. This simply assumes that libertarianism is the only valid view of free will, and therefore the Biblical authors must have assumed it when writing. Again, I say, Scripture does not say one way or the other.

Conclusions

We’ve considered two views on how God’s control and human responsibility can be reconciled (compatibilism and Molinism). Both of these are consistent with the teaching of Scripture, and so it seems to me that the only way to decide between them is by going with the one that we are more philosophically inclined towards. Of course, while we might agree that both are consistent, we might nonetheless be inclined towards one or the other by our reading of Scripture, and that’s fine too. Next we will tackle the problem of suffering.

World-types have explanations but not grounds?

On the one hand I personally like the idea of middle-knowledge for understanding the relationship between God’s providence and our libertarian-free choices[1]. On the other hand, I’m what William Lane Craig once called[2] a latter-day Leibnizian, who wants “everything to be brought into submission to the Principle of Sufficient Reason, including facts concerning human free choices.” Of course, in that context he was concerned with the grounding objection to the Molinist’s counterfactuals of creaturely freedom (CCFs). It seems to me, however, that the CCFs can be explained, even if they can’t be grounded. Let me explain.

A “subjunctive counterfactual conditional” (or just “counterfactual” for short) is something of the form “Were it/had it been the case that C, then it would be the case that A”. There are different types of counterfactuals: sometimes they describe entailments, and sometimes they don’t. An example of the former case would be some sort of grounding: were it the case the I know 2+2=4, then it would be the case that it is known that 2+2=4. Here the antecedent (I know that 2+2=4) entails the consequent (it is known that 2+2=4), that is in every possible world in which the antecedent it true, so is the consequent.

But there are cases where the counterfactual we’re talking about is not describing an entailment. For example, “If Nixon had pressed the button, there would have been a nuclear catastrophe”[3] In this case, it’s possible that Nixon presses the button and it malfunctions, thus not leading to a nuclear catastrophe. In these cases can we analyse the counterfactual in terms of possible worlds? For those who think we can, they usually analyse the counterfactual by moving to a similar possible world (for a given account of similarity) where the antecedent occurs and seeing what happens to find the consequent. For example, on this account, when we say “If Nixon had pressed the button, there would have been a nuclear catastrophe”, what we mean is that in all the closest possible worlds in which Nixon presses the button, there is a nuclear catastrophe. Of course, this makes what would be the case is dependent upon what is actually the case. That is, the truth of such counterfactuals, on this second analysis, depends on what happens in the actual world, since we need an actual world to judge similarity to before we can pick the similar worlds to check.

The Molinist cannot accept this second analysis when it comes to the CCFs, because she believes that such counterfactuals are true prior to which world is actual. She has two options: (1) introduce a third class of counterfactuals for the CCFs and accept the second analysis above for the non-entailment, non-CCF ones, but deny it for CCFs, or (2) deny the second analysis and any analysis of non-entailment counterfactuals that makes the truth of such counterfactuals depend on which possible world is actual.

I myself am inclined to go with the second option there, since I find it strange that “would” statements should depend on what actually happens, but what I say from here on will relate to both options. If CCFs are not dependent upon the actual world, how is that they can be explained? I claim that even though they are contingent themselves, they can be explained with necessary facts[4]. Before I get there, though, I thought I’d make a quick comment about semantics.

World-types

As you may know, a possible world is a maximal description of how reality could’ve been. You can think of it as a massive conjunction of propositions C, such that for any proposition P, either P or not-P is a conjunct of C. Of course, there’s slightly more to it than that, since we also need that the conjunction is metaphysically possible (ie. that the conjuncts are compossible), but we need not worry about these details here.

By “world-type” I mean a maximal conjunction of CCFs (or, more generally, counterfactuals). Since counterfactuals are themselves propositions, it follows that every possible world contains a world-type, in fact many possible worlds can contain the same world-type. So the Molinist position says that the actual world-type is contingent and not chosen by God. This puzzling situation is what makes the Molinist position so subject to the grounding objection.

Explaining CCFs

Now I fully admit that CCFs might not have grounds. This doesn’t bother me too much, however, because I think they can still be explained[5]. We’ve seen before, that explanations can be non-entailing, so what I seek now is an explanation of the contingent CCFs in terms of necessary facts. Think about a typical CCF: “If Adam were in circumstance A, then he would freely choose to eat the fruit from the tree”. Why is this true? Well, if Adam were in circumstance A, then he would be tempted to eat the fruit of the tree. Or, in terms we’ve used before, if Adam were in circumstance C, he’d be impressed by reason R to eat the fruit. This is necessarily true, since in every possible world in which Adam finds himself in the given circumstance, the same pressures will apply to him (since they’re included in the circumstance). But as we’ve seen in the past, merely being impressed by a reason doesn’t entail that a free agent will chose according to it, so the CCF is still contingent (given something like libertarian free will)[6].

Notes

  1. One day, when I get to writing the rest of my blog posts on God’s providence this statement will be further expounded.
  2. William Lane Craig in “Ducking Friendly Fire: Davison on the Grounding Objection
  3. Taken from a paper by Boris Kment called “Counterfactuals and Explanation”
  4. “Fact” here means “true proposition”.
  5. And I don’t think that all facts need truthmakers in the sense that is required by grounding objectors, but that’s a different issue altogether.
  6. This isn’t an original idea: I got this account of explanation from Joshua Rasmussen in the comments here.