On Theological Novelty and Atonement Theory (Delivered from the Elements Review, Pt. II)

6 Comments July 18, 2016 littlejohnwebsite

In this second installment of this review of Leithart’s Delivered from the Elements of the World, we turn from mere synopsis to critique, or at least to pointed queries about some of Leithart’s more provocative claims. In this post I will be considering one of my general methodological concerns—the addiction to novelty—and then turning to consider Leithart’s revisions (or not?) to classic penal substitution theories of the atonement.

First, then, the question of novelty. Newness seems to be a big selling point of this book. Consider the breathless melodrama of James K.A. Smith’s back cover endorsement: “Leithart is like a lightning strike from a more ancient, more courageous Christian past, his flaming pen fueled by biblical acuity and scholarly rigor.” Back cover blurbs in this day and age have become something of a joke, but still Smith’s is a bit over-the-top. I single it out not primarily to pick on Smith (not primarily) but because the virtue of the book that Smith singles out—its claim to newness-through-oldness—is one that we would do well to interrogate. Smith contrasts theologians who “tepidly offer us a few ‘insights’ to edify our comfort with the status quo” with Leithart’s lightning-strike from the past. In other words, bad theology is theology that builds on what we already know, good theology is totally new and yet old, somehow simultaneously putting us back in touch the original primitive Christianity even while rocketing us into the Christian future by refusing to take its start in the conventional categories that theological discourse has refined over the centuries. But of course, nothing is so tired and familiar by now as this revolutionary turn to the “more ancient, more courageous Christian past.”

Delivered from the Elements of the World: A Review (Pt. I: Summary)

2 Comments July 11, 2016 littlejohnwebsite

Delivered from the Elements of the World is vintage Leithart: extraordinary in scope, dense, multilayered, intertextual biblical exegesis, and literary flair. Leithart’s aim with this book is about as bold as a work of theology can get: to answer afresh the basic question of the Christian faith, which St. Anselm framed as Cur Deus Homo?—Why the God-man? Or, as Leithart incisively frames it, “How can the death and resurrection of a Jewish rabbi of the first century, an event in the putative backwaters of the Roman Empire, be the decisive event in the history of humanity, the hinge and crux and crossroads for everything?” (13) Framed this way, Leithart’s question, and his answer, are a rebuke in two directions: to the feeble, alialistic, soul-snatching picture of the gospel, in which the effect of Christ’s death can be readily explained as a spiritual transaction detached from history, and to the liberal humanistic gospel, in which Christ’s death and resurrection cannot be seen as essential and efficacious, since he comes merely as a teacher leading us to “establish institutions that promote peace and justice.” (13) Indeed, Leithart’s book is a broadside against the dichotomies that underwrite both these reductionisms, insisting that the spiritual is the sociological and vice versa, that the reframing of human history and renewing of human nature is part and parcel of the redemption purchased by Christ.

Unfortunately, this book is also vintage Leithart in somewhat less flattering senses: uneven historical-theological asides that sometimes seem more assertion than argument, elusive systematic-theological formulations that claim to be both novel and orthodox and yet which are often imprecise enough to make it unclear whether they are either, and eccentric and underdeveloped aspirations at sweeping philosophical revisionism. It is an unfortunate necessity of a book review that far more of my time will be spent on the latter, less flattering elements than on the former, more flattering ones—after all, when it comes to the book’s singular virtues, readers would do far better to partake of them straight from the source than via my secondhand renditions. And indeed I should state clearly up front that whatever criticisms might follow, this is very much a “Read this book” review. There have been plenty of books that I have reviewed so critically that my verdict was “Don’t waste your time,” but I have difficulty imagining the Leithart book on which I would ever reach that verdict. Read with a wary eye, to be sure, but as I think the summary that follows will show, this is a book fresh and bold enough that it deserves to be grappled with firsthand. Read More

Judgment According to Truth (Theopolitical Reflections on Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy, Pt. 1)

1 Comment July 23, 2012 littlejohnwebsite

Warning: This post contains major spoilers from The Dark Knight, though not from The Dark Knight Rises (although certain themes and plot elements from the latter are discussed)

The haunting and acclaimed film The Dark Knight ended with one of the most arresting and morally provocative twists in Christopher Nolan’s oeuvre (and for anyone familiar with his films, that is truly saying something). Confronted with the awful truth that Gotham’s “White Knight,” Harvey Dent, the city’s last best hope for order, justice, and redemption, has in fact succumbed to the Joker’s nihilistic message that the only justice is that which we make for ourselves, Batman makes a heroic decision. He will take the guilt of Harvey Two-Face’s crimes upon himself. He will bear the guilt, he will become an outcast. He will be the Dark Knight so that Harvey can remain the White, and Gotham can sustain the faith she needs to conquer injustice. A greater sacrifice, perhaps, than bearing physical death for the sake of the city, for Wayne has already poured himself out, given up his own life to pour it into the symbol that is Batman—now he must accept the death of that symbol, as it becomes an image of evil, that the city might be freed from evil.*

It is as profound an image of the Atonement as one can find in recent cinema—the hero becomes guilty in order to make his would-be killers innocent, takes evil upon himself so that his people would not have to bear its curse and stain. And yet, something is amiss. For this noble act of self-sacrifice is a lie. Nolan makes no effort to hide from us this rejection of truth:

“It’s what needs to happen. Because sometimes the truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes people deserve more,” says Batman.

And so Gordon duly tells his lie. Tells how Dent was a hero, and how Batman, a vigilante with his own agenda, turned on him in the end and murdered him (the truth precisely in reverse, of course). Batman becomes an outcast, Dent a hero. And Dent’s death provides the city a new start. Upon this murder a new political order is to be forged, justice is at last to be realized. What neither Harvey nor Batman could bring to pass on the basis of truth is at last to be achieved on the basis of a lie. The film thus leaves the viewer with sharply divided sympathies, torn with the moral ambiguity of the situation, as so many of Nolan’s films do. The nobility of Batman’s abnegation stands in irreconcilable tension with the sense that justice founded on falsehood cannot succeed.

It also renders deeply ambiguous the otherwise deafening Christological resonances. For while Christ takes the guilt of his people, including those who want to kill him, upon himself, and thereby restores the possibility of a community of justice, his judgment is a proclamation of the truth about us and about himself, and the justice that he establishes is a justice dependent upon truth-telling. While he may appear to be the Sinner, this is only temporary, and with the resurrection he is vindicated as the Righteous One, who does not merely take the guilt of the people upon himself, but buries it forever so that he may share with them his righteousness. The ending of the Dark Knight, to be sure, does not foreclose the possibility that the scapegoating will be temporary, that the Dark Knight will rise and receive his public vindication, but it certainly leaves us with an uneasy feeling in the pit of our stomachs.**

De-Theologizing Harry (or, The Death of the Death of Death)

24 Comments July 16, 2011 littlejohnwebsite

On Thursday night, I had the privilege of seeing the final Harry Potter movie in the city where the books were conceived and written, so I wanted to take this opportunity to reflect on how faithfully this last crucial film reflected the rich theology of J.K. Rowling’s creation. I should mention that I was, until the very last book, something of a Potter skeptic, unconvinced that the books were anything more than a fun and overhyped story. But in the final chapters of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I was bowled over by the overt and profound Christological elements, which were so prominent that it seemed impossible that they could be integrated without overwhelming the story and turning it into a sermon. That they did not do so is a remarkable tribute to Rowling’s literary prowess. Following the logic of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, the final book revealed that the magical world of wonder that Harry inhabited was not all there was–there was a deeper magic, which overturned all the calculations of the magical world.

But the question was, could Hollywood grasp this deep magic? It had failed abysmally in the recent Narnia adaptations, sucking all traces of theology out with startling efficiency. The less overt theology of Lord of the Rigns had escaped somewhat more intact, though still crucially undermined at points. Whether intentionally or simply out of blindness, Hollywood shows itself remarkably adept at de-theologizing stories, and converting them, so far as possible, into some kind of feel-good humanism. I had a suspicion, especially after Deathly Hallows Part One, that this supremely theological tale would be no exception. Alas, I guessed rightly. (WARNING: Spoilers ahead!)

Now don’t get me wrong. From a strictly cinematic standpoint, and indeed from the standpoint of fidelity to the book, this film was, to my mind, all that could be wished for through its first 100 minutes or so. Even after that, I think it would be quite a decent film to anyone who hadn’t read the book. But these last 20 minutes, encompassing the part after Harry dies and Rowling cranks up the theology into high gear, subtly but systematically removed four key elements of these final chapters, which I shall call “The Death of Death,” “The Life of the Age to Come,” “The Atonement,” “The Last Judgment.” Note that not everything I sketch here is explicit in the book, and indeed, Rowling seeks to explain each of these phenomena in terms that make sense within the world of the book–this is literature, not a sermon, or even an allegory. However, I am fairly sure that I am reading each of these out of the book, not into it.

The Death of Death

What is it that happens when Harry gives himself up to death, and why is he able to come back from the dead? Well, in answer to the first question, we could certainly say that the Horcrux that is within Harry is destroyed; Voldemort is rendered vulnerable. This alone is rich with theological significance. Harry destroys the power of sin and death by bearing it within himself, and letting it die with him, just as Christ identifies himself with sin and fallenness, bearing it to the cross (does anyone think it’s a coincidence that Harry finds himself at “King’s Cross” at his death?) where it can be destroyed by dying with him. But if that were all, there would be no reason why Harry would have to knowingly and willingly give himself up; as long as Voldemort killed Harry in battle, one way or another, the Horcrux destruction would be accomplished. And yet great stress is laid in the book on the necessity that Harry voluntarily take this death upon himself. He must give himself up to death. Nor, if it were merely about destroying the Horcrux, would there be any reason he should come back from the dead, just as, from the standpoint of Christian theology, if redemption was merely the expiation of sin at the cross, it’s hard to see what significance the resurrection has.

To fully grasp what’s going on at this point in the book, we have to think of the significance of the Deathly Hallows, which are after all what the book is all about. The theme of the book is established many chapters earlier, at Godric’s Hollow, with the twin New Testament passages, “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” and “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Harry wants to destroy the power of death, to become the master of death, but the way in which he does so is crucial. It matters where his treasure is, what it is that he truly values. If he wants to overcome death for himself, to set himself up as its master, then he will be little better than Voldemort. This is the symbolism of the choice between Hallows and Horcruxes, which is built up throughout the earlier chapters of the book and comes to a razor-sharp point at Shell Cottage. Harry recognizes that he must choose between pursuing the Hallows, overcoming the power of death by taking to himself more power than death, or by embracing the route of powerlessness, the long hard path of destroying the Horcruxes, which means eventually giving himself up to death on behalf of others. (This fascinating dialectic is almost completely left out in the film The Deathly Hallows Part One, and so its resonances are absent at the crucial moment in Part Two, and the extensive conversation on this point between Harry and Dumbledore at King’s Cross is omitted.)

Harry is to become the master of death, but master not by setting himself over it but by putting himself under it. Death exhausts its force by being poured out on him, the one who willingly seeks it for himself to save others. Love is stronger than death. “But I should have died–I didn’t defend myself! I meant to let him kill me!” Harry exclaims. “And that,” Dumbledore replies, “will, I think, have made all the difference.” This enigmatic comment is left unexplained, but for the reader looking for an explanation within the existing logic of the books, Harry’s cheating of death is explained in terms of the power of Harry’s blood, itself clearly rich with theological overtones. The power of love in his mother’s sacrifice is in his blood, and although Voldemort took Harry’s blood to weaken Harry and strengthen himself, in this blood is the power of life that makes it impossible for Voldemort to finally kill Harry.

In short, in Harry’s death, we witness the death of death in his own death. Like Christ, “death has no more dominion over him.” What this means is more than just the destruction of another Horcrux; Harry has not just struck one more blow, but in fact the decisive blow. But to bring this decisive blow to completion, Harry must be resurrected. Death must be publicly exhibited as overthrown, its powerlessness before the power of love must be displayed and enacted, Harry must tread the powers of evil underfoot, must reverse the sentence of death that Voldemort has enacted on him by returning it upon Voldemort. And this resurrection must be no mere “rescuscitation,” it must be the return to life of someone over whom death no longer has hold (more on this in the next section).

All of this, I think, is clear enough in the book, although generally hinted at rather than openly set forth.

In the film? Nope. In the film, the conversation between Dumbledore and Harry is abbreviated so as to omit any sustained reflection on the significance of what has happened, and Harry simply asks, more or less, “So, can I go back?” To which Dumbledore replies, more or less, “Well, if you want to.” Why should he be able to go back? On what basis? Can the story just conveniently break the rules of its own world whenever it wants to? No, as in Narnia, what we have here is not the normal rules of magic, but a deeper magic at work. Thus far, the departure in the film is primarily one of omission, not commission, but the ramifications are still significant. The following features will show, I think, that I am not reading too much into this omission.

The Life of the Age to Come

When Harry comes back to life, it is not merely a reversal, a resuscitation. He comes back as one who has passed through death and come out on the other side. Now, clearly Rowling does not make too much of this. This is a story, not a sermon, and Harry is, for purposes of the story, just a regular old human being, not the God-man. He will go on to live a normal life, and presumably to grow old and eventually die again. Nonetheless, the sense that “death has no dominion over him” anymore is conveyed in several ways.

After he comes back, Voldemort, thinking him dead, triumphs over his body by casting the Cruciatus Curse, which ought to inflict unspeakable pain on any living thing. However, Harry is impervious, he feels no pain. Voldemort’s magic can no longer affect him. For this reason, Harry can now face Voldemort without fear. It is not as if he has now merely nullified Voldemort’s advantage and now comes back to fight him on equal terms. The terms are completely unequal. Voldemort has no chance, and Harry knows it. The game is up. “You must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine,” says Voldemort. Harry replies, “I believe both.” Nor does Harry even have to cast a killing curse–Voldemort’s simply rebounds upon himself and he is destroyed. In the book, this is explained primarily in terms of the logic of the Elder Wand, and its change of allegiance. The Elder Wand, the greatest of the Deathly Hallows, represents the power of mastery over death, the power that Harry has refused to try and seize. And nonetheless, it has been granted him, in a roundabout fashion, ultimately because of Dumbledore’s self-sacrificial renunciation of it. But in any case, the upshot is that Harry now, having given himself up to death, has been vindicated as the true master of death, against whom Voldemort has no power.

Contrast this to the movie. Here, there is no hint that we have anything but a rescuscitation, an unexplained but convenient mechanism for Harry to return to fight another day, so that Round Two can commence, and the special effects guys can go crazy for another battle scene. The battle that commences is not one that, as in the book, is essentially futile from the start (for Voldemort), but one in which Voldemort still seems to have the upper hand. Harry is running and dodging, the snake is striking at people (instead of being decapitated right at the beginning of the sequence), and nothing really seems to have changed. Voldemort and Harry grapple together, and when their wands finally do meet, it takes some time before Harry can overpower and thus destroy Voldemort. Instead, in short, of a narrative in which the decisive victory has already been achieved by the renunciation of force, Harry triumphs, it seems, by superior force in a final closely contested showdown.

It’s also worth noting one little sequence in the movie that runs quite counter to the theo-logic I’ve sketched here. Voldemort comes into the castle courtyard with Harry’s body, exulting over his triumph, and Neville steps forward to challenge him. Neville tells Voldemort that Harry hasn’t really died, because he lives in each of them, in their hearts. He is still with them in spirit, and so it really makes no difference. They will still fight. Now, to be sure, in the book, the defenders of the castle are still defiant, but they are utterly downcast. They may not want to submit, but it is clear that Harry’s death does make a difference. Harry being truly alive and Harry being “alive in their hearts” are not the same thing, just as, contra modern liberal Christianity, Christ being resurrected and him living on in the disciples’ hearts are not the same thing. As Paul says in Corinthians, “And if Christ is not risen, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins! Then also those who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished. If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men the most pitiable.”

The Atonement

One of the most beautiful parts in the book is the revelation that just as the death of Harry’s mother protected him, so Harry’s giving himself up to death on behalf of his friends means that they are covered by his death, they are, as it were, atoned for. The sentence of death was on each of them, unless Harry went to die himself. He does so, and the power of evil and death no longer has any hold on them either.

“‘You won’t be killing anyone else tonight,’ said Harry as they circled, and stared into each other’s eyes, green into red. ‘You won’t be able to kill any of them, ever again. Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop you hurting these people. –‘

‘But you did not!’

‘–I meant to, and that’s what did it. I’ve done what my mother did. They’re protected from you. Haven’t you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch them.'”

This is one of the most overtly Christian ideas in the book, and is entirely omitted in the movie. There is no sense that Voldemort no longer has power against Harry’s friends. Quite the contrary–he is still a terrifying force, striking at will, with, it appears, a very real chance of triumphing.

The Last Judgment

Finally, we come to the only change from the book that has been significantly remarked upon, because this one is too obvious to miss. In the book, Harry faces down Voldemort in the Great Hall, in the presence of all. Everyone falls silent and stops their fighting and watches the final encounter. And instead of simply going for each other, Harry and Voldemort have a conversation. Only at the end, when Harry has laid everything bare, does he engage and destroy Voldemort. In the movie, the final showdown occurs alone, in a courtyard, with no one watching or listening, and only a minimum of conversation.

Is there any significance to this? I think there is.

For what we have at the end is not so much a battle as a judgment. As I have said, Harry has for all practical purposes already triumphed. He has passed through death, he has overpowered death, he is the lord of the Elder Wand. What remains is simply for him to exhibit this triumph. All of this, I think, is theologically significant. At the end of the age, Christ will not simply snap his fingers and wipe out evil, and everyone will live happily ever after. No, he will be publicly vindicated, as will all his saints. All evil deeds will be brought to light and laid bare, and the righteous will shine for all to see. The lies of ages will be unravelled, and the truth will finally be spoken for all to hear. The spell of deception which the Evil One has laid upon the world will be broken. The wicked will be given one final chance to repent (or not, depending on your precise theology). Christ will be publicly proclaimed as the true Lord of Ages, and he will name the Evil One for who he really is. In short, just judgment will at last be given.

All of this happens in that final showdown in the book. It is crucial that Harry be publicly vindicated as the righteous one, the one who gave himself up to save the world, and that Voldemort be named for who he is–Tom Riddle, a coward. The truth will finally be told about Dumbledore and about Severus Snape–the righteous will be vindicated, and Voldemort’s lies about them finally unraveled. Harry will warn Voldemort of the terrible end that awaits him, and summon him to a last repentance, but in vain. Voldemort’s claims to supremacy will be shown to be empty, and Harry revealed as the true lord of the Elder Wand.

Although I doubt the filmmakers had any idea what they were doing when they altered this showdown, I think they were instinctively flinching from the intolerably eschatological nature of it all. For the modern, the battle against evil, insomuch as there is one, is one that we each have to fight within ourselves, is one in which we are each alone and each victory is ours alone. The idea of a final public confrontation, a judgment in which the nature of evil is laid bare for all to see, is foreign and unacceptable. Nor can the modern handle the revelation of true lordship. We saw this in Lord of the Rings and Narnia movies, in the watering down of the idea of kingship. So it is here. Harry’s supposed to be someone with whom we can all identify, and in the very last scene, he appears just a little too lordly. Suddenly he is revealed as the guy who holds all the cards, so to speak, who suddenly has access to all kinds of truths that we as readers are still trying to figure out. No doubt the filmmakers felt that audiences really wouldn’t be able to relate to such a transfigured Harry, and so the final confrontation must be no more than a last personal showdown between Harry and his nemesis.

As for the other changes, I can only speculate whether the filmmakers were intentionally de-theologizing or whether they really just didn’t get it. Sadly, based upon the way in which reviewers have reacted to the film and endorsed the ending, I’m afraid it’s the latter. Perhaps this is, if anything, more disturbing–to live in a society which is no longer reacting against or fleeing from God, but has just forgotten how to even recognize Him

The Ghost of Charles Hodge (Final thought on McCormack lectures)

5 Comments February 2, 2011 littlejohnwebsite

One more point occurred to me, that I had meant to mention in my reflections on the Croall lectures, and I thought it was worth posting as a brief afterthought–this is much more impressionistic, so take it with a grain of salt.

Perhaps my greatest misgiving about McCormack’s project is ultimately that it’s too logical. Allow me to explain. When McCormack says something like, “The Word is eternally predisposed to become man, and thus humility and finitude is proper, not alien, to him; the logos is always the logos incarnandus,” I’m like “Right on! Preach it brother!” But when he goes a step further, and says, “And therefore, the Word does not empty himself in time, but emptied himself in eternity; he has always been self-confined by these human limitations, acting not by the power native to him, but the power of the Spirit,” I’m like “Whoa, hold on there!” Now, one might say that the second statement really isn’t a separate step, but simply a logical result of the first statement, combined with the principle of divine immutability, and the principle that God is pure actuality, with no potentiality. These principles would seem to lead us inexorably to the conclusion that if the Son always was going to be self-emptyingly finite, he must always have been self-emptyingly finite, otherwise he is realizing an unrealized potentiality in time and undergoing change. Perhaps there is no way around this–logic is a cruel taskmaster, and not to be trifled with.

But I’m wary, because it has been said (don’t ask me to say precisely where and by whom) that all the great ancient heresies, perhaps especially in Christology, erred by trying to follow out a certain logical principle to its conclusion; existing doctrines seemed to them too shrouded in mystery and incoherence, and so they tried to find a neat logical solution. Hence Nestorianism. In response to Nestorius, Cyril and the Alexandrians said all kinds of delightfully paradoxical things, such as “the immortal one died,” “the impassible one suffered.” The Chalcedonian creed itself is a devilish bundle of paradoxes. Now, my suspicions are aroused when such paradoxical formulations are pounced upon by McCormack as signs of inconsistency, incoherence, of a logical knot that needs to be unraveled, rather than as a mystery to be gloried in, as the Alexandrians apparently considered them. I think Cyril knew full well that his formulations did not fit into a neat logical package, but I think he thought that was precisely the point–the Incarnation is all about God not fitting himself into a neat logical package, but doing things we never could have imagined.

McCormack spoke repeatedly of the need for a “well-ordered” doctrine of Christ, by which he meant one that ties up the logical loose ends; he admitted that of course there must always be a place for mystery, but was suspicious that most invocations of mystery are simply cop-outs, and excuses for protecting our biases. I would suggest that a similar concern for consistency and order partially underlies McCormack’s antipathy to what he sees as muddled, hybridizing forms of ecumenical theology. It certainly partially underlay his antipathy to ontological soteriologies, which he tended to consider hopelessly vague and mysterious.

There seems to be something perversely modernist in all this, in the single-minded pursuit of strict logical consistency in such questions, and I think heresy is never far off when you try to renounce paradox and make it all make good plain sense. Call me po-mo, call me Kierkegaardian, call me Catholic if you like. But I have to at least wonder whether McCormack, occupying the Charles Hodge Chair of Systematic Theology, hasn’t inherited something of Old Princeton’s analytical scholasticism, with its desiccating effect on theology, anti-sacramental trajectory, and so forth. But there, I’m on the threshold of rambling and blathering, or perhaps already crossed it, so I will leave it at that.

Again, this is not so much an outright criticism (though it may have sounded like one) as it is a vague discomfort, which I have hopefully succeeded here in making somewhat less vague.