I am not inclined to take a very positive outlook on Peter Lombard’s view of grace; nevertheless, I would like to examine various areas in which it might be possible to give him the benefit of the doubt. His view of predestination as it relates to free will is very similar to the prescient view of Arminianism. God foreknows everything that will happen. Although God may act as the ultimate cause for whatever he foreknows, this is not always the case. Especially when it comes to the rational choice of free agents, God just knows. But does this apply to the decision of repentance unto salvation? Peter defines predestination in terms of grace. It is, in the words of Marcia L. Colish, “the grace of preparation which God grants to the elect” (The Medieval Theologians p.172). Salvation involves their cooperating with this grace. The salvation of each individual is assured; however, this may be only in the sense that God knows beforehand what will happen.
There is a point that remains unclear. Does God foreknow that the elect are the only ones who will cooperate with this grace, or is it the case that any one would cooperate with this grace but God only gives it to whomever he wills? While it is the case that this predestinating grace moves the decision of the elect, is it also the case that their decisions somehow move God to bestow this grace? When it comes to salvation, is God’s foreknowledge causative? I tend to think that, in Peter’s estimation, it is not. The context, at least as Colish presents it, is the free will and consequent free decisions of rational creatures. As systematic and detailed as Peter is in his writing, I would expect that if predestinating grace were, in itself, sufficient unto salvation, he would have mentioned this as an exception.
Earlier, Colish has already pointed out Peter’s belief that grace may be rejected, “…not all people receive his grace and those who do may reject it; those who accept it do not always act with it to the same degree or in the same way” (p. 172). In itself, this is not a problem; that is, unless, foreknowledge aside, the ability to reject grace also applies to predestinating grace.
One area in which Peter may talk about sufficient grace is when he is talking about the fallen angels and those angels that have been confirmed as good. Both act with completely free wills, but the fallen angels, from whom grace has been removed, always will to do evil, while the confirmed angels, because they continue they continue to cooperate with the grace that they have been given, always will to do good. By virtue of this perpetual cooperation, they continue to merit eternal life. How is Peter using merit here? It could be that the confirmation of the righteous angels is no more than a matter of foreknowledge. The power to cooperate with grace arises solely within themselves. God just happens to know that they will never fall and has let everyone else in on the secret. Or it could be that the grace of confirmation is sufficient to cause the angels to always will good, even to the point that they could never will to resist it. If Peter will allow for this kind of grace that is able to change the will, then, perhaps the same can be said of predestinating grace. Or not.
Peter’s view of the sacraments is not particularly promising. It is his writing that finally locks down the Roman Catholic number to seven. In all fairness, though, having five too many sacraments is not the issue when it comes to grace. What matters is how these sacraments are supposed to work. Given the appropriate method, minister, and intention, they objectively convey grace. Nevertheless, this grace can only be received if the recipient has faith and the right intentions. One positive point, if this is Peter’s view, is that he has not degenerated to the view of sacraments operating ex opere operato. He does make an exception for infant baptism. Obviously, an infant cannot have proper intentions. Consequently, the grace is conveyed to them and “remains latent in them until they are mature enough to decide whether or not to collaborate with it” (p. 179). Not much different than the other sacraments- the process is just delayed.
Even though the grace of the sacraments is not automatically conveyed without faith, I cannot help believing that Peter views this cooperating faith as a work performed by the one receiving the sacrament. Whatever the case, he does distinguish it from the grace conveyed by the sacrament. In that case, is faith a work arising from within the individual, or is it the necessary result of the grace of predestination?
Because of Peter’s views relating to the extent of man’s depravity, I believe that he sees faith and good intentions as human works. Grace is necessary, but it is not sufficient. Colish writes, “For Peter, the most serious consequence of original sin is the depression of the will” (p.175). In other words, the will is still intact. Peter believes that there is a “spark of reason inclining us toward the good” (ibid). With the grace of God, it may be possible for this spark to act righteously. It cooperates with grace and is thereby meritorious. “And, when God awards the meritorious, He rewards not Himself but the virtues that moral agents have made their own ingrained character traits” (ibid). This, if an accurate representation of Peter’s view, taken in the context of his other beliefs, looks as though Peter fits right into Rome's view of grace. It is necessary to salvation, but the deciding factor is our own good works.
Pelagius believed in justification by faith alone. This was heresy. To see why this as the case, a discussion of baptism is in order. It was generally agreed that infants should be baptized; however, there was dispute as to what this implied about their spiritual condition. The most common position was that baptism was necessary to wash away original sin. Pelagius denied this. From a Reformed point of view he was right, but he was still a heretic. The heresy was due to why he was right. Pelegius did not believe that baptism washed away original sin because he did not believe the doctrine of original sin. He used a somehwat creative hermeneutic to explain why so many people sin if they aren't born sinners. Romans 5:19 states, "For as by the one man's disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man's obedience the many will be made righteous." Pelagius states, "Just as by the example of Adam's disobedience many sinned, so also many are justified by Christ's obedience" (Commentary on St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans). By this, he meant the example of Christ's obedience. He gos on to say, "Great, therefore, is th ecrime of disobedience that kills so many." In other words, because Christ obeyed, we should know better than to disobey. The further implication is that it is possible to not sin. Here is his explanation of Romans 5:12:
By example or by pattern. Just as through Adam sin came at a time when it did not yet exist, so in the same way through Christ righteousness was recovered at a time when it survived in almost no one. And jsut as through the former's sin death came in, so also through the latter's righteousness life was regained. As long as they sin the same way, they likewise die. For death did not pass on to Abraham and Isaac [and Jacob], [concerning whom the Lord says: 'Truly they are all living' [Luke 20:38]. But here he says all are dead because in a multitude of sinners no exception is made for a few righteous. So also elsewhere: 'There is not one who does good, not even one' (Ps. 13:1; cf. Rom. 3:12), [and 'every] one a liar' (Rom. 3:4). Or: Death passed on all who lived in a human, [and] not a heavenly, fashion."
So how does this make justification by faith alone a heresy? Well, for one thing, it was far from the Reformed doctrine of the same name. In that doctrine, a forensic righteousness is taught. God declares his elect to be righteous. Good works are not needed before this pronouncement can be made. "Faith alone" is then understood to mean faith apart from works. However, in Pelagius' view, man, by his own merit, is able to save himself without assistance from God. He simply needs to have faith in the obedience of Christ and then copy it. "Faith alone" is then understood to mean faith apart from grace. Pelagius denied that this was exactly what he meant.
Because of his talent for prevarication, a series of synods ensued before he was finally declared a heretic. The first, at Carthage in 411, was actually against Caelestius; however, he held to the main points of Pelagianism. These were as follows:
1. Even if Adam had not sinned, he would have died.
2. Adam's sin harmed only himself, not the human race.
3. Children just born are in the same state as Adam before the fall.
4. The whole human race neither dies through Adam's sin or death, nor rised through the resurrection of Christ.
5. The (Mosaic Law) is as good a guide to heaven as the Gospel.
6. Even before the advent of Christ there were men who were without sin.
He was excommunicated and appealed to Rome.
The next event happened when Augustine sent the Spanish priest Orosius to Palestine to warn Jerome about Pelagianism. A synod was convened in Bethlehem in 415 presided over by Bishop John of Jerusalem. it was decided that since John did not speak the language of either of the parties, the Latins could best handle it. A letter to this effect was sent to Pope Innocent; however, before anything could happen, another synod was convened that same year in Diospolis, Palestine. Pelagius' accusers were unable to show up due to illness. Parts of their letter of accusation was read in mistranslation to the bishops who only spoke Greek. Fortunately for Pelagius, he also could speak Greek. He managed to convince the bishops that his true beliefs weren't anything like they had been made to sound. The synod at Carthage was told. They confirmed the pronouncement of 411 against Pelagianism. In 416, the synod at Mileve, at which Augustine was present, joined them in sending an appeal to the pope. He confirmed the decision at Carthage and Pelagius was excommunicated. Then the pope died.
When the new pope came into office, Pelagius managed to convince him that he had been wronged. In 418, the bishops at Carthage, hearing this, sent as letter to the pope asking "that he should uphold the sentence pronounced by Pope Innocent against Pelagius and Caelestus, until both of them distinctly acknowledged that for every single good action we need the help of the grace of God through Jesus Christ; and this not only to perceive what is right, but also to practice it, so that without it we can neither possess, think, speak, or do anything really good and holy" (from Hefele, A History of the Councils of the Church). Evidently, the pope didn't want to deal with it. Instead, he sent them all the appropriate documents for common consultation. They used this opportunity for a General Synod at Carthage, which finally anathematized Pelagianism.
Pelagius, up to this point, had been able to lie his way out of being convicted. Perhaps Augustine, who had tteh best grasp of the true doctrine, deserves the most credit for stopping this. In reference to Pelagius' denial of the necessity of grace for justification, he says, "The bishops believed that Pelagius confessed this grace, which they knew was commonly accepted in the catholic Church." However, Augustin goes on to say that Pelagius, prior to this had "very explicitly admitted that he understood by the 'grace of God' that, when our nature was created, it received the posibility of not sinning, because it was created with a free will. -And thus while the bishops understood him to mean by 'grace,' not that by which we humans were created, but that by which we have been made new creatures by adoption (since it is this latter grace which divine Scripture very clearly commends), they, not realizing he was a heretic, acquitted him as a catholic."
So far, a single question stands in the way of knowing whether or not Anselm has an orthodox theology of grace. He starts off on much better ground than Abelard, if only because of the differences between their doctrines of the atonement. To briefly summarize Abelard, he teaches that the death of Jesus was an example to make us feel love and pity for him and thereby be motivated to obedience. The emphasis ends up on our works.
Anselm, on the other hand, holds that the atonement was a satisfaction paid to God the Father by Christ on our behalf. In his Cur Deus Homo, he explains that, in the fall, Adam sinned against God and put humanity in his debt. Consequently, only a human being was legally qualified to pay this debt. There was, however, a problem: no human being was morally qualified to pay it. This was something that only God could do. The solution was for the Son of God to take on human nature in order to satisfy the debt. The atonement is something merited by Christ, yet, as far as believers are concerned, it is a matter of grace.
So far, Anselm is on track. But there is more. Justification, the grace accomplished in the atonement, has both a negative and a positive aspect. The concept of satisfaction answers to the first aspect. The penalty for sin is paid. However, it does not necessarily answer to the second aspect, which is our sanctification, or, the acquisition of holiness required to live in the presence of God. The question is whether or not Anselm believes that both of these aspects are covered under grace.
Another question, lying in back of this one, is whether or not Anselm believes that there even are two aspects. One might argue for the possibility of misunderstanding this; that is, of believing that Christ’s payment of the penalty of sin is, in itself, sufficient unto salvation. Technically, the doctrine of grace would still be intact, even if floating around in an impoverished context. There is, however, evidence that Anselm does recognize a twofold aspect. It is also found in his Cur Deus Homo.
Not only does Anselm believe that God had to become human in order to be our redeemer, but he believes that God had to be our redeemer. Evidently, once God had decided that he would create personal beings and live with them forever, there had to be just so many of them. There is a perfect number that only God knows. Anselm wonders if the angels once made up this perfect number until some of them fell. If so, then people were created to make up the difference. This, he concludes, is unseemly. It would not do for one who was saved to be happy about the fact that an angel had been eternally damned in order to make room for him. Anselm decides that, while people do make up the difference, the perfect number is higher than the number of angels created. That way, we never know. Since people were created to make up the perfect number, God could not have his plans thwarted by the fall.
The whole scenario seems just a bit far fetched. Nevertheless, I believe that Anselm is on to something. Anselm is right: it is not the case that God could have decided not to redeem anybody. It goes back to God’s original intent in creating mankind: he wanted to live with them forever. It is not, though, as Anselm supposes, a matter of replacing angels or making up a perfect number. Rather, I see this redemptive compunction as the fulfillment of a pre-creative intratrinitarian covenant. In agreement with Anselm, this necessity is not a matter of some external force compelling the will of God. He was, after all, free not to decide to create.
To bring things back into focus, Anselm believes that man was created for something beyond his original paradise. Had Adam not sinned, humanity would have been promoted to something higher. This historical paradigm suggests that Anselm does not view our justification simply in terms of a satisfaction for sin. There is a twofold aspect: redemption to our original state and progression to what had been intended. So then, does Anselm believe that this second aspect is the result of grace alone?
On the surface, he does not. In fact, Anselm has a whole treatise on the compatibility of grace with the free will of the individual. He argues that both are necessary for salvation. All of which is fine so long as free will is not confused with individual merit. The problem, however, is that it looks as though Anselm might do this. It happens in his De Concordia Praescentiae et Praedestionatis et Gratiae Dei cum Libero Arbitrio, III, 9. He is answering the question of why “in this life the penalty for sin remains in us after the sin has been blotted out.” Why, upon baptism, are we not immediately transformed into a state of incorruption? His answer is that merit would perish. He writes, “Faith and hope—without which no man who has understanding can merit the Kingdom of God—would vanish.”
Does Anselm mean to say that the grace of God found in the atonement qualifies us for our own meritorious works? Maybe not. He concludes the paragraph by saying, “In order that through merit of faith and of hope we may more gloriously obtain the happiness we desire, we remain—for as long as we are in this life—in this state.” The key is in the words “more gloriously.” I am willing to accept the suggestion that Anselm is not talking about the merit of justification, but of the merit which results in the rewards of sanctification. Still, if this is the case, I would prefer that he use different words.
Anselm’s definition of a free will fits, for the most part, with an orthodox conception of grace. He does not take a libertarian view. The will follows its own nature. God’s will, though free, is not able to sin. Apart from the grace of God, the will of fallen man is not able to follow God. Anselm argues that not everyone is given this grace. He does not, then, follow the semi-Pelagian/Arminian notion of a blanket application of prevenient grace, which neutralizes the biblical declarations of being dead in sins. The dispensation of grace is according to the will of God.
And then, Anselm complicates the picture. He talks about degrees of grace and of the possibility of overcoming grace by an act of the will. There is no question that, in Anselm, grace is necessary unto salvation. But then, the same thing can be said for Roman Catholicism. Furthermore, there is nothing wrong with positing a level of grace that can be overcome by an even more corrupt will. That is, as long as it is understood that God had no intention for this grace to be salvific. What I have yet to find in Anselm is a statement to the effect that there exist those degrees of grace that necessarily stronger than any opposing act of the will.
Does Anselm believe in irresistible grace? If not, then no matter how much grace has been given, the determining factor in the salvation of one person over another is that some quality of his own, above and beyond the grace of God, was better than that in someone else. It is not sufficient to go back to Anselm’s reasons for the incarnation and the atonement to answer this. He does believe that God had every intention to spend eternity with people. Furthermore, he believes that God was able to bring about what he intended. However, because he ties this, not to individual election, but to the filling up of a perfect number, there is no need for God to guarantee the salvation of any specific individual. If one resists, another would eventually take his place.
For now, the question remains unanswered, especially with Anselm’s talk of meritorious faith and grace that can be overcome by the will. If it is the case that Anselm would subscribe to irresistible grace, I can accept his view of grace as a whole. If it is God’s will that his grace not be resisted, then this grace is sufficient to my justification. Even though Anselm wants to label them as “merits,” he would see faith and hope as the fruit of grace. Faith would then be seen as the instrument of justification and not another ground thereof.
On a first reading of Abelard’s exposition of Romans 3:19-26, it looks as though he is pursuing a fairly logical argument. On subsequent readings, however, it appears that something is missing in his account of grace. Basically, he draws too sharp a distinction between the dispensation of law and that of grace. The result shows up in his account of the atonement. In the end, he does not view it in terms of legal satisfaction. It is, instead, a source of inspiration, a thing to be imitated. One’s understanding of the atonement will affect his understanding of grace. Consequently, I want to look at what Abelard does with the former in order to see what he thinks about the latter.
Abelard considers and rejects the idea that the death of Christ constituted a ransom paid to Satan for our redemption. The argument, as he states it in chapter II of his exposition, was:
that it was Satan who (because the first man had sinned and had yielded himself by voluntary obedience to him) was exercising a total dominion over man; and that he would always exercise the same unless a deliverer came.
Abelard weaves together two arguments against this proposition, one more convincing than the other. In the first, he provides examples of those who were not under Satan’s dominion before the Christ’s death. The deliverer, he writes, has only delivered the elect. Lazarus was carried into Abraham’s bosom before the death of Christ. And what of Abraham himself? Satan had no power over these and all the rest of the elect who were there, even though Christ had not died yet. Further down in the same chapter, Abelard notes that Christ forgave the sins of both Mary Magdalene and the paralytic before his Passion. And then Abelard makes a statement showing that he does not understand what has happened. He writes, “If, I say, the Lord was willing to pardon sinful man apart from his Passion…” This misses the point. Just because the elect are allowed to enter into Abraham’s bosom or because Christ pardons sins at a point in time before his Passion, this does not mean that events have happened apart from Christ’s Passion. Abelard has confused temporal priority with logical priority and, in so doing, has opened the door to saying that the death of Christ is not necessary to the forgiveness of sins. God can forgive sins apart from any legal satisfaction.
The other argument that Abelard makes against the atonement as a ransom paid to Satan is more convincing. Man, as the slave of the Lord, had no right in the first place to put himself under Satan’s dominion. No ransom need be paid: God can simply take him back. Besides this, Satan is himself the slave of the Lord. One slave has seduced a fellow slave. Who then, Abelard asks, is more guilty- the seducer or the seduced? Satan is in no position, from anything that he has done himself, to have any right over man. If he does possess any rights, this can only be “through the express permission, or even the assignment, of the Lord.”
So far, Abelard would be on the right track if this argument were taken by itself. But he has also made the case that forgiveness of sins is possible apart from the atonement. He has not yet explicitly stated it, but he doesn’t see the atonement in terms of a ransom being paid to anyone. Consequently, when he comes to the conclusion that a ransom paid to Satan would actually imply a ransom paid to God, since God is Satan’s master, he does not explore this option but rejects it out of hand.
Abelard adds to his case that grace is technically possible apart from the atonement by giving the example of Christ himself:
Indeed, as man, he did not by his own merits ensure that he should be conceived, be born, and continue throughout his life without sin, but received this through the grace of the Lord upholding him.
Abelard conflates more than one thing in this statement. First of all, he has not differentiated between the goodness of God that keeps his creatures from sinning at all and that goodness of God that deals mercifully with them after they have sinned. He calls both of these “grace” when the term properly belongs only to the latter. Consequently, his argument that it would be a lesser thing for God to simply forgive sin than to unite himself with man does not hold. The two events are not in the same category.
The second ambiguity in Abelard’s statement is found in the difference between the passive qualities of being conceived and born and the activity of not sinning. The righteous life of Christ is seen to be the result of the grace of God. Put another way, grace has enabled merit. If this seems unfair to Abelard, consider the first chapter of his exposition. Note especially his definitions.
Consider first his definition of the righteousness of God that has been manifested in the dispensation of grace. This righteousness is “something which God approves and by which we are justified in God’s sight, namely love.” We learn later on that this means our love for God. This righteousness depends upon the justice of God. But then, the justice of God is our faith in Christ. Later on, however, this justice is also love. For those who believe in the death of Christ, their faith results in love, which is righteousness and which results in the remission of sins. In Abelard’s words, Christ died “to convince us how much we ought to love him who ‘spared not even his own Son’ for us.” Something is not right with this picture.
Abelard calls grace “a free and spiritual gift of God.” It is essential, however, to keep this statement in context. He had just written that man is justified freely “not by any previous merits of their own, but by the grace of…God.” Considering what he has said all around this statement, it seems that the key word is not “freely” but “previous.” Grace is not seen as being in distinction to merit but as a helper of merit. Obedience rendered apart from the motivation of love to God does not count. Merit is only efficacious after it has been motivated by love.
Abelard still wants to know why Christ had to take on human flesh and die in order to redeem us. He has already concluded that it was not to pay any kind of a ransom, whether to Satan or to God. He concludes that we are redeemed from the power of sin. The greatest example of love is, as the scripture says, “that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Christ’s death was, therefore, the greatest example possible of his love. This display of love, in turn, motivates us to love God. This, our love for God, is our righteousness resulting in the remission of our sins. The grace of God is found in his provision of an example to be imitated.
When I began reading Augustine’s “A Treatise on Grace and Free Will,” I expected the insights, not only of a man who had sat at the feet of Calvin, but who had developed the articulate precision of Edwards. Here was a window into the mind of the original and the definitive anti-Pelagian, a Reformer living a millennium before his time. This is not quite what I got.
Augustine’s intent is to steer a middle course between “some persons who so defend God’s grace as to deny man’s free will, or who suppose that free will is denied when grace is defended” (TGF, 1). The treatise is divided in two in order to deal with both sides. The second and best section, a defense of grace, deals with the latter group. The opening chapters are a defense of free will. Here, Augustine is not at his finest.
Who are these people who so emphasize grace at the expense of free will? I cannot tell; however, it may not be all that important to know. The occasion of the treatise seems to be the teaching of the Pelagians. This preliminary defense of free will should probably be seen as laying the groundwork for his subsequent arguments on the necessity of grace. It is in this latter context of the treatise, and in his subsequent “A Treatise on the Predestination of the Saints” that Augustine’s views on free will are best expressed. Nevertheless, it is my observation that when he is treating the subject of free will in and of itself, his argument sounds too congenial to the opposition. I am not convinced by what he has to say.
The foundation of Augustine’s defense of free will is found in an implication: God has addressed a number of precepts to man; therefore, man must have a free will. The Pelagians rejoice and say, “Precisely.” Yet, I am immediately stuck wondering why this has to be the case. The wind and waves lie silent at his command. Surely this implies no volition on their part. I must wait to see how Augustine explains his defense. But the whole time that he is considering exclusively the topic of free will, he offers no explanation. He goes into a series of sub-points, such that sinners cannot blame God for their actions or that ignorance is no excuse. However, all of these are predicated on the assumption that responsibility implies free will. Augustine has not demonstrated this.
I do see the rhetorical value of Augustine’s opening chapters. If the treatise, considered as a whole, is designed to convince the Pelagians of the necessity of grace, or to demonstrate their error to others, it helps to be conciliatory; to offer a position of common ground. But does such commonality exist?
It is not until he explains grace that Augustine’s position on free will begins to take on that distinctively Reformed flavor. He still maintains the vocabulary of free will, which is forgivable. Although I would prefer that he speak of free moral agency, the idea of which he speaks is thoroughly biblical. Furthermore, he does so in such a way that his previous categorization of free will as an implication of divine precepts is rendered unnecessary.
There is nothing in Augustine’s opening chapters to prevent one from thinking that he is not describing free will in libertarian terms; that is, free will describes no restraints on any options that may exist. His subsequent treatment of the topic makes it clear that this is not at all what he means. I can explain the existence of his opening chapters in one of two ways: 1) Augustine does not posses the ability to articulate the concept of free will when it is considered in abstraction. 2) Whether intentionally or not, Augustine is equivocating within the course of his treatise.
Let us, though, go on to Augustine’s better writings. Before anything else, his musings are theocentric. Towards the end of his treatise, he writes, “This ought to be the fixed and immoveable conviction of your heart, that there is no unrighteousness with God” (TGF, 43). Whereas the Pelagians and their half-kin would look at Augustine’s views on grace and free will and accuse him of ascribing unrighteousness to God, Augustine claims the precise opposite as his motive for holding them.
What are the Pelagian objections? Just look at what Augustine says and these should become apparent. When Augustine speaks of free will, he means that the will of a good man is free to do good and the will of an evil man is free to do evil. Already the Pelagians are backtracking from their previous agreement with Augustine (although, this is probably more his fault). The nature of the individual determines the will; not vice-versa as the Pelagians would have it. What makes it worse from their perspective is that, accompanying Augustine’s doctrine of the will is his belief in original sin. No one is good; consequently, no one can will to do good. What is more, no one can will to be good. Everyone is free to will evil. At this point, the Pelagians are objecting that the will is actually bound to do evil. I would agree with them on this point. I would, however, disagree with the corollary that Augustine has unwittingly handed them in his opening chapters, which is, that God is unrighteous in demanding that they, in turn, be righteous.
The existence of good men is due entirely to the grace of God in changing their natures so that their wills will follow. This change is entirely without merit on their part. Augustine rejects the notion that God looks into the future and bases this grace on something that they would do. They are not given the ability to will good because they would have done so anyway.
Augustine further develops the disconnection between merit and grace when he considers the baptism of infants. He believes that all unbaptized infants are damned. While I disagree with him on the issue of baptism, I do take his point that some infants are in this state. If it is wrong to think that the bestowal of grace is based on some good deed that an individual would definitely do in the future, then on what basis does God decide the fate of those who die in infancy? It is not that they were definitely going to do some good or evil thing. And Augustine will not allow that God dispenses with his grace based on hypothetical merit.
Christ himself is added to Augustine’s argument for the non-meritorious nature of grace. Consider Jesus in his humanity and the super abundance of grace that God must have bestowed upon this man in order to join him to himself. Considering then, that this occurred at the moment of his incarnation, it could not have been based on merit.
Augustine presents Jesus, who is the crowning example of God’s grace, as the chief example of free will. We are not to suppose that Christ, because he was free, could have chosen to sin, or could have chosen not to do the will of his Father. Rather, because he was so completely devoid of an evil nature, he was freer than anyone has ever been to do good.
Augustine had not always thought this way on the issue of grace of free will. But his mind was captive to the Word of God. It asked him, “What do you have that you have not received?” He was compelled to answer, “Nothing.” The inclination of his own will could be nothing less than the gift of God.
The Empress Eudoxia was given a silver image of herself and displayed it prominently. Chrysostom objected and so, in 404, began his final exile. Arcadius, the Emperor, first sent him to Cucusus and then, in 405, to Arabissus. This still was not far enough away since Chrysostom was still able to write letters to friends in Constantinople, where he had been Bishop since 398. They moved him again. He was on his way to Pityus but never got there. Instead, he died in 407 in Comana.
When Chrysostom was banished for the final time, he had barely been back a year from the previous banishment. This, too, involved Eudoxia. The Empress was somewhat ostentatious and Chrysostom had urged a measure of modesty. She did not take this very well. This was not the official reason that Chrysostom was banished; however, it did provide the motivation for the Empress to ask for the condemnation of Chrysostom in a matter that should not have been her business. This involved an altercation between Chrysostom and Theophilus, Bishop of Alexandria.
In 402, Theophilus had accused the Long brothers [in reference to their height] and 50 other monks of Origenism. He excommunicated them. Chrysostom, on the other hand, welcomed them when they came to Constantinople. Theophilus came to Constantinople in 403. He gathered 36 clerics, many under Chrysostom’s own jurisdiction, and set up a synod near an oak not within his own jurisdiction. Chrysostom was condemned at the Synod of the Oak. Despite rioting in his favor, he was taken away across the Bosporus.
When Chrysostom had arrived in Constaninople five years earlier, he had not made friends of the clerics. They were immoral and he said so, telling them, in no uncertain terms, to repent. And Eudoxia was not the only wealthy individual whom he had alienated. He did not think that anyone should be excessively wealthy and preached on the topic extensively. Quite extensively, in fact. Even when it had nothing at all to do with the text. The idea was to shame the rich people into giving their money to the poor people.
The text of Homily LXXXVIII is Matthew 27:45-48. This covers a span of time during the crucifixion. The earth becomes dark for three hours, Jesus asks why God has forsaken him, people think he is talking to Elijah, and someone gives him some vinegar to drink. So long as he is talking about the events of the crucifixion, or of Old Testament types that were being fulfilled, his sermon is worthy the name that he had acquired for himself- Chrysostom, or Golden Mouth. But then he segues into the women preparing the spices for Jesus body and, despite its continued elegance, any hint of decent preaching is lost for the rest of the sermon. He begins his application with these words:
Let us men imitate the women; let us not forsake Jesus in temptations. For they for Him even dead spent so much and exposed their lives, but we (for again I say the same things) neither feed Him when hungry, nor clothe him when naked, but seeing Him begging, we pass Him by.
Chrysostom continues on, expressing himself superbly. All of which is lost on me, not because he might not be right, but because there is a connection, neither with the first part of his sermon nor with the scriptural text that he is expounding. Furthermore, he is as consistent in this as he was with everything he did. Subsequent homilies in Matthew follow the same pattern. Short text, good exposition thereof as far as it went, and then, in what I can only describe as an early fifth century version of the altar call, an appeal to surrender all to Jesus by giving your money to the poor. He was remarkably single minded.
Chrysostom began his preparations for public speaking by giving himself to the study of Greek rhetoric while growing up. About the time he finished, he was baptized by Miletius. He was almost 20. Three years later, in 371, Miletius appointed him to be a lector. But then Miletius was banished by the Emperor Valens until 378. Chrysostom occupied the time by joining a monastery near Antioch. During his six year stay, he memorized both the Septuagint and the Greek New Testament. In 380, Chrysostom was ordained as a deacon in Antioch and then, in 386, as a priest.
Chrysostom became well known for his abilities as a preacher. In 398, upon the office becoming vacant in that city, he was summoned to Constantinople to be Bishop. And then the problems began. People soon discovered that Chrysostom was not just given to talking. He lived according to what he said and expected everyone else to do the same. The same man who had so devoted himself to the scripture as to memorize it, admonished his own people to study the Word of God for themselves. And he who cared so much for the needy as to establish hospitals consistently preached their care to his congregation. He disapproved of excessive wealth, which could be given to the poor. Much less would he silently watch any showy displays thereof, even from the Empress Eudoxia.
The elder Gregory of Nazianzus would have preferred that his son and namesake follow in his steps as bishop. Gregory the younger had other plans and in 361, upon being ordained a priest in Nazianzus by his father, ran away to Pontus. Gregory had been born into a wealthy Christian family in 326. He had been classically trained but, wanting to expand on his education, had decided to travel. While away, he had met Julian (later the apostate emperor), Athanasius (concerning whom he wrote an oration), and Basil. Gregory had come home in 356, but then, around 358-360, had gone to visit Basil’s monastic community whereupon, discovering his distaste for being cloistered, he had returned home.
Gregory came back from Pontus on Easter of 362, having been persuaded to come and help his poor dying father. The arrangement would last for about ten more years. At that time, Basil appointed Gregory bishop of Sasima, an outpost on the Parthian border. Sasima was small, very small, and so, Gregory ran away to Nazianzus. A couple of years later, his father died. Gregory took over his duties but only lasted for a year before he ran away to Seleucia in Isauria. This lasted until 378 when the pro-Arian emperor, Valens, died and was replaced by the pro-Nicene Theodosius. A small Nicene congregation in Constantinople asked Gregory to be their pastor. He agreed and soon became one of the most popular pastors in the Eastern Church. An audience with Emperor Theodosius resulted in Gregory being elevated to the office of Bishop of Constantinople.
He was still there in 381 when the second of the ecumenical councils was called, the main purpose of which was to settle the questions concerning the deity of the Holy Spirit. When Miletius, the president of the council, died, Gregory stepped in to take his place. But some Alexandrian bishops objected and had him removed on the basis of the canons of Nicea. A man could be bishop in only one place. Since Gregory had previously been appointed Bishop of Sasima, he had no right to be Bishop of Constantinople. And so Gregory resigned and ran away to Nazianzus. The people there still wanted him to be bishop of their city, but canon law would not have allowed it. Gregory retired to the family estate in Arianzus where, in 390, he died.
Along with Basil and Basil’s younger brother Gregory, Gregory of Nazianzus formed a group of theologians who would come to be known as the Cappadocians. There greatest contribution to orthodoxy was in clarifying the doctrine of the Trinity and in disproving the Arians. They standardized the formula: one “ousia” and three “hypostases.” Gregory’s unique contribution was to focus individually on the persons within the Trinity in order to note what distinguished them from one another. He considered how they were related to one another and, thereby, what the origin of each was. The Father was “agennesia,” or unbegotten; the Son was “gennesia,” or begotten; and the Holy Spirit was "ekporeusis,” or proceeding. Basil had also considered the relationships within the trinity; however, his emphasis was on the Father and the Son. Gregory was the first to explicitly include the Holy Spirit in this relationship and to state what that relation was. The Holy Spirit is related to the other two persons of the Trinity by means of procession.
Although Gregory performed a great service for the Church by defending the deity of Christ against the Arians, his defense of the full humanity of Christ was equally invaluable. His argument was against Apollinaris, who represented the culmination of what is known as the “Logos-flesh” model of the incarnation. Apollinaris defended Nicene orthodoxy; he did believe that Christ was fully divine. But he did not believe that Christ was fully human. Rather than possessing a human body and a human soul, Christ’s soul was replaced by the Logos. Justo L. Gonzalez sees Apollinaris as a trichotomist: a human being is composed of body, soul, and spirit. In this view, the spirit is the seat of personality and the intellect. Jesus had a human body and a human soul, but not a human spirit. Either way, though, the Christ of Apollinaris is missing some essential human parts.
Yet the matter is not solely about the composition of a human being; it is a question of soteriology. Gregory takes it back to the fall of Adam and writes:
For that which He [Christ] has not assumed He has not healed; but that which is united to His Godhead is also saved. If only half Adam fell, then that which Christ assumes and saves may be half also; but if the whole of his nature fell, it must be united to the whole nature of Him that was begotten, and so be saved as a whole. Let them not, then, begrudge us our complete salvation, or clothe the Saviour only with bones and nerves and the portraiture of humanity (Epistle 101).
By Apollinaris’ own reckoning, the Son of God assumed human flesh and that is all. The mind, or the soul, was not assumed but was replaced. And, as Gregory indicates, this would be fine if the mind had not also fallen. However, since the whole man has fallen, and since Apollinaris claims that the whole man can be redeemed even though the whole man has not been assumed, I am forced to ask why the Logos had to assume anything. What is the point of the rest of the incarnation? If the mind can be saved without it, why not the body?
Gregory shows the absurdity of appealing to the passage that states, “The Word was made flesh,” saying:
…it is time for them to say that God is God only of flesh, and not of souls, because it is written, “As Thou hast given Him power over all Flesh,” …meaning every Man. Or, again, they must suppose that our fathers went down into Egypt without bodies and invisible…because it is written, “They went down into Egypt with threescore and fifteen Souls.”…They who argue thus do not know that such expressions are used by Synecdoche, declaring the whole by the part…(Epistle 101)
Despite the apparent advantages for the doctrine of salvation, Gonzalez does not see that the Christology of Gregory is much better than that of Apollinaris. He observes that “Gregory thought it necessary to affirm that the center of the Savior’s personality is in his divinity, so that his humanity is, as it were, absorbed by the divine nature.”
Speaking specifically of Gregory of Nyssa, yet by implication also of Gregory of Nazianzus, Gonzalez claims that they had the “tendency to take the divinity of Jesus Christ as the starting point and to attribute to him only the highest degree of humanity that may be compatible with this starting point.” From either perspective, the humanity of Christ appears to be diminished.
I believe, however, that Gonzalez has misread the text. He goes on to give the justification for the Cappadocians’ view of the incarnation. Salvation was, to them, a matter of deification. Gonzalez explains, “Thus, for the Cappadocians the important thing was that in Christ God truly assumed humanity, and not that his humanity remained identical to ours or as free as ours.”
Gonzalez is correct in his unspoken assumption that, ultimately, Christ’s humanity and our humanity must remain the same. However, the Cappadocians never denied this. It is Gonzalez’ claim that Gregory’s Christology diminishes Jesus’ humanity. He cites Gregory’s example of starlight on a sunny day. Gonzalez might have a point, if Gregory were defending the deity of Christ. But he is not; he is defending the union of two perfect natures in one person. The question is, “How shall one thing contain two completenesses?”
Here is matter of inquiry; for indeed the question is worthy of much consideration. Do they not know, then, that what is perfect by comparison with one thing may be imperfect by comparison with another, as a hill compared with a mountain, or a grain of mustard seed with a bean or any other of the larger seeds, although it may be called larger than any of the same kind?... So Moses was God to Pharaoh, but a servant of God, as it is written; and the stars which illumine the night are hidden by the Sun, so much that you could not even know of their existence by daylight…(Epistle 101)
Or as humanity compared with deity. If there is no difference between a mountain and a hill, between a mustard seed and a bean, between starlight and sunlight, between God and Moses, then the nature of at least one component within each of these pairs has been changed. When Gregory considers the two natures of Christ, when he observes the eclipse of the one into the other, he does not deny the full humanity of Christ. Instead, he affirms it, and, in so doing, places before us the end of our own salvation.
Origen was born into a Christian home in Alexandria in about 185 AD. His father, Leonidas, was martyred in 202 under the persecution of Septimius Severus. According to the story, Origen’s own early martyrdom was possibly prevented when his mother hid his clothing, thus preventing him from leaving the house. Whether true or not, it does illustrate the zeal that Origen would always have for the Christian faith.
Origen began to support himself by teaching literature and philosophy. As a result of the persecution, Alexandria lacked sufficient leaders to train candidates for baptism. Two brothers, Plutarch and Heraclas, asked Origen to take up this task. Demetrius, Bishop of Alexandria, made it official.
During all this time, Origen remained a layman, since ordination was not required to teach. However, in about 216, he went to Palestine where some of the bishops asked him to preach in their churches. Origen agreed to this, but, when Demetrius found out about this, he ordered Origen to return to Alexandria. Years later, Origen was traveling to Antioch and passed through Palestine. Once again, the bishops asked him to preach; this time, though, they took the precaution of ordaining him. Far from solving the problem, this only created a larger one. Demetrius was incensed. He interpreted this move as an evasion of his authority.
Demetrius did not believe that Origen was qualified for ordination. He certainly had the qualifying skills for office; however, Origen’s overzealous and all too literal application of the passage in Matthew 19:12 concerning those who have “made themselves eunuchs because of the kingdom of heaven,” in Demetrius’ eyes, barred him from this privilege. With the consent of two synods that Demetrius had called in Alexandria, Origen was excommunicated and defrocked. While Demetrius and the synods of Alexandria may have had some legitimate concerns, it is quite likely that Demetrius was influenced by personal motives; namely, envy of Origen’s abilities and popularity. In any event his actions, along with those of the synods, seem to have gone too far. These were not a mere reprimand of Origen, but, implicitly, of the church in Palestine.
When Heraclas, the same who had first asked Origen to teach, having become the Bishop of Alexandria did not overturn the actions of Demetrius, Origen was resigned never to return to his home town. Except for frequent trips throughout the Empire, he spent the remainder of his life in Caesaria in Palestine. There, he spent his time teaching and writing in a school that he had founded. This lasted until the Decian persecution when Origen was taken prisoner and tortured in an attempt to make him renounce his faith. The circumstances of his death are debated. He was either martyred or he died in the city of Tyre due to weakness from his recent imprisonment.
Origen was, perhaps, the most prolific writer of the ancient church. Few of these works survive. Around eight hundred works are known at least by title, but Epiphanius claims that total number was closer to six thousand. Among Origen’s major works were the Hexapla, Contra Celsum, and De principiis.
The Hexapla stands as an early example of conservative textual criticism. Its purpose was to expound the Masoretic text of the Old Testament. This Hebrew text formed the first of six columns. The second column consisted of a Greek transliteration of this text. This was followed by four Greek translations. Three were by individuals: Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodotus. The fifth column was reserved for the Septuagint, which Origen carefully annotated to indicated differences with the Masoretic text. If they were available, Origen would also include other translations. Consequently, some passages, especially those within the Psalms, were expanded to as many as nine columns.
Contra Celsum is, as the title suggests, an apologetical work against Celsus. Celsus, a pagan philosopher had written a work against Christianity entitled The True Word. It appears to have been of little consequence and Origen would have been content just to ignore it. Nevertheless, at the request of his friend Ambrose, Origen decided to write a point by point refutation.
De principii, which means, “On First Principles,” was a relatively early work. Justo L. Gonzalez admits to using this work to outline his exposition of Origen’s theology. He discloses the fact that most of this work has survived only in the Latin translation of Rufinus, who also took it upon himself to correct the text. This may present more of a problem than Gonzalez is prepared to admit. There is virtually unanimous agreement among modern scholars that Origen was heavily influenced by Platonist philosophy. While Rufinus should not be blamed for inserting these ideas into Origen’s work, his proclivity for editing has not made any easier the task of figuring out what Origen actually did believe.
Recently, the idea of Origen’s platonic influence has been questioned. While it is much too large a task to investigate these claims for myself, I would like to express tentative agreement based on a narrowly focused but representative example of Origen’s work. I have in mind his two surviving homilies on the Song of Solomon (Song of Songs).
Origen was a member of the Alexandrine school of theology. Supposedly, this school was given over to an allegorical approach to scriptural interpretation. This approach has been characterized by being overly symbolic and ahistorical. Combine this misconception with the idea that Origen was attempting to synthesize theology with Platonist philosophy and Origen’s work becomes a prime target for misinterpretation. Perhaps this oversimplifies the matter; however, I have noted similar critiques of Biblical Theological exegesis of the scriptures: it is allegorical and platonic. Knowing that this critique is unjustified now, I am compelled not to accept immediately these assumptions when reading Origen’s homilies on the Song of Songs.
His exegesis does have problems. Most notable to me is his idea that certain words always mean the same thing throughout scripture. By not allowing for a more localized context for meaning, some of his interpretations seem forced. Less problematic are some possible mistranslations of words. But, despite all of this, his interpretation is governed, not by the idea that the literal and historical do not matter, but by the idea that all of scripture is about Christ. In this, he is in agreement, not only with how Christ and the Apostles interpret the Old Testament, but also with a fundamental principle of Biblical Theological interpretation. Any given text is about Christ. The question is, “How?” While I may disagree on some of his particulars, I must admire Origen, both for his commitment to understanding the very words of scripture and for his insistence upon seeing Christ in all of scripture.
Tertullian was born in Carthage in the vicinity of 150 to 155 AD. He grew up in a pagan household and later may have become a lawyer in Rome. He was converted to Christianity around the age of forty and, subsequently, turned all of his legal expertise toward writing in defense of the faith. He kept this up, but then, in about 207, he became a Montanist. It is not known when Tertullian died.
Tertullian was a prolific author. His works range from apologies addressed to pagans, to arguments against heretics, to practical and moral works. In the latter category, there is a marked shift toward moralism after he converts to Montanism. Tertullian’s writing style was somewhat terse and tinged with sarcasm throughout. In many cases, he would coin his own words in order to capture a thought; thereby becoming the primary contributor to Ecclesiastical Latin. The negative side of this is that his writing is sometimes obscure. Although he came up with some of the formulations that would later be used in the church’s definitions of orthodoxy, there is some question as to whether he invested them with the same definition. Tertullian never wrote just to practice his technique, but always had a specific purpose mind.
Perhaps the best example of Tertullian’s knowledge of Roman jurisprudence is found in The Prescription against Heretics. The argument does not try to refute specific heresies as such; rather, it is a matter of legal procedure. A prescription was a strategy used by the defense in which objection was made to the form in which the plaintiff wished to pursue the case. If successful, the case could be thrown out of court. In the case of orthodox Christianity vs. heresy, the form in question was the use of Scripture. The heretics were interpreting Scripture in a manner contrary to the accepted teaching of the church. Normally, at this point, the debate should have become a matter of hermeneutics or exegesis. But Tertullian prevents it from getting this far by arguing that Scripture belongs only to the church. The heretic has no right to use it in the first place.
The Prescription is an ingenious argument; nevertheless, from our post-Reformation perspective, it may appear to beg the question. Why couldn’t the Roman Catholic Church have used this argument against the Reformers? The answer, I believe, can be found by observing the nature of either side. Despite the overemphasis that is present today on the sufficiency of the individual in scriptural interpretation, this was not the intent of the Reformers. They were interpreting Scripture in line with the teaching of the historic, catholic church. Neither present day individualists nor second century heretics do this.
As to the church, there is no identity between the church of Tertullian’s day and the Roman Catholic Church of the sixteenth century. Tertullian did appeal to apostolic tradition in support of his argument; however, this was a tradition that was rooted in scripture. The Reformers protested against an organization that had formed a body of tradition alongside scripture. Such tradition, not arising from the only legitimate doctrinal source, must fall prey to Tertullian’s prescription. It is interesting to note that Tertullian had to abandon this strategy after he became a Montanist.
One of the aforementioned phrases that would later come to express the orthodox view of the trinity is “one in substance, three in person.” It is found in Against Praxeas. Praxeas was a monarchial modalist. He believed that there was only one person in the Godhead who manifested himself in different ways. God’s ability to rule, that is, his monarchy, is dependent on his unity. Multiple persons, so said Praxeas, destroyed this unity. Tertullian disagreed and ably demonstrated why. Nevertheless, what he presented in support of the unity of the Godhead may not be so clear.
The question goes to a debate over Tertullian’s use of the word “substance.” Was he using it in the metaphysical sense commonly associated with orthodoxy; or, as some have argued, was he using the term in a legal sense? Here, substance is property and the right to use it. Insofar as Tertullian is arguing against Praxeas’ view of monarchy, the comparison is drawn to the Emperor, whose substance is the Empire. The Emperor is able to share this substance, and, consequently, his rule with his son. Under this view, the divine Father and Son would be no different. Not only is it possible for more than one person to share a single substance, it is also possible for the same person to have more than one substance.
We do need to exercise caution here. Even if the case can be made that Tertullian had this legal view of substance, it does not follow that this goes beyond a mere illustration. We do not need to conclude that Tertullian thought of godness as something accidentally owned by the three persons of the trinity. Nevertheless, despite a desire to give Tertullian the benefit of the doubt, I do find myself wondering to what extent an unorthodox view of the trinity might have led to his conversion to Montanism. Montanus claimed to be the incarnation of the Holy Spirit. I cannot see how agreement with this is orthodox.
Another problematic doctrine of Tertullian’s was traducianism. This is the idea that the soul derived from the souls of the parents. Actually, the doctrine itself, although wrong, is not that bad. This was, until the Middle Ages, the majority report of the church to explain original sin. The problem lay in the Stoic philosophy behind this doctrine. Tertullian, according to Gonzalez, believed that both the soul and God were corporeal beings. If this is, indeed, the case, then, going back to Tertullian’s views on substance, he would have to conceive of deity as a property owned by the three persons of the trinity. His phrase, “distinct but not separate,” would not have the same orthodox flavor that we might like.
I do not accept the usual criticisms of Tertullian’s irrationalism. His statements need to be understood in context. And, normally, I would give the orthodox sounding things he says every benefit of the doubt. However, for me, his conversion to Montanism calls much of his previous writing into question. He may have provided some invaluable language and formulations for later orthodoxy, but I am still left wondering what he really meant.
The details surrounding the life of Irenaeus are not well known. He was born in Asia Minor, probably around 135; but dates between 140 and 160 have also been suggested. From a letter to Florinus (a Roman presbyter), in which Irenaeus describes seeing Polycarp in his home, it is most likely that he grew up in Smyrna. In about 170, he moved to Gaul and took up residence in Lyon where he became a presbyter. In 177, he was asked to deliver a letter to Eleutherus, the bishop of Rome, and to mediate in a dispute about Montanism. When he returned home, he discovered that Photinus, the bishop of Lyon, had been martyred. Irenaeus became his successor.
While bishop, Irenaeus fought against heresy and defended the unity of the church. There had been a controversy with the churches of Asia Minor over the date for celebrating Easter. It isn’t clear whether Victor, the new bishop of Rome, had excommunicated them or was about to. Irenaeus wrote to a number of the Asiatic bishops and to Victor asking them to make peace. And then Irenaeus is never heard from again. He may have died around 202. Martyrdom is rumored.
Other than fragments, only two of Irenaeus' many works survive. These are his Demonstration of Apostolic Preaching and his Denunciation and Refutation of the So-called Gnosis. The latter is usually known by its Latin title Adversus Haereses, or Against Heresies.
The purpose of the Demonstration of Apostolic Preaching, known also as the Epideixis, is to strengthen the faith of believers. The work consists of an introductory confession of faith. This is then expounded, both systematically and historically. There follows an attempt to prove the faith from Scripture.
Irenaeus has been called the most important theologian of the second century and among the greatest of any century. However, he was not much of systematic theologian. Instead, his organizing principle went along more historical lines. Justo L. Gonzalez writes, “It is best to follow the order that Irenaeus suggests in his Epideixis: to start with the Creator and then to pursue the history of salvation up to its final consummation.”
Before exploring the historical orientation of Irenaeus theology, his second major work should be considered. Against Heresies is primarily aimed at Gnosticism. Although it addresses other forms, it is primarily taken up with that brand associated with the Valentinians. The work is divided into five books. The first of these describes Gnosticism. The next three refute it from: 1) reason, 2) the doctrine of God and Christ, and 3) the sayings of Christ. The fifth book deals with the resurrection of the body: a thing denied by all self-respecting Gnostics.
Both of Irenaeus major works are written with heresy in mind. Even his Epideixis states its purpose: to defend against heresy. While this preoccupation with heresy is a source of strength- it allows him to formulate and clarify correct doctrine, - it also proves a potential source of weakness- he overreacts and moves too far in the opposite direction. In the section of Against Heresies that defends the resurrection, he also defends chiliasm, that is, a future, physical Kingdom of God on this earth.
In another case, however, Irenaeus is not in error but has been misread. Johannes Quasten claims that Irenaeus did not believe in the immortality of the soul. Irenaeus had written:
And therefore he who shall preserve the life bestowed upon him, and give thanks to him who imparted it, shall receive also length of days forever and ever. But he who reject it, and prove himself ungrateful to his Maker, inasmuch as he has been created, and has not recognized him who bestowed, deprives himself of the continuance forever and ever (Against Heresies 2,34,3).
Quasten responds:
Irenaeus thought it necessary to refute the assertion of the Gnostics that the soul is immortal by nature independently of her moral conduct, and thus he was led to these false ideas.
But Quasten has not taken into account “the repeated assertions of Irenaeus that the wicked will exist in misery for ever.” As A. Cleveland Coxe notes, “It refers not to annihilation, but to deprivation of happiness.”
Other than the chiliasm, Irenaeus is orthodox in what he asserts. It is his intent to expound the doctrine of the church and only that. Gonzalez comments, “[Irenaeus] has no desire to be considered an original or speculative theologian.” Yet, despite this lack of originality, Irenaeus’ approach to theology carries with it a freshness that is all too rare in either liberal innovators or conservative systematicians. This is most apparent when his historical approach is seen in combination with his development of the doctrine of recapitulation.
Recapitulation is taken from Paul’s doctrine of the two Adams. The term means “to place under a new head.” Irenaeus’ treatment, however, goes beyond a mere statement of Federal headship (not that Paul’s is limited to this). He sees in Christ the replaying of human history beginning with Adam and ending at the consummation. In order for Christ to effect the salvation of his people, he must be, at the least, everything that Adam was when he was created. From this starting point, Christ does right what Adam and humanity had done wrong. In so doing, he becomes the head of a new humanity.
Christ’s recapitulation begins with his virgin birth. Irenaeus draws the analogy to Adam, comparing Mary with the virgin soil from which the first man was created. He writes:
If, then, the first Adam had a man for his father, and was born of human seed, it were reasonable to say that the second Adam was begotten of Joseph. But if the former was taken from the dust, and God was his Maker, it was incumbent that the latter also, making a recapitulation in Himself, should be formed as man by God, to have an analogy with the former as respects His origin (Against Heresies 3,21,10).
On the one hand, Adam is the model for Christ. On the other, the reverse is true. Irenaeus speaks of the imago Dei in his Epideixis, “As the image of God hath he made man; and the ‘image’ is the Son of God, in whose image man was made.” Gonzalez gives an explanation that has a thoroughly eschatological bent. He writes, “It is as if in creating humankind God has used the future incarnation of the Word as a model.”
Even at the creation, Christ was the intended goal for humanity. Adam was, by Irenaeus account, not created perfect. Instead, it was intended that he mature into the fullness of this image. However, when Adam fell, the opposite took place; hence, the need for Christ to step in as the second Adam and recapitulate the intended history of humanity in himself. We grow to maturity because the second Adam has proven himself to be mature. It is apparent that Irenaeus’ view of recapitulation and of Christ as the goal of creation explains his organization of theology along historical lines. The history of salvation takes place on a double level. It plays out in time, in that it inevitably leads to the incarnation of the image of God; and it plays out in the life of Christ himself.
I agree with Irenaeus’ doctrine concerning the relation between Christ and Adam; with his view of salvation history; and with his view of the image of God as the eschatological model for the creation of man. I am not so sure that I agree with the idea that Adam was created in order that he might mature towards the image of God. At least, not insofar as he was the original Federal head. But then, perhaps I should not fault Irenaeus too much, since I am thinking more of ideas that came into existence after the development of Federal theology. Basically, I see no room in a “maturing” paradigm for the strict fulfillment of the Covenant of Works. Irenaeus spends much time drawing the necessary parallels between the first and second Adams; however, one of these parallels must be in relation to their office. This must be the same for both. If Christ does not mature as the Federal head, neither does Adam. He either does what he is told, or he does not.
The city of Flavia Neapolis (now Nablus) in Samaria had been built by Flavius Vespasian. Its inhabitants were granted Roman citizenship. During the reign of Vespasian’s son, Titus, Justin Martyr’s family moved there. Justin was born around the beginning of the second century AD.
Justin moved to Ephesus and studied several Greek philosophies, including the Stoics, Peripatetics, Pythagoreans, and Platonists. He was converted in Ephesus around 130 AD when he met an old man who refuted Plato and told him of the prophecies and fulfillments concerning Christ. Another contributing factor in his conversion had been his observation of the heroism of other Christians in the face of death.
The record of Justin’s life after his conversion is somewhat sketchy. He did move to Rome, where, during the reign of Antoninus Pius, he opened a philosophical school. Here, he was able to engage in intellectual discourse and apologetic controversy; something he was prone to do anyway whenever possible. He subsequently traveled, but then went back to Rome. While there, he was examined and sentenced, along with six others, by Rusticus, prefect of Rome. He was martyred by decapitation around 165 AD during the reign of Marcus Aurelius.
Justin was the premier apologists of the second century. His concerns were twofold: 1) To refute the attacks against Christianity, and 2) to “show that philosophy is truth, reason a spiritual power, and Christianity the fullness of both.” Of all the early Church Fathers, he was the “most optimistic about the harmony of Christianity and Greek philosophy.” In fact, there was for him no clear distinction between theology and philosophy.
In Justin’s view, the various schools of Greek philosophy each saw different aspects of the truth, with Platonism being the closest to Christianity. As a result of this perspective, he did not consider that the acceptance of Christianity required a radical rejection of earlier world views. That is, earlier philosophical world views.
Justin did not share the same syncretistic aspirations toward pagan religions and worship. These, he claimed, were devil inspired imitations of truth designed to confuse. Philosophy, however, was different. Its sources were legitimate. It was either derived from the Greek philosophers reading the writings of Moses, or it came from the exercise of reason.
Justin’s high regard for reason was connected to his view of Christ as the pre-existent divine Logos. Thomas B. Falls writes, “In combining Plato’s world of ideas with the Word-concept of the Holy Scripture, he became the originator of the philosophical conception of the Logos.” This very combination, however, would seem to indicate that he missed the Johannine conception of the Logos. Henry Chadwick goes so far as to claim that the “man chiefly responsible for making the Logos idea at home in Christian philosophy was little influenced by St. John.” Some of the doctrinal explanations that Justin bases on this Logos idea are, to say the least, questionable. His theology was influenced by and dependent upon Greek philosophy. Too much so.
There was, in Justin’s thought, this positive aspect of philosophy: that “all rational beings share in the Universal Logos.” Since the various philosophies were emphasizing different aspects of truth this meant that they were delving into reason, or logos. Justin equated this with the Logos and argued that the ancient philosophers had had partial access to Christ himself. Both Abraham and Socrates, he explained, were “Christians before Christ.”
The more serious influence of his Platonist philosophy is seen in Justin’s explanation of Old Testament theophanies. They were all manifestations of the divine Logos. This view, in itself, is not a problem. It becomes one when we are given the reasons. He writes in the “Dialogue with Trypho” CXXVII:
…you must not imagine that the unbegotten God Himself came down or went up from any place. For the ineffable Father and Lord of all neither has come to any place, nor walks, nor sleeps, nor rises up, but remains in His own place, wherever that is, quick to behold and quick to hear, having neither eyes nor ears, but being of indescribable might; and He sees all things and knows all things, and none of us escapes His observation; and He is not moved or confined to a spot in the whole world, for he existed before the world was made.
There is nothing particularly wrong with this statement until Justin writes that last phrase, “…for he existed before the world was made.” Why, then, would the same reason not apply to the Logos? Chadwick notes that this view was successful until the end of the fourth century, when it was noted that its presuppositions lead to Arianism. This does not necessarily mean that Justin was, for all practical purposes, an Arian. Falls points out Justin’s use of imperfect terminology and excuses it by saying that he wrote when the terms were not yet fixed. Perhaps this principle should be used to give him the most charitable reading possible.
Despite his dependence on philosophy, he endeavored not to allow philosophical criticism to compromise traditional Christian beliefs. Christianity, not philosophy, was supreme. It was that towards which Greek philosophy unknowingly pointed. And he would use Christianity, or, more specifically, the Biblical doctrine and his relation to the world, to pass judgment on philosophy. Christianity was divine; philosophy was human. Christianity was supernatural; philosophy was natural. Christianity was certain; philosophy could only guess. Moreover, Christianity had supernatural proofs: miracles, fulfilled prophecy, and the rapid extension of the gospel.
Perhaps the most notable feature of Justin’s scriptural exegesis is that he sees Christ everywhere. Of course, this is hampered by the fact that some of his specific interpretations are overly creative. For instance, “The two advents were signified by the two goats” (Dialogue CXI); or his explanation of the blessing on the tribe of Joseph in Deuteronomy 33:17. He quotes the verse, “His beauty is [like] the firstling of a bullock; his horns the horns of an unicorn; with these shall he push the nations from one end of the earth to another.” And then he explains, “Now, no one could say or prove that the horns of an unicorn represent any other fact or figure than the type which portrays the cross” (Dialogue XCI).
Justin gets an ambivalent rating. On the one hand, he brings Christ to the forefront of scripture (despite the previous examples, he often does a good job of it). On the other hand, he also finds Christ in Greek philosophy. Who, then, is he really describing? He insists on a literal reading of scriptural history as the basis for seeing Christ, but then, he also insists on a literal, future, and earthly millennium. His reading of the Sermon on the Mount, according to Chadwick, is that it is a universal morality, wholly in line with natural law. Yet, just when he might be mistaken for a proto-liberal, he says this:
For if we looked for a human kingdom, we should also deny our Christ, that we might not be slain; and we should strive to escape detection, that we might obtain what we expect. But since our thoughts are not fixed on the present, we are not concerned when men cut us off…(First Apology XI).